Disclaimer: Characters are the property of Joss Whedon and I have no claim over them.

Author's Note: This story takes place at the very end of the battle in NFA. I hope the layout isn't too confusing which it switches POVs. I would have put a page break in, but I didn't want to ruin the flow of the narration. Reviews are most welcome, and heavily encouraged!

"Hear my soul speak: the very instant that I saw you, my heart flew to your service. There it resides, making me slave to it." - The Tempest, William Shakespeare

The battled raged on as a clattering of swords, cries of victory and defeat, and the scent of demon blood filled the air. He no longer was conscious of his actions; he relied on pure instinct. It was all a whirl of confusion that he didn't even attempt to sift through.

He realized that the hour of dawn was fast approaching. The sky, behind the smoke and heavy clouds was lightening. He knew that this was the end. He had spent weeks preparing for it. The fight had enveloped him, now it was the only thing that mattered.

Once he was sure that he could sense the sun on the horizon, climbing to destroy him, he heard his name. It rang out from beyond the war to end all wars. It reminded him of the peace and the safety of past days. Then something foreign entered his body, piercing his heart.

A sudden, white-hot pain blinded him. It seared through his flesh, his bones, his broken body becoming a pyre. He was unable to see anything but that violent red. He was also sure that he was screaming at the top of his lungs, but could hear nothing aside from this strange, pulsing hum. He couldn't pinpoint the sound's origin, it seemed to be everywhere.

It steadily grew louder, before falling away again. Loud then soft — not unlike a wave rushing to the shore with a terrifying crash then drawing back into the depths. Waxing and waning.

He started to feel out a rhythm to the sound, and found that he could control the timbre of it. He concentrated and formed it into a continuous rolling pace. The fear he had for it dissipated and it eventually became a calming presence.

It lulled him into a sense of nothingness. A radiance grew and extinguished the lingering flames that had consumed him. He felt weightless, formless, but not altogether un-whole. And then as if on a gentle breeze, he parted and floated away into a welcome blank.

Time held no meaning — not that he could conceive of a concept as great as time in this state. There was nothing. It may have lasted minutes, days or a millennia. However, something at some point gave way and awareness returned. The sensation that he was something and no longer a void.

It first showed its face as pain. Not as sharp and sudden as before, but it was constant. It made him realize that he still had some semblance of being, that he was real enough to feel. Slowly, he found he was looking at a dark curtain that surrounded him. The pain was behind him, but it radiated lower.

Unprepared, he was quickly aware of a body. His body. First his head, though it felt abnormally large and heavy, followed by an ache in his chest. Then the pain flowed and he noticed arms and legs, the pain stretching out everywhere.

Outside of himself, he felt pressure. It was only slightly uncomfortable like he was being constricted by the air. He heard muffled sounds, very different from the rolling river that had led him to that nothingness. This sound came quickly and ended just as soon and it came in different tones. It was almost like voices. This too was unwelcome, he longed for that void again.

In time, he grew accustomed to the pain and the sounds. He could no longer control them, so he was at their mercy. His patience was not overlooked — though they remained, they also subdued. The pressure occasionally changed, but it subsided as well. He also became used to feeling his body, and he accepted the trap as well.

He could sense that this dark curtain was struggling to lift and he was unsure if he was ready for the vision that awaited him. Nevertheless, he opened his eyes to it. There was light, but it was too harsh, it cut the shadows too deeply. The rest was a haze of color too bewildering to make out.

The sounds of the voices were gone, leaving a comfortable silence behind. Yet he was sure that a presence still remained there, wherever he was. It spoke then, while he was trying to adjust to the color and the light.

He concentrated on changing his focal point toward the direction in which this presence was. It took shape, marked by the contrast of color and shadow, but it was undefined. He couldn't recognize it, but he felt unabashed by its closeness.

The voice itself however was sweet to his ears. Soft, gentle and warm, like the sun singing to the flowers. He couldn't quite make out the words, but the tone and inflection seemed to ring of coaxing. Then there was pressure again, and he closed his eyes against it for a moment. It was on his hand and completely painless. The shape was familiar, and he knew it to be another hand — smaller than his own, warmer than his own.

This soothed him enough to open his eyes again. The colors blended before him, seemingly trying to find the right combination for objects around his body. The light was still harsh and the shadows were still deep, he could see everything as if it were under a cloudy mask.

The presence with the pressure was beside him. Its own colors were soft — cream and ivory and beige and honey. He blinked twice, attempting to focus, and took in more of the features of this presence. It seemed feminine, the curve of what he thought was a torso bending like a woman's. The small hand on top of his own.

He tried to move his fingers and discovered that his muscles responded. He made a fist, clutching the presence's fingers in his palm. She moved closer to him, repaying the pressure he made with her own hands, another coming to hold his. He looked up at her, and felt at peace. It was strange, but this presence was home to him.

"Angel," she said and his ears captured the word. This too was familiar and then it occurred to him that it was his name. He also for once recognized the voice, that soft tone and the melody of her language.

Although the rest of the picture wasn't coming into focus, the mist around this presence was starting to clear. It moved from her face first — her eyes, her mouth, nose and cheeks. Then from the rest of her – her lithe, strong but petite body. She was smiling, her hazel-colored eyes wet.

"Buffy," he managed to say, hardly above a whisper. His throat felt strange and dry. Then a sudden need to cough. As he drew in that great shuddering breath and expelled it back out, he remembered: he hadn't coughed in well over two-hundred years. He rose his hand to his chest and realized that he was breathing. Not habitually, but naturally.

It was that rushing sound, at some times frightening, but wonderful sound. His body pulling air into his lungs and absorbing oxygen. Not any longer as a tool to smell and talk and blend in, but as a key to survival.

This epiphany led him very quickly to another. The fire that had burned through his body was not fatal, it was blood. His own blood flowing through him, reaching out to every corner. He moved his hand to the other side of his chest, feeling for his heart. It was steadily pulsing, pumping that precious blood in and out.

She moved one of her hand to tenderly touch the side of his face and he felt the temperature difference — for once, he was warm and she was cool. The excitement of this amazing experience made his heart beat one faster. He welcomed this change, albeit nerve-wracking, because it could now happen.

"How do you feel?" she asked, stroking his cheek. He didn't answer right away, but instead he bent his elbow, raising his arm. He covered her hand with his own and held it to his face. He closed his eyes briefly to take in the moment, securing it in his memories. When he opened his eyes back up, the room was clearer.

It was only a room — he could remember a dozen like it, but couldn't remember this particular one. The walls were painted a neutral color, the light fixture on the ceiling was simple. It was devoid of any furniture except for the bed in which he laid and the chair in which she sat. He stopped looking around for a moment as a wave of unease swam through him, settling uncomfortably in his stomach. He closed his eyes, refocusing on the touch of her hands.

"I..." He began, finding it difficult to form words. "I don't.. know."

"It's okay," Buffy assuaged him. The angle of her hand changed and he realized that she was standing. He opened his eyes and looked back up at her. "There's plenty of time."

"The others were waiting for you to wake up, but I'll tell them that you're not ready yet." In his reacquaintance with the use of his limbs, he let her hand slip. He felt panic flood him. He managed to bolt upright and fumbled toward her, clutching madly at her wrist.

"Don't leave me," he pleaded, the force of his voice coming back by a fraction. Buffy paused and nodded, a small smile touching her lips. She retracted her steps, but brushed past the chair. She climbed up and sat on the head of the bed. She directed him to lay back down but this time, his head rested comfortably in her lap.

She was silent for a while longer, calmly petting him. He was slowly adjusting to the place, the light ceased to sting his eyes and the pain of his body dulled greatly. He was satisfied to just feel her fingers raking through his hair and the weight of her arm across his chest. He touched the sleekness of her skin and turned his head into her stomach, his cheek rubbing against the thin cotton of her dress. From this proximity, he could breathe in her individual scent – something rich and heady, softened by strawberries and chocolate.

"I missed you," Buffy whispered, cradling his head to her. He closed his eyes, taking comfort and easing the tension in his body. He rolled and wound his arm around her waist. The movement didn't hurt and he wondered vaguely if her presence itself was not unlike a pain-killer. His eyes met hers again and he was at a loss for what he saw there. Then she laughed. A brillant, tinkling laugh and he realized that he'd rarely ever heard her laugh like that before.

"I missed you," He echoed, sitting up slowly. He recognized that it was delight that sparkled in her eyes and he listened intently to that wonderful sound. When it subsided, her face didn't sink back into an expression of solemn, it remained bright and joyous. She watched him just as intently as he watched her, but she seemed to be seeking something. He was going to ask her what she sought but then her mouth parted into a dazzling smile again. Like on puppet strings, he felt the corners of his mouth lift and the infection spread into a fully formed grin.

"There it is! I haven't seen you smile in a really long time," Buffy chuckled, her nose wrinkling slightly. "Does it feel weird?"

"A little," he admitted sheepishly. She breathed out, consciously relaxing her face for a moment. "I could get used to it."

"Please do," she encouraged. "That's just one of the new things."

"New?" he pondered and looked away from her face for a split second. Then he touched his chest and felt his heart beat underneath. "My body?"

"Another one," she confirmed, nodding.

"What else?" He asked. She smirked and shook her head slowly.

"You have to find out on your own," she said softly. A sensation came over him that he didn't quite understand at first. He leaned closer to her, drawn like a magnet. He lifted his hand and touched her fair hair, it moved like silk between his fingers as he tucked it behind her ear. He angled his head and tightened his arm around her, bringing himself toward her. He buried his face into the crook of her neck as she embraced him in return. He stretched out his hands on her back, lost in the feel of her.

"I'm not going anywhere," Buffy said, close to his ear. "Not if you don't want me to."

He sighed then took in a deep, grateful breath. His memories had not betrayed him. Everything from the color of her hair to the sound of her voice he remembered with clarity. He'd only omitted the reality – being able to see her, hear her – was so much better than any perfect memory could convey. He could positively lose himself in all of her sensory encounters: sight, hearing, smell, touch and taste. He had forgotten how enrapturing the human experience truly was.

"Never," he said in a tone halfway begging and halfway demanding. He lifted his head, the tip of his nose tickling her across her jawline. He slid his eyes shut when his lips touched hers. She responded, pressing back into the kiss, their mouths moving together in unison. Her hands curled around his neck, moving until her arms were slung over his shoulders. The kiss deepened and he pulled her close enough to feel her smaller form against his own.

He feared that the magic would be lost when they parted. That a veil would be lifted and they would return to their former selves. He marvelled at the emotion he felt when they drew back. He became aware that kissing her now was new as well. There was no more turmoil tugging at his heartstrings, no more unspoken fears – it was passionate, but void of the weight of something that was forbidden.

He cupped her cheek, patiently taking in this new experience. It was a perfect happiness, he could sense that spreading throughout his being. Amazingly, his soul stayed very much intact and somehow that made it more powerful. No dark threats entered his mind, no primal urges, no more demon screaming at him from within. This was bliss and he was in love with every detail of it.

He studied Buffy's face and was soothed by her lack of tears and the fact that she was not retreating from him. They kissed again and again, delving deeper each time. His hands found their way down to the skirt of her dress, toying with the hem before pushing it up to run his palms across her bare thighs. Her delicate fingers undid the buttons of his shirt before pushing it off his shoulders. They broke for a second so that he could pull the dress up over her head. Though their speed was enthusiastic, he took note that it didn't feel rushed by lust. One moment flowed gracefully into the next. Time moved slowly, lovingly.

He paused in his kissing of her shoulders and untangled his hands from her hair. He felt the need to look into her eyes and know something. It would not change a thing, of that he was sure, but he needed the insight. He gazed at her naked figure and slowed his heaving chest. Her hazel eyes were wide and full of light, a ghost of a smile still on her divine lips. His heart yearned for her - for any part of her, for all of her - as it always had.

"Is this heaven?" He asked, brushing the bangs from her eyes. He traced the line of her nose, the curve of her cheek, still in awe. It was more than physical attraction, more than memories.

Her smile widened, tilting her head into his touch. The truth she conveyed touched an innermost part of him, like someone who'd achieved enlightenment. She placed her hand on his chest, where below the flesh, his heart beat that steady, beautiful rhythm. He understood then that their souls were bound to one another, that she would follow him wherever he may go and that he would be damned without her. That was more than enough for eternity.

"Or something like it."

She cried out, so loud that she thought the earth shook from the sound. She forced her aching legs to move, to carry her across the way. She dodged and manuevered around the battles, fighting her way through the crowded alley. He was so far away that she knew in the back of her mind she would never make it in time, but she had to try. She had to save him.

Screams of pain and persevence occupied the air, but she was deaf to it. She no longer tasted the blood in her mouth. She couldn't smell the rain or the fires, or feel the bodies she frantically shoved out of her way. She knew the sun would not be held back and would surely pour its lethal light into that alleyway. As she moved ever nearer, she noticed that everything, from the splash of water underneath her feet to the swing of a fist coming toward her, seemed painfully in slow motion.

She watched in horror as the blade pierced his back, sliding straight through him. As it was torn out of him, he collapsed to his knees. She leapt the distance between them, sliding across the cement to catch him before he hit the ground. She wrapped her arms around him, glancing up at the horizon with a terror that made her tremble and quake.

The sunlight struck her legs, climbing up, eating up the shadows. She leaned over him to protect him as the alley was set ablaze. In the shade of her body, she touched his cheek and wiped his wet hair back from his face, comforting him. She murmured assurances that she was here, turning his face toward her. Her mouth fell open as she gazed upon his visage. Demonless. She looked around wildly and saw that her hands were soaked in his blood, his body was slack in her arms.

"No! No!" She wailed, despair wracking every inch of her. She searched his open and vacant eyes, finding those once deep brown orbs to be shallow. Streams of tears mixed with the dirt on her face. She pulled him closer to her, rocking out a rhythm to her sobs. She pressed her cheek to his forehead, holding him tightly to her chest. The knowledge that she grasped was unwelcome: the wound was mortal because he been turned human. She could not suppress the cries of anguish as she pushed her lips to his cold skin, imploring him to come back to her.

"Please, God please," she said, now breathless. She shut her eyes against the images of the war, of the wounded and dying, of the light. She willed it all to vanish, to atone for its greatest sin and bring back her lover. Her soul felt torn in two, filling her with impossible pain. She kissed him again with quivering lips, and the moment stretched on for what seemed like forever. Time was being incredibly cruel.

"Please, Angel." This must have been hell. Or something like it.