I decided to post some forgotten, ignored, and just odd works in progress that are very likely to never be finished.
The first is my only SV fic, which is ironically Lana. The irony, if you aren't aware, exists because I despise the character of Lana. It was going to be very creepy, though, I promise. I just couldn't finish it.
The second was supposed to be a vignette set after the events in Betrayer. Much like Absence of Solace, the Buffy/Wesley story set ten years later, this fic Dies Irae was a look at a world without hope. Only it was going to be B/A. It was stopped because I was at a point where writing Angel was impossible. And by the time I got back into my writing groove, I just wasn't interested in finishing it.
The third is a Buffy/Spike ficlet that I never finished because I absorbed a lot of the lines and themes into my "Five Things" Buffy fic Hallelujah. I felt that it was redundant to finish it when it worked better as an alternate view of Buffy's life.
Fic: Alma redemptoris
Author: Regala Electra
Pairings: Clark/Lana, Chloe/Lana, Lana/Whitney
Summary: It's cold at first, but she's gotten used to it.
Something the dead are keeping back.
Lana still goes to the cemetery in the middle of the night, a dark blanket wrapped around her, much like the sunless sky puckered with pale stars and a faint moon. It's like a shroud and one she wears proudly, for she isn't sneaking out, nothing so scandalous, only returning to the one place she can be truly happy.
Lana made a wish when she was very young and didn't know any better. Her necklace had shone and she squealed in joy. It was cold at first but she got used to it.
She visited the graveyard every night until she got old enough that people started asking questions, asking why she smelled like grass and outdoors and other things they wouldn't say. She realized that people had begun to talk and it was safer to hide.
If Clark found out, he'd take it away. And Lana needs to know that she was loved. So she can never tell him, can never let him find out. She thinks that secrets make people mysterious and she hates that Clark's a secret keeper almost as good as she is. But she knows that Clark's keeping secrets, he doesn't know her secret. And she likes it that way.
She's got brothers and sisters now. They make funny faces so she can laugh and she played with them all night when was younger. Now she's got friends and a big family and she'll never be alone again. She can always return to them, no matter how long it's been, and they're always there waiting. Just for her.
They don't look at her and think of her as the girl without any parents. They don't remember her as that little girl.
She is grateful.
The day she made the wish, her face was stained with salty tears, she was so young, and she didn't understand. Where were Mommy and Daddy? Why didn't anyone answer her? What happened and why did she remember seeing...something, but it couldn't be real? Why wasn't anyone TELLING her where Mommy and Daddy were?
What's death like and why does it mean that she can't see her parents again? She asked Aunt Nell that question and she took Lana in her arms. Lana would have hit her if she could do all over again, for not answering the question.
Because really, the answer was so simple.
Her aunt gave her nothing and Lana gave it back in empty affections and pretty smiles, things that were lies that looked prettier than the truth. It was the only thing she had learned and the only thing everyone wanted from her. They wouldn't learn her secret.
The word dead meant nothing to her.
Two years passed before she was able to visit her parents again on a more regular basis. Still young, though she'd never be that young again, and even though she was little, she knew exactly what she wanted. And no one told her that her wish was wrong, for no one asked. She didn't have to tell a soul. Well, she didn't have to tell anyone but her new, her real family.
She wore the necklace even then, letting everyone remember who she was. And she hated being remembered.
Everyone knew her. Everyone knows her. She hates it to this day.
Lana is not religious or particularly spiritual. God didn't bring her parents back and she hasn't forgiven Him yet.
Sometimes she wonders if Clark hates God too, because he's like her, he has no parents and has to lie to the world, has to keep secrets, secrets she wants to know.
She could pretend to love Clark if it meant learning his secrets. She loved Whitney because it was simple, because he didn't want anything from her but what she had learned: the pretty smiles and the sweet answers. He didn't care about her nights spent at graveyards or why she recoiled when he told her how much he loved her and tried to make it more than what she understood.
But Clark had seen her and she had to hush them up before he took her secret away. It's hers, only hers and she refuses to share.
Title: Dies Irae
Author: Regala Electra
Rating: NC-17 - Sexual Content
Pairings: Angel/Buffy, Buffy/Wesley, Buffy/Others
Summary: Dies irae, Dies Irae, Dies Irae.
Author's Notes: Dies Irae is the title of a religious chant, meaning Day of Wrath.
Feedback: Wonderful, magnificent, splendid. Do be a dear and tell me if you enjoy it.
It would be easy for him to walk out into the daylight.
It would be easy.
But it wouldn't be.
Because when he did, he wouldn't die. Because there wasn't a sun anymore. There was no light, nothing to see, but the bleak gray, a gray so desolate, most vampires couldn't stand being out during the day, even though they could freely walk now.
Vampires were superstitious demons.
Besides, it was better when they were underneath the darkness of nights so they might pick off the remaining human armies or attack the other demons vying for control of the world.
But it wasn't that easy either.
He was starving. He'd gotten considerably thinner over the years and considering his broad shoulders and large build, he knew that he looked quite frightening. Like a demon. But, he wasn't about to kill to feed, and he wouldn't allow himself to…
With a spat of disgust, as though some vile taste-memory returned in his mouth, he thought of the slight rotting sweetness of dying blood; blood from people, nearly corpses, which he eagerly took in the most desperate of situations.
Sometimes, when he hunted in the larger "cities," he was able to secure blood from other venues.
And, at the worst, there were always animals.
Yet he was not weak; his muscles now were knotty and his ribcage was more pronounced. It gave him a dangerous look, a desperate look.
A creature that would do anything.
And had done everything.
Lighting up the bland, old cigarette, a rare luxury few were blessed with having, he took in the useless breaths, feeling the entirety of death around him.
He stomped the stub with his heavy black boot, army issued style, listening to the constant quiet.
She walked in, but he did not turn from his spot at the hollow that once was a window.
Tired voice, "What is it, Angel?"
"New order of demons. Going to raise the powers of a hell dimension so they can destroy this world."
Deep sigh. "Nothing new, then."
"We have to…"
"Kill them." She had a bland edge to her voice. A warrior aged by the world, who had seen it all and could never be surprised. Or happy. She continued, the authority clear in her voice, "I know the drill. Now tell me how to get rid of them."
"How," he began, a hesitant pause, too afraid of what she would say next, he wasn't supposed to ask this, "How are you?"
He tried to ignore the smell of decayed earth and ripe blood on her paled skin as she stood close to him, the deathly mist casting a strange pallor on her body.
He did not ignore the smell of another on her skin. She never told him, but he knew.
And he would never ask.
"I was being tracked by some spiny demon. Took me a few hours to finally kill him, but I did. But that's not what you were asking." Hazel eyes looked up at him, amusement behind the death. Her hair was neatly pulled back in a ponytail, face washed and clothes as clean as possible.
She had once loved him. It was not so anymore. That would be too easy.
"No. I shouldn't have asked."
"Yes. So where are these demons?"
"That's what I've been trying to figure out. The last one I tracked…" Turned out to be a half-breed, apparently they can mate with humans, but that was okay, after I tortured him for a bit, I tried to feed off of him, but it was too vile and far too bitter a taste. Would that shock you, Buffy? That I'm a monster and ever to be one? No, you don't care anymore. You made that clear a long time ago. "He wasn't useful," Angel bit out, a haze of inexplicable anger burning through his body.
"I can't stay long," she announced, unbuckling the pack she carried. Removing assorted weapons, all perfectly cleaned and sharpened, she added, "I had business in Las Vegas, turns out that some demons still think there's a Hellmouth there. They were trying to take over the city. Idiots. If they were all like that, I'd be retired about five years ago. Too bad."
"Yeah," he replied, itching to light another cigarette. The last time she had seen him smoking, she had stared for a long time and said in a fragile, broken creak of a voice, "I didn't realize that you…like him."
It was an easy action. Steadying a lighter, watching the flame that could kill him inching nearer and nearer, the burning always at his lips, but never reaching him, smoke swirling around in his body, lungs full, exhaling out, pretending that the action gave him a second of what he remembered it felt like to be human. Pretending to breathe. But it was all a lie. He did it because the faint, dull taste, ash on his tongue, masked the constant blood memories of all the blood he'd drank in his lifetime.
She snapped her fingers in front of him, the harsh crack bringing him back, away from the memories. "Let's go."
The night air was static cool and the few strands loose from Buffy's neatly tied braid whipped across her face. The night had given an eerie parody of light playing across her face, blue-grey in color.
She was still beautiful and that hurt him more than anything else. If she had aged, if she had grown as cold as her spirit, that would be better that this.
He moved as silently as she did; the cold metal blade secure underneath his coat. Not even the undergrowth and rubble of old concrete roads long since destroyed, no, not even that emmited a noise from the pair. They had walked like this for too long to make any mistake.
Title: The Burden of Lies
Author: Regala Electra
Spoilers: set directly after “Showtime”
Summary: It’s complicated. Yet that too is a lie, but it’s all she has left.
She knows that it can work now.
She knows this, yet the dread, coiled somewhere deep in her stomach (she doesn’t even remember the last time she ate, yet she is not hungry), it remains but she offers nothing, not even calm, reassuring words to him as she walks back up to the surface, taking him back to where it is safe.
“I never stopped,” he mumbles weakly against her and the cool of him nearly makes her recoil and push him to the ground, away, anywhere that is not by her, “I knew you’d come back for me.”
“We need you,” she dully repeats, we need Spike, because if she says it enough, then somehow it’ll be true and somehow, she won’t think it’s a lie and she can beat the First and she can stop evil and then, maybe she can balance everything in her life but that simply won’t happen.
So she lies, again, repeats that Spike’s needed and she hopes she’ll be able to control him enough so that he doesn’t try and kill anyone.
She owes it to him. It’s not exactly that, but that’s the best way for her to describe it: she owes it. He’s become her responsibility, her duty, even if he’s lying about getting his soul, he still has it, she still is responsible for letting him live, not staking him when she had the chance, three years ago and even longer, all the time she didn’t kill him, it’s catching up to her.
If she lets him live just a bit longer maybe the burden of keeping him around will eventually end.
Yet that too is a lie.
She does not shove him into her house, neither does she push him or physically abuse him. He’s been drained, literally and quite often; scars unhealed and a strange gray pallor that even for a dead guy is painfully obvious.
He is not completely dead, so there are thanks for that. Not thanks…she is not grateful; it is a calm acceptance. She can work with this.
There is no trust here yet she doesn’t tie him up. He’s lying on the floor of the living room, she managed that much before he finally fell, too weakened to do anything except lie on the ground, weakly murmuring nonsense words that are slowly being to make sense to her sleep-deprived mind.
She could very well lose her mind besides her life in this war. She does not think she will miss it much. Maybe then, she would not fear of sleeping, for the dreams would not come. Or perhaps, insane, she would embrace them.
She does not want to save Spike, not in the terms that everyone else thinks. It is not about saving his soul, she may have in fact said that, but it’s a total fabrication of what she actually intends.
She does not have any idea of what she’s planning to do.
It’s been said that she shouldn’t treat him like this, shouldn’t try to reason with him, it’s time for her to stake him, but the argument’s grown old. She has her reasons, she has no reasons, she doesn’t want to think.
God, that’s it, she doesn’t want to think With Spike, here, before, even when it was killing her and she kind of liked it because it was just so fucking cold, he never made her think. It was just her or not her or games and pain and raw and visceral. It hurts, he’s still alive after what he tried to do, she did stop him and she’d do it again, but that pain, she can’t get it anywhere else.
Without him here, nothing reminds her of what it could be like. And she hates that, that since she came back, she truly came back wrong, to not have stake Spike after realizing he was killing people despite the chip, to not have finished him off when he forced himself on her, to have done everything with him and let him get to her, she hates that there’s a clear fucking reason for it.
And it’s the same reason why she doesn’t sleep, why she avoids it at all costs.
It’s not because Mommy comes back and plays the perfect mother that she misses with a cold ache that fades a bit each day, despite her longing that the pain’s always fresh and raw.
It’s because she feels nothing for Mother but a cool, sharp pang, located somewhere old and far away and it does not touch her. She is guilty for that.
Yet Spike, here and now, yes she feels that, and it’s a raw kind of burn in the pleasant few seconds before the sharp twinge of pain overwhelms all senses. She knows it is nothing like being alive, she knows that more and more, it too is like dying, yet, if this is all that there is, she will take it so she can survive.
She brings him a pint of blood, brings it like a servant to the master, and it’s rather sick to think about the subject beyond a few seconds, so she feeds him, ignoring his greedy slurping interspersed with mumbles of gargled thanks.
She has no faith left, not the kind that gets a person through a day and she longs for it, longs for it more than she has ever longed for a normal life, more than the peace of heaven, even more for the few perfect seconds of a dream she gave up a long time ago.
Yet she says, even now, as Spike whimpers brokenly, the First has used him well, she says without feeling, without true connection, “I believe in you.”
She believes in nothing.