Truth be told, I wasn't such a bad human. I was a boy with dreams. With wants. With an imagination as big as the sky. I was just skinny little Will, who liked to paint and to write and to pretend he was King Arthur looking for the Holy Grail. Oh, the tumbles...the tumbles and the spills I took down the hills at Glastonbury with my cousins. I still can't forget the bruises. The purple-blue stains of blood below skin. And the laughs.
"Die, Mordred! Die for destroying Camelot!" I would shout as I launched myself at Thomas and we tripped into the dirt. Stone Cold Steve Austin had nothing on us.
I grew older and the trips to the Abbey and the Tor stopped. The visits with kin stopped. I often wonder if it was because my mum thought I was an odd little git who needed to be reined in a bit. So she sent me to the village school. And my dreams of the Grail grew into dreams of Guinevere. Spring and young men's minds and all that rot, I suppose. All I wanted was to find that kind of passion. That blinding explosive love that existed only on yellowed parchments or in the voices of the elderly beside a roaring fire. My mum was too poor to send me to university...so I used to go, once a week, to learn Latin from Reverend Marks at the church. And, in Latin and Greek and English, I read of more tales than just our once and future king. I devoured Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet...Pyramus and Thisbe...Cupid and Psyche.
Of course, I realized too late that all these nobles tales were tragedies. I realized it much, much, too late. After I saw a dark-eyed beauty at the May pole one spring...and she bewitched me...after she sank her teeth into my throat...after her sire, Angelus, handed me my first railroad spike and I was baptized William the Bloody in the blood of the innocent.
It was then that I learned there are no happy endings in tragedies. Only death.
And death was the ultimate adventure in passion.
Or so I thought.
And the boy with dreams and wants and imagination became a killer. Drusilla became my Guinevere, Angelus my Merlin, and carnage my Grail. Slayers...the two Slayers I killed wore Mordred in their soft limbs and bright eyes. Mordred, Morgan Le Faye, and any other villain that my darling Dru could conjure for me with her mad whispers and her secret smile.
It was a surprisingly easy transformation.
But I wasn't such a bad human before it. I really wasn't. I was just Will.
I know that's not what you want to hear. What you demand as you stand before me with your eyes shining green and your chest heaving. You want to hear me say I was evil...that it was innate. That the killer was in me. But I can't lie, Slayer.
We are different.
A demon made me the creature you see now.
A destiny made you what you are.
But you have a place in my own mythology, too.
You would laugh if I told you.
You wouldn't want to hear it as you pace around this crypt and wish for a companion in your personal darkness...as you long for an explanation.
The tragedy continues. I've learned nothing in these past centuries, because I still enjoy the stories and still want the passion.
I suppose there's still a bit of Will left in me, and a bit of Arthur.
You're not such a bad human, Slayer. You are a girl with wants. With dreams. With an imagination as big as the sky.
And you're my Lady of the Lake.
For my sake, don't drown.
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