Idylls

Author: Melissa
Summary: Written for thedeadlyhook as part of the William ficathon. The request was for William/Buffy angst with some bittersweet romance, including mentions of Dru, dreams, and William's day job. Hopefully, this story fits the bill, and doesn't seem too much like Buffy interfering in the past or William falling for Buffy at first sight. Enjoy!
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Lies My Parents Told Me
Disclaimers: I'm just playing with Joss's toys. But we've all got his permission, so I don't think he's going to come after me for this story.

A/N: Attribution and inspirations to be found in the author's note at the end.

William knew that he must be dreaming. He had never
seen a place like this--lush trees and flowering
shrubs ringed three sides of the meadow he stood in.
A small yet fast-moving river flowed by the edge of
the field, and he could even see a castle in the
distance.

"What is this place?" he asked out loud, not expecting
a response.

"It is a land more real than the one you truly live
in."

William whirled around in surprise. He had been alone
but a moment ago, but now he was joined by a young
lady. He knew that this woman was a stranger to him,
yet there was something familiar about her . . .

She was slim and petite, with an etheral air about
her. Her long white dress swept the ground, and a
belt of rubies encircled her waist. Hair the color of
sunshine hung in curls about her shoulders, and a
small wreath of flowers sat on the crown of her head.
Her beauty was striking, yes, but it was her
expression that captured his attention. A smile
graced her lips, yet a deep, permanent sadness was
easily seen within her eyes.

He suddenly realized that he had been staring, and he
began stuttering out some kind of remark. She
interrupted him with a smile, saying lightly, "It is
usually I who stand silent and staring in the verses.
This change is a sweet opportunity for a rest."

William shook his head. "I fear I do not understand
you, fair lady, but then, when has a man ever
understood a woman, especially a beautiful one?"

As soon as he finished speaking, he felt his eyes
widen in surprise. Why could he not call such fancies
to his control when in the presence of his angel?

The lady's smile suddenly vanished. "Be wary, noble
lord. Vivien approaches, mingling love and fear and
hate--she is born from death!" The lady gasped and
took a step backwards.

William looked around him, and for a second caught a
flash of dark hair and pale skin. Yet when he
completed his revolution, he found that just the two
of them shared the field. But now, the lady sat on a
small stool, looking towards the river. A large
shield leaned against her legs, and she was sewing
some large piece of cloth.

"Miss . . ." He paused, and finally settled for
commonplaces. "What is your name?"

She looked at him solemnly. "The light damages the
shield, I must cover it up, or else my lord Lancelot
will return and reject me." She bit her lip. "There
is no rest for me . . . The curse is come upon me."

William shook his head. "Wait--is this place
Camelot?"

Instead of replying, the maiden looked up, and her
face was radiant with joy. William turned and saw a
male figure behind him, too far away for him to
distinguish his features other than he was clothed in
black.

Yet the lady knew who he was. She dropped her work
and stood up, moving towards the stranger. As she
passed him, though, she took his arm, and searched his
face for a moment. Then, she sighed deeply. "More I
cannot tell you. Remember what I have said about
Vivien." She looked at him for a long moment, then
said, "I cannot tarry--my barge awaits, for I have
left the loom and now must sing my song."

She began moving, not towards the man, but towards the
river. She was walking to a small, flat-bottomed boat
that was tied to a willow. And as she walked away, he
heard her start singing, lifting her thin, high voice.

Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in vain;
And sweet is death who puts an end to pain.
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be.
Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.
O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die.

Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away;
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay;
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

I fain would follow love, if that could be;
I needs must follow death, who calls for me;
Call and I follow, I follow! let me die.

***

William jerked awake from his strange dream, his eyes
wide. After a moment, he relaxed back against the
pillows, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling. "What a
strange dream," he said out loud.

Much as he would have preferred ruminating on the
meaning of the dream, a glance at the small clock on
his nightstand made him realize he had to prepare for
the day.

As he washed, shaved, brushed his hair and put on his
suit, William wished that he didn't have to go to the
bank. It had been his mother's suggestion that he
take a position with the Bank of England; she had said
she wanted him to have friends, as well as a way to
occupy his days. Sadly, neither goal had been
fulfilled in the fashion that his mother had hoped
for. The other men at the bank were loud and brash,
much too boasting for William's comfort. And he often
found himself daydreaming at his desk, pondering his
latest composition.

William sighed as he went downstairs. A quiet
breakfast digesting eggs and today's copy of the Times
over, he was on his way to work. The city streets
were crowded with working men of all classes, women
doing their shopping for the day, and dirty urchins.
He moved through the throng, avoiding eye contact as
he considered his dream. Soon, he reached
Threadneedle Street and entered the bank.

The knot of men clustered near his desk made him
pause, but William tried to square his shoulders and
move forward. He turned on his lamp, put down his
briefcase, and sat down, feeling relieved that he had
escaped notice. Then, a beefy hand clapped him on his
shoulder.

"So, William, on time for once! Obviously couldn't
have been out on the town last night!"

The brassy, commanding voice made him cringe inside.
David Howard delighted in mocking him, and everyone
knew it. How many times, after being ridiculed, had
he later come up with the perfect rebuke, a crushing
reply that would put Howard in his place? William had
lost count many months ago.

But, since it was expected of him, he just nodded at
the other men, and then said, "I spent the evening
reading to my mother."

The men grinned broadly, and Howard clapped his hands.
"Now, why didn't I think of that? Certainly dear old
Mum isn't quite as attractive as other birds, but in
the long term, it'd be bound to pay off!"

William tried not to sigh as the other men laughed
raucously. Howard hitched his hip up on the edge of
William's desk, and leaned towards him. "So, Willie,"
he said with a leer, "what were you reading to Mum?"

He felt his face flush, but managed to somehow speak
without stammering. "Mother wished to hear the poems
of Mr. Longfellow."

The other men exchanged looks, and then returned their
gazes to Willaim and Howard. William braced himself
for Howard's reply, knowing it would probably be
utterly humiliating or unspeakably crude. And he
wasn't disappointed.

"You know, William, like you I've recently become
entranced with rhymes. In fact, I heard the most
inspiring couplet the other day--perhaps you've heard
of it?" Howard paused, and then with a mocking grin,
began to recite. "There once was a lady of Ealing . .
."

William felt his flush deepen, and before Howard could
finish the limerick, he jumped from his chair. "You
will excuse me, gentlemen--I have to speak with Mr.
Hollowell." He quickly hurried away, hearing the
catcalls and laughter of the other men.

He felt his shoulders slump as he walked down the
hallway, coming to a standstill in a doorway that
opened onto the public area of the bank. He sighed as
he took in the people in front of him, not one who
seemed uncomfortable or out of place. And once again,
he felt the burning desire to belong, to be wanted--to
be loved.

"William, are you all right?"

William turned his head and saw his father's friend,
Mr. Hollowell. Ever since the death of William's
father, Mr. Hollowell's loyalty to William's family
had been steadfast and true. William knew that it was
only through Mr. Hollowell's influence that he
retained his position.

"Oh--it is kind of you--things are fine, sir," he
managed to say.

Mr. Hollowell smiled. "Good, good. I was curious
about your thoughts about this business in Africa,
with the Boers--it can only mean conflict."

William nodded. "Unfortunately so, I agree, sir.
Human history is full of conflict between conqueror
and conquered--it is inevitable that such tension
occasionally erupts. I am sure, though, that Mr.
Gladstone will lead us effectively in this matter.
Yet my hope is for a peaceful resolution; life is too
precious to be squandered in squabbles such as those
between the Boers and our government."

Mr. Hollowell shook his head. "William, you're a
smart young man, but too naive. Aye, but you're young
yet!"

William smiled faintly and turned to head back to his
desk. But he nearly jumped in surprise as, out of the
corner of his eye, he caught sight of long blonde hair
and a white dress. He wheeled about, but if he had
seen such a woman, she must have just exited the
building.

He shook his head, feeling foolish. For a moment, he
had thought . . . no, it was impossible! There was no
chance that the dream maiden actually existed.

***

William returned home after another long, dismal day.
The only bright spot had been Fred Browning's reminder
of the party being hosted by the Underwoods. He felt
his heart speed up at the thought of Cecily
Underwood--his goddess, his muse. He had spent the
afternoon composing a new poem to her, in fact.

He entered the parlor, bending to kiss his mother on
the cheek. "Hello, Mother. Did you have a pleasant
day?"

"Very much so, dear," his mother said, looking up from
her embroidery. "I hope you can say the same."

He smiled instead of answering, not wanting to
distress her with the truth. "I spent it looking
forward to this moment."

She laughed and said, "Might you read to me for a few
moments before dinner?"

William nodded and picked up one of the many volumes
that rested by his chair. Seating himself, he opened
the book at random and began reading.

I scorn the doubts and cares that hurt
The world and all its mockeries,
My only care is now to squirt
The ferns among my rockeries.

In early youth and later life
I've seen an up and seen a down,
And now I have a loving wife
To help me peg verbena down.

He read the poem through, his voice stumbling in his
excitement. When he reached the end, he couldn't help
a happy sigh.

"You enjoyed that poem, son?" his mother asked.

"Oh, yes!" he said, nodding his head. "It reminds me
of something I wrote today--" He stopped, realizing
that he didn't want to share this poem--this strange
feeling--with his mother. But she asked so earnestly
for him to read it that he was unable to deny her
wish. He pulled the small bit of paper from his
pocket, and rose from his chair.

Yet her smell, it doth linger
painting pictures in my mind.
Her eyes, balls of honey.
Angel's harps her laugh.

Oh, lark! Grant a sign
If crook'd be Cupid's shaft.
Hark, the lark, her name
It hath spake.
"Cecily" it discharges
From twixt its wee beak.

His mother's kind words couldn't convince him of its
worth. It was not likely that Cecily returned his
affections . . . but he couldn't help hoping.
Couldn't help seeking her attention. Perhaps this
evening, in fact, he might finally reveal his heart to
her . . .

***

William stepped down from the coach in front of the
Underwood home. He straightened his suit, pausing for
a moment to gaze up at the house. This edifice
sheltered his beloved--how could he not admire and
respect such a house? His hand went to his pocket,
checking for the paper he had slipped there as he left
his house. He should write a poem to Cecily--one full
of light and love, something suitable for a maiden of
such loveliness.

With a smile, he approached the stairs to the front
door. Out of habit, he glanced up and down the
sidewalk, then paused in disbelief as he saw the
profile of his dream maiden at the far end of the
street. For a split second, he considered whether he
should chase after her. But before he could decide,
she vanished amongst a crowd turning down the cross
street.

William stood looking down the street, knowing he must
appear deprived of his wits. Yet he didn't understand
why he kept seeing her. What did it mean? He had
been inclined to think the dream had been inspired out
of some poem he must have read too close to bedtime.
But perhaps it wasn't all in his mind . . . perhaps it
was some kind of message?

A bump to his shoulder, as a couple walked past him up
the stairs, pulled him from his thoughts. William
felt a flush of embarrassment, then shook his head and
headed into the house. There were butterflies in his
stomach, and his hands trembled, and his heart
pounded. He had the feeling that his life was going
to be changed tonight.

***

He stumbled down the stairs to the street, his eyes
blinded by tears. He couldn't believe that such pain
existed. His heart seemed to have stopped beating,
and he didn't know if he'd ever be able to recover
from this. Cecily thought he was beneath her? Such a
simple phrase had completely crushed him. At first,
he had felt numb, followed by a sadness that he'd
never experienced before. But now that he was out of
that stifling, musty house, he felt a bubble of anger
pop within him.

He wasn't good enough for her? That might be the case
. . . but what right did she have to inflict that
knowledge upon him? To use that as a club to destroy
his love? What kind of lady did Cecily think she was,
when such rudeness was acceptable?

William stomped down the street, before being knocked
aside by a large, hulking man, causing him to drop the
papers from his hands. All the insults he had taken
that day--from Howard at work, from those fools at the
party, from Cecily--made him snarl to the brute,
"Watch where you're going!"

He scooped up the papers and crossed the street,
meaning to walk home. But he stopped short when, only
half a block ahead of him, stood the dream girl.

To say he was surprised would be underestimating the
depth of his feelings. Here she was, appearing as a
column of light in the dark, dirty street. She smiled
at him, and gave him a small wave. Not knowing what
else to do, he waved back. He looked around, noticing
in confusion that no one seemed to see this strange
woman. When he looked back at her, she was entering
what looked to be a small alley.

Without thinking how insane this was, he started
running down the street. He turned into the alley,
nearly running into the wall on one side. And he was
shocked to find she was still there.

Seeing her there, she was even more beautiful than he
had remembered from his dream. Her dress was not the
same as in the dream--shorter and more in keeping with
current fashions, but also more simple than other
ladies' fashions. But her hair was still the same,
flowing loose about her. And her eyes were the same.

"I--I dreamed about you," he found himself saying.

She smiled at him. "Me, too. Maybe we're both
dreaming now."

"I felt like I kept seeing you all day today. I
thought I was imagining it, but now I find myself
wondering if perhaps there is some reason for your
presence now in my life."

Her smile faded. "Not in this life, actually."

"What?"

She shook her head. "It's nothing." She paused, then
stepped closer to him. "You've been crying?"

He stood up straighter, knowing that wiping at the
tearstains on his cheeks would make him look even
weaker. "It's nothing," he said, echoing her
statement.

"It's not nothing!" she exclaimed.

"Miss," he said in exasperation, "today has been full
of people trampling on my feelings because they
thought it was more important that I know how truly
insignificant I am. Please forgive me if I don't want
to be reminded of this, especially by one of the most
lovely women I've ever seen?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, and then said, "I'm
lovely?"

William let out a small groan and took a seat on a
crate, not even caring about the breach of etiquette.
"Once again, I find myself saying more than I mean."

"I'm sorry for being so pushy," the girl said. "I
just hate seeing anyone miserable." She bit her lip
and lowered her eyes. "Especially you."

"Me?" he asked in shock. "How do you know me?"

The girl took a deep breath. "It's . . . it's a long
story." She sat down on a nearby crate, and clasped
her hands in her lap.

She didn't speak, so William tried to make her feel
more comfortable with small talk. "You do not seem to
be British, miss."

She shook her head. "No, I'm American. From
Cali--from the West."

"Indeed?" William asked in interest. "I've heard it's
an untamed wilderness. Do you find such to be the
case?"

She smiled slightly. "It would seem wild to you, I'm
sure, when you live in a city like this. My . . .
tutor always said that London was the height of
civilization, and from what I've seen, I can see what
he meant."

William reflected for a moment. "True, London is a
great city. But I do not know if it is any more
civilized than your home. Sometimes, it seems like
even the mightiest of empires is peopled with savages
and the uncouth."

She looked thoughtful, and then smiled. "That's true,
I guess."

Encouraged by her smile, William tried to continue
entertaining her for as long as she was willing to
stay and listen to him talk. "So what would a lovely
girl from the untamed West of America be called?"

She wrinkled her nose. "You'll laugh. Or think I'm
strange."

"Not at all!" he said quickly. "A gentleman would
never do such things. And, although it doesn't mean
much in this day and age, William Ashbury-Smythe is a
gentleman."

"Well, you've certainly got a gentleman's name," she
said, but she seemed a touch distracted. William felt
his heart sink slightly. At first, his interest in
this girl had been stoked by her similiarity to the
dream maiden. But he was finding, with each moment
that passed, that she was an intriguing contradiction
wrapped in a beautiful package. In short, he hated
the thought that she was already bored with him,
already preparing some kind of excuse to remove
herself from his presence.

"Miss?"

"Buffy--my name is Buffy," she said, her words falling
over themselves.

"Buffy?" he said, rolling the strange combination of
letters around in his mouth. "A unique name for a
unique girl."

She let loose with a small giggle, apparently pleased
by his reaction. "Thank you, William."

"So!" he said, feeling a rise in his confidence. "You
are named Buffy, and I do not think you are strange at
all. But I am interested in knowing more of your
story, and how you happen to know me in some way."

"Well . . ." she said, taking time to choose her
words. "I . . ." She broke off, and then said in
sadness, "I don't know how to tell you. I don't think
I should tell you." She looked at him with pleading
eyes. "Could I please just sit here with you, and
talk a bit, and listen? You remind me of someone I
lost recently, and . . ." Her voice trailed off, and
then she whispered, "I miss him so much--more than
anyone knows."

Without thought, he rose and kneeled by Buffy. "Are
you sure that is wise?" he found himself asking, even
as he touched her hands lightly. "Would it not be a
false comfort?"

She shrugged one graceful shoulder. "I'll take the
pain."

William looked at her for a long moment, taking in the
hunched shoulders, the tear-filled eyes, and
remembered the sad girl from his dream. The likeness
between the two women--one real, one dream--had never
been so apparent. He nodded slowly. "Yes, I believe
you have. Far be it from me to deny you some
pleasure." He patted her hands, and then resumed his
place on his crate.

She sniffed, and then squared her shoulders defiantly.
"So, tell me something about yourself. How do you
spend your days?"

William started speaking, telling Buffy about his work
and his mother. He found himself talking about the
books he had read, his worries about his mother's
health, his wish for friends. To his surprise, she
didn't seem bored. Her opinion of him hadn't changed
as she learned more about him. In fact, she seemed
truly interested.

She listened attentively, occasionally asking
questions but revealing little about herself. He
found himself wondering more and more about her as he
talked about himself. Finally, he wrapped up his
talking, and let silence settle between the two of
them.

Buffy sighed. "Thank you, William."

"You're welcome, Buffy." He looked over at her,
seeing how she perched on the edge of her seat, her
arms by her sides as she stared off into space.
"Might you talk a bit about yourself? About anything
you'd like to share?"

Buffy turned and smiled at him, and opened her mouth
to reply. But then a small noise distracted her.
"Oh, that's her!" She jumped up from her seat,
turning to him as she did so. "I'm sorry, William--I
have to go. I wish I could explain everything to you,
but I can't." She started moving away from him, her
hair waving behind her like a banner.

"Wait!" he said, rising from his seat. He took two
steps after her, but stumbled on a piece of debris.
He looked at his feet, and when he looked up, she was
gone. He stood in place, feeling completely confused.
The interlude with Buffy had distracted him from the
events of tonight. But now that she was gone, he was
left with unanswered questions and unresolved
feelings.

He went back to the crate and slumped down on it. He
realized that through his whole conversation with
Buffy, he had kept his poem clutched in his hands.
With a grimace, he started ripping the paper to
shreds.

Suddenly, a woman's voice made him pause in mid-rip.
He looked up and beheld an awe-inspiring woman. He
felt a fog settle over him at her presence, and he
found himself confused by his surroundings and his
recent past. He felt a small niggle of confusion as
he dazedly thought that there had been another
beautiful woman today, very different from this
raven-haired beauty. But this dark goddess seemed to
obliterate all thought of other women. And her words
made her seem even more entrancing.

"And I wonder . . . what possible catastrophe came
crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing
stranger to tears?"

End.

Author's Notes:

This fic is inspired in part by two authors' works:
Eurydice's Legions of True Hearts, who created the
idea of Buffy and William meeting in a dream, and Lady
Anne's Lancelot and Guinevere, a fic where Buffy and
Spike take the roles of the two doomed lovers of
Camelot. I hope these authors accept the small
tribute that is this fic. Thanks are also due to
Cindy, for the great beta job.

The dream features allusions and quotes from
Tennyson's poems Merlin and Vivien, Lancelot and
Elaine, and The Lady of Shalott.

The limerick that David Howard (another inspiration
from Eurydice) recites is well-known, and while I
don't know if it's contemporary, it was too good not
to use. :-) I first heard it in the movie of Bridget
Jones's Diary.

The first poem that William reads to his mother is A
Garden Song, by George R. Sims, written in 1879. And
of course, the poem that William writes and reads to
his mother is from Lies My Parents Told Me, written by
David Fury and Drew Goddard.

Thank you for reading! Feedback is greatly
appreciated.

Background and designs from Opulant Designs.

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