The city was smaller then most they had traveled to in their long journey together. Cysia, vibrant and blooming, a city that still held the childhood charm of grandmothers house. Welcoming, warm, and safe.

Perhaps that's why Darla chose it. Its lack of corruption offering a lifetime of entertainment. In Cysia though, the people are trapped in their old ways, still superstitious of the paranormal and occult. Perhaps the vampires wouldn't have been recognized on sight had Angelus been with them. But since his absence, Darla has not been herself. Tense, like dancing on the edge of the world. Quick tempered, leaving no room for argument. When they entered the city limits even the distracted Drusilla could sense Darla's disturbance for the place, for the townspeople obsessive beliefs. But neither of the younger vampires were concerned as Darla grasped the cross offered to her by a bargaining woman... as the city roared, louder then the legions of hell, to see her smoking skin. Spike and Drusilla paid no heed to the pitch forks and large crosses aimed their way, for in their glee they were children, following mother with that innocent belief, she would let no harm befall them.

They knew no fear, for Darla laughed, giggling insanely. A charge poured from her otherwise stable nerves that both her companions yielded to, sure as they were composed of sheer energy they soon became the attackers rather then the attacked. Darla chose her weapon, forcing a sword from an attackers hands to cut through the crowd that threatened to come between her and eternal life.

Spike and Drusilla kept their backs close to one another, soon finding themselves in a puddle of liquid life. Drusilla whispered stray comments of the breathtaking view as she motioned the moon closer from the clear sky above. Without grace they hit, punched, kicked and rejoiced in the rhythmic sound of unadultered violence that was their most basic nature.

Darla gripped her weapon with all a vampire's crushing strength until the metal handle split apart between her small digits. She laughed as the villagers produced crossbows and found herself coming between Drusilla and a poorly aimed, though deadly arrow. But neither of the younger vampires noticed the almost maddened look in her bright sparkling eyes as a fire began to spread.

Drusilla chimed her divine wisdom that Spike took with a grain of salt while kissing away blood spilt along her collar.

There were no crickets chirping nor birds singing as they swayed drunkenly from the battle, adorning trifle scars that were promised to heal once the daylight peeked over the horizon. The charred smell of burning corpses floated in the air above them, lingering hours after the fire stifled and sure to stray miles past the towns limits. The aura of their feast clinging to their clothing... snuggling warmly to their hair and making them walk with a bounce to their step as their deadened veins purged to feel alive, higher then the sun, stronger then the armies of god... lost in the pure sensation of mortal blood tainted with death.

They fell into the abode, less then a mile just downwind of the Cysia playpen, without invitation from the family that had withered away in the blazing triumph they offered this little city. The Intoxication was leaving the vampires restless as Spike and Drusilla stumbled the flight of stairs to take advantage of the first bedroom. It was hours later that Drusilla's movements began to slow and her eyes glistened to sport her tired mind. And though Spike pleaded with her body, running rough hands down her spine and decorating her navel in painful bite markings, she was weary to keep the vibrancy alive for longer. In the end, he was forced to give her leave to sleep with the simple act of letting go her small frame.

No longer touching, Drusilla uncurls herself now from the sweat dampened sheets, legs kicking free their fabric shackles to spread out on the large mattress. Her eyelids flutter, though not in waking. Plagued by the abrupt absence of her mentor, she dreams of Angelus. Watching reinterpretations of the past through closed eyes. Her arms release the pillow and she tries to sigh out the pleasure still echoing in her sated body, magnified by the massacre she sees now in unconsciousness. But she, like he, is dead and the air forced from her lips is breathless. Her curled hair becomes tangled in the headboard as her fingers stray, only to miss her retreating companion by moments as Spike rises from the bed.

He smirks and lights a cigarette. He watches, as his lover continues her catlike movement until her body takes up three times the room it should require. Sheets and shackles tossed aside she arches her back in a dreamy haze. She rarely sleeps like this, with the faint beginnings of a smile on her lips and glorious sensations radiating from her sprawled form. She sleeps too rarely this way, and so he does not disturb her. Leaving the bed to her, and her alone he departs, for fear that his mere presence will wake her. And though his sire looks a portrait of a Goddess, a sin for him to gaze upon, the act bores him. Simple watching her, bores him.

Looming above the resting Drusilla, Spike gently rests his weight on his knee's and reaches around her stomach to retrieve his trousers. Imparting a kiss, that never touches her skin, he hastens to escape this room smelling of musk and sex far greater than burning remains.

One step down the stairs almost leaves him exclaiming. Before the dying flames of the homes fireplace lays a pale reflection of ragged and old. Darla, in her eternal youth, stricken by a substance he cannot sense nor see. Her nails dig absently into the wooden floor, creating thick grooves in the boards. Even from his vantage point yards away he can see the splinters collecting underneath her skin.

"Darla?"

She jerks at his voice, but doesn't turn to address him. Spike takes the staircase steps slowly, watching her intently, never having seen weakness in this, the oldest, of their band.

Darla wears a mass of tattered clothing, ripped and scorched from their battle. She lacks her normal cleanliness and first class stature. It chills the younger vampire to think she would allow him to see her in this state. For he knows that Darla, of all women he has encountered both human and otherwise, would never permit the lowest of vermin to see this side of her. And thinks, he should leave while he has the chance to walk away unscathed.

Offensive despite her small figure, she does not request solitude, instead moving for conversation, "The survivors plot our demise as we speak." Her form of greeting, with vocals casually soft.

Spike continues to her side, unsure if he'll answer the statement correctly, "We'll, we destroyed their homes and massacred their friends. Seems about right they'd retaliate."

She smirks and turns towards him, motioning for his presence.

At the sight of her immeasurably strained features Spike pauses, taken aback and stumbling a step for balance. Her eyes, though slightly moist and bloodshot still hold their air of superiority. Impressively bright, with their clear colors of intense energy, and burning. Darla has the gaze of burning. It is Spike's only consolation to see that fire and the only reason he does not race to her side. High on her forehead to directly below her chin, she wears a series of welts that he can clearly remember not having been there when they entered the home.

With something akin to concern Spike's fingers reach out to the markings of her cheeks. Darla endures his touch, speaking to the young vampire as his eyes ache with curiosity. "We watched a village burn to dust. Men of war cry out for the mercy of their savior."

His voice is not soft, but distant to her ears. "We lit that fire."

Darla closes her eyes as his hand moves to her neck, curling the blond locks around his fingers. Smiling to hear his words, and remembers the poorly aimed arrow lodged in his arm. Remembers the feel of blood against her skin and in her mouth.

She bends to his touch as Spike's fingers move lower to the ripped opening of her once gold, now red dress. Caressing her as he would his lover, dreaming of years past in the first bedroom. Darla's tight fist bats him away only when his other hand moves to join. Opening her eyes she expects to see his features contort at the clear rejection. But Spike only smiles, for they are not lovers and perhaps are never meant to be, his image mirrors her own, and she cannot find fault in that.

Leaning forward she invades his space, pushing him back with the mere intensity of her accusing gaze. He watches her through slanted eyes, unsure of his position as she whispers in the inch between their lips, "Death is wherever we go."

Startled by the stray comment, he blinks to think it over. Opening his eyes to take her in. Wondering what possibly could have gotten into her, about to respond when her open palm forcefully shoves him onto his back. Spike doesn't fight her as she straddles his waist, tilts her head, and continues, "One Death. Then another and another. One after the other, after the other...."

Her eyes cloud over for the briefest instance in which she appears lost. A tremor travels along side Spike's spine as he fears for her. Grasping her waist with gentle hands to push her body away so he might sit up and not stare at her from below.

Darla's eyes shift, watching the last ember fade in the fireplace as their legs tangle together and the heel of her boot gets caught in his rag like clothing.

She thinks of all she's held dear, now fallen far away. All she's known for centuries... Now so far... No. No, this was more then distance, for this was not about him, Angelus, traveling the world alone. This was about her being ripped away from a drug, and forced to endure the withdrawal.

Spike and Drusilla helping only to fuel the ugly reminder that she was alone. Her spirit, without Angelus, unable to bare the unbeautiful reality their existence offers. That's why they had slaughtered the city.

To regain who she once was. Who she was before the days of Angelus.

Spike's eyes bore into her as he takes a breath ready to break the slightly more then uncomfortable silence, "You're beginning to sound like Drusilla. Death follows us, because we are death."

Her eyes snap to his, a blurry vision too close to see, as she dares him, without word, to take back the comment. When he fails to correct himself, her voice is forced lightness. Seething calm as she shakes her head, and words pour from her lips like the gushing blood of a victims throat. "We are not. We are forever."

"It's a delicate balance, yeah?"

For the first time Darla moves to address Spike as more of an equal worthy of something akin to respect. Nodding her head to his comment, "Only death has no meaning for us."

"How's that?"

"We know no heaven, we know no hell... Only life."

Spike watches her, waiting for her to continue, or for a response to come from his own lips. But instead he finds himself searching her eyes to find the elusive secret stored away in her mind. He comes away empty handed, and knows that there is no secret he can force from Darla.

Taking his silence as an answer she sighs before leaning forward, forcing him to support her indifferent weight. Her head bowed against his shoulder as she hangs listlessly in the embrace of a man not sure what comfort he can offer.

Spike inclines his head to look at the thick lines left scarring her porcelain skin and thinks back to the battle, wondering was insanity is cracking up in their leader. He knows her physical wounds will heal by morning and that once Angelus returns, she will find herself on two feet once more.

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