Sword and Stake Home Gen/Ensemble Page Shippy (M/F) Page Slash (M/M) Page Short Stories Page
What's Love Got To Do With It?
By spikeNdru
Genre: Character study: Darla
Rating: General
Disclaimer: All hail to Joss, who took a throw-away character from the first episode of BtVS and turned her into the incomparable Darla. Spoilers through AtS Season 3.
Many thanks to makd for the beta.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Vampires don't love. I'd always believed we weren't capable of love. When the demon takes your soul, it takes all those useless emotions with it—grief, remorse, guilt . . . and love. Perhaps that is why William and Drusilla annoyed me so much by aping the human conceit of romantic love. I tried to ignore them; after all poor Willie had gotten his ideas of romantic love from those awful penny dreadfuls he was always reading. Romantic love is such a cliché. A pity that annoyance isn't also one of the emotions vampires lose.
There was never any revolting talk of love between Angelus and me—I'd have ripped my dear boy into little pieces for even suggesting it. Love makes you weak, makes you need, and I wanted no part of that. Thankfully, Angelus' predilections never ran to romanticism. For one hundred and fifty years we terrorized the known world as equals. Ah, those were the days. How I long for them, and for my sweet boy.
But then those vengeful gypsies gave him a soul. A filthy soul! And even with a soul, he wasn't able to love me! I've often wondered why. Why he and I were never capable of love, although that poser Spike seemed to have no trouble retaining that aspect of humanity. What made Spike different? I'd seen us as better—stronger, more perfect vampires, grown beyond the need for the burdens of romanticism.
But then my boy did fall in love—with the Slayer, of all people! Why was Angelus able to love her and not me? And why should it bother me so? Why should I spend my time obsessing over our years together, trying to figure out what went wrong? And, why should I see our relationship as wrong in this regard, when previously I had always thought what we had was quite satisfactory? What is happening to me? I don't like it a bit!
I don't believe in love. Love is the lie people tell each other to get what they need—sex, security, companionship; I've seen it all. And when the fine, upstanding gentlemen grew tired of their good wives, they'd come to me for sex and companionship, and love played no part in our transactions. I may have been a whore, but I was an honest whore. I never tried to fool myself that any tender emotions precipitated the couplings. I provided a service, and I was able to support myself and called no man 'master'. No man . . . but the powerful vampire who gave me the gift of immortality is a different story. I owed him my loyalty, but never my love.
From the moment I became a vampire, I gloried in it. I was strong, powerful, beautiful, and no longer dependent on anyone for my existence. What I wanted, I took—and gave nothing that I didn't choose to give. I owed fealty to The Master, but to no one else. I needed no one else. For nearly a hundred and fifty years, I had no desire to make a companion . . . until I saw him. My darling boy was magnificent! For the first time that I can remember, I wanted a lover. Not a passing fancy, to be enjoyed and eaten when I was through with him, as all the others had been—this one was different. He had something . . . indefinable, something that called to me. He could take me to depths I had only dreamed of. His penchant for cruelty and degradation were evident even in his human form—which had its own, not inconsiderable, charms. He was beautiful—if I'd needed to breathe, he'd have taken my breath away. I wanted him more than I'd ever wanted a man before. But, even so, there was no love involved. He wanted to see the world, and I wanted to show it to him.
So why am I concerned with love now? Why does it haunt my thoughts? Because I am—against all the laws of gods and men—pregnant? Me! A vampire! There's something vile growing in me and he did it to me! Dru calls him the Angel Beast—my lovely Angelus, caged and neutered. Well, obviously not neutered enough, because he did this to me—to me! I should have killed him when I had the chance. When he came crawling back, begging me to ignore that filthy soul so that we could go on as we had been—I should have killed him then. I had the knife at his throat . . . it should have been so easy to kill him.
Why didn't I? It was my right to end his foul existence once the gypsies cursed him; I'd made him, after all. Creatures such as we are not meant to suffer and feel guilt . . . or love. Love couldn't have been the reason I spared him—spared him to go on to make my life miserable over and over. I am Darla! I don't feel emotions like lesser beings.
Even when Wolfram and Hart brought me back as human, I didn't love him. I wanted him . . . I've always wanted him, but love? I'm not sure I ever knew how to love. Yet, I would have killed him for saying so, if I could have.
Lindsey was infatuated with me, and perhaps he called it love, but it wasn't. I was too tied to Angelus in his mind. I always would be. It was my darling boy whom Lindsey really wanted—although what he thought he'd do with him if he had him, I've no idea. Lindsey thought he knew me. He never came close to knowing the real Darla . . . or Angelus! But even weak and human, I would never be a substitute for anyone. I am Darla!
For a brief moment, I felt something . . . was it love? . . . when my boy was willing to give his own life for mine, so I could have another chance at life. I felt warm and appreciated and cared for; and I wanted to stop the trials. In my heart, I knew his life was worth much more than mine. What had I ever done to make my life so precious that he was willing to give his for mine?
I finally accepted that I was dying. Angel had done all he could for me, and I was willing to go out with dignity. Was it my soul that made me accept the consequences and be at peace with the decision, or his? He vowed he'd never leave me; he'd be with me until the end, and I believed him. Was that love?
I'll never know now, because Lindsey took that chance away from me. How ironic, that after everything I'd done to try to get Angel to turn me, I'd finally come to accept my mortal life as a gift. Did I really believe that, or was his belief so strong it ate its way into my mind and heart and soul—like a cancer. I've lost that brief moment of clarity now—now that Drusilla has remade me.
Ah, Drusilla . . . I remember Dresden. How Dru loved that provincial, narrow-minded town full of worthy burghers—though I can't imagine why. It was tolerable when we were four, and Frederick Augustus—the last King of Saxony—ruled. We waltzed all night long, slipping into the Großer Garten for a breath of air, or to partake of refreshment when a dancing partner became . . . overzealous, and the heated blood flowed like wine. I don't know why we returned, after Angelus had gone.
Yes, I do. Drusilla wanted Dresden and William would deny her nothing. The Crown Prince had become—of all things—a priest, and Wilhelm II, of Germany and Prussia was sniffing at the borders of Saxony. I despised that obstreperous lunatic with the withered arm, but perhaps that's what attracted Dru. I meant the insanity, but perhaps it was the arm? I should have gone to Vienna. Dresden was dreary, and I was discomfited. We went to the theatre, but the play failed to hold my interest and everyone tasted of cabbage and wursts. How I longed for my darling boy! Angelus was never boring.
Dresden was where Dru, for some inexplicable reason, decided to become 'Paula'. We went for a stroll at dusk, and I wanted to draw her attention to . . . something or other. Call me Paula, she said, apropos of absolutely nothing. “Whyever should I call you Paula?” I asked.
She smiled that secretive, mad smile of hers and replied, “Because I want to be Paula, now. I'm heartily sick of Drusilla.”
Well, she wasn't the only one! I left that night for Vienna. I believe Drusilla and William went on to Leipzig, or perhaps, Prague. I've not been back to Dresden since the War, and I can't say as I've missed it. But, for some inexplicable reason, I seem to have missed them. I had frequently traveled alone in the past—I liked to travel alone! I made the hazardous, arduous crossing to the New World alone when I was mortal. Why should I miss the company of a madwoman and her clown prince? Ah, but it wasn't their company I truly missed. They served the purpose of keeping my mind occupied by their various annoyances until I was quite ready to take my hairbrush to the both of them, and gave me no time to think of Angelus. I didn't beat them with my brush, however—they would have enjoyed it too much, and that would have quite defeated my purpose.
I told myself I hated him. He gave me hope, when he first came back, and I don't think I will ever forgive him for that. He showed his true colors when he saved that squalling baby from me. He made his choice and I hated him for it. So why did I continue to miss him? How ironic that a baby tore us apart and now one has brought us back together. Will he eventually have to save this child from me also?~*~
I was right, you know. Angelus and I were never in love. What we had was a grand and glorious passion, twisted and vibrant and violent, marinated in the blood of thousands, terrible in its depraved beauty. Or, perhaps, its beautiful depravity. No matter. It was unique, and it was ours. The likes of our passion for the hunt, the kill and each other will never again be seen on this earthly plane. And I am content that it should be so. We were beyond love. Love would have brought unnecessary complications to something that was complete and perfect as it was.
Love is never mutual. It always seems to me that one loves more than the other, at any given time—another trick that argues against its recommendation. Angelus never loved me. He wasn't capable of it. But Angel did, and the knowledge burns like a fire inside me. For that brief, shining moment, when he offered his life for mine with all his heart, the past was wiped clean and he loved me. I'd like to remember what that felt like, but memories are ephemeral—they fade so quickly, leaving only their echoes behind. But I shall never have that again, and I'd like to remember.
For love is fickle. He has already moved on. I can tell. I can feel it—or its lack, rather. Everything he is—everything he is still capable of being, given my centuries of tutelage—is now focused on another. Nothing and no one will ever supplant this other in his heart, and for some reason I am glad of that. Isn't that strange?
It's strange to me—I who have always taken what I wanted and reveled in my self-centeredness. His whole heart is given to another, and I am only the vessel that brings it forth. Or not, as the case may be. I can feel it—him—weakening. Dying. If he dies, will I also die? Will his death bring about my own? I don't know. But I do know that the converse is true. My death can bring about his life. And I want that more than I've ever wanted anything in any incarnation of my lives. For the first and last time, I can say with perfect clarity, I love. I love him with all my heart. He is not Angelus, but a part of him—and a part of me, also. He is the best thing we've ever done together.
And he will live. For I am Darla, and I am finally capable of love.
Goodbye, my darling boys.
~Finis~
Sword and Stake Home Gen/Ensemble Page Shippy (M/F) Page Slash (M/M) Page Short Stories Page
