Disclaimer: The work contained within is merely my playtime with the characters created by Joss Whedon and I in no way own any of them, or anything like that. Unfortunately. It sucks. But I'll just continue my plot to kidnap and clone James Marsters for myself.

Before you start: This fic is a response to a challenge on Elysian Fields from _G0tik4_ which I was intrigued by and then an onslaught of spare time between phone calls created the following. I'm thinking this one may be longer than my regular fic! I am warning now, there will be multiple pairings in this fic, as well as canonical ones. There will be Bangel, allusions to Spike/Darla, possibly some Spike/Dru,Angel/Darla, and eventually Spuffy. This is a SPUFFY CENTRIC story, the Bangel is required to get there. So please, don't flame me. If you don't want to see Bangel, don't read the fic. It won't be graphic Bangel. I'm not a fan. It's just required here. So yeah. Meh. Let me know what you think.

Si Primo Venit

In the beginning...

William Harold Pratt was born in the hot summer of 1653 to Anne Mary Pratt (née Samwell) and Albert William Pratt, the son of a wealthy merchant family. The family estate was located outside of London, but they also owned estates in Yorkshire, Devon, Kent and they usually resided at a house in the newly built district of Westminster, the upper class part of London. As a boy, William knew nothing of the family business, the lower classes. His father died at the age of 29, when William was 3 - not an uncommon life expectancy in the 17th century. He was taken ill on a business trip, and soon after died from plague.

William and his mother were left alone by then, and it was only with luck that Anne's brother knew how to manage their estates. So William grew up, and became a quiet reserved man, a seeker of knowledge and lover of poetry. He was mocked by his peers for his attempt at creating his own works, but his wealth protected him from the cruellest of jibes. Being wealthy, however was not enough to allow him a circle of friends, and so William spent most of his time doting on his mother.

When he was eighteen, he inherited his father's titles and business and this took him further away from home, although his travels were limited and he did not care for time away to himself. He spent his spare time with his nose in books, learning histories and languages, and the works of famous scholars. He returned home frequently but only to see his mother.

At the time of him turning 27, his mother was gravely ill with consumption and in the October of 1680, she passed away. William found himself alone, with no wife and no children, and money could not keep a man warm at night. He had no family either; his uncle had passed many years before and no other remained.

So, one cold October night, he found himself alone in a tavern, and one of ill repute, away from people he would know, drowning his sorrows in a tankard of ale.

That was where she found him.

'You look so sad, sir.'

William looked up. Before his quiet corner table stood a woman who looked out of place in the dank tavern. Her dress was spun in gold and white, the style ladies preferred, and her ample creamy bosom spilled from her bustier in a tantalizing way. Her long blonde hair was piled of top of her head with tendrils snaking down to frame her face, twinkling blue-grey eyes peering at him with sympathy and curiosity. She was beautiful and he suspected that her smile would tempt ships into rocks like a sirens call.

A prostitute then.

'I am fine, my lady.'

'You look lonely, sir. Could I provide some company for the evening?'

'I would decline your offer. I am suitably accompanied.'

She looked around, then looked back to him, a sly smile on her beautiful face. 'I see no company other than your tankard of ale.'

'My lady.' He tightened his voice, his jaw ticking in annoyance. 'I can assure you I am in no need of your specific company this fine eve.'

She smiled and leaned in, providing him with a clearer view of her breasts. 'Are you calling me a whore sir?' His eyes went wide and undeniably, he spluttered, his gaze darting around the room. No one paid them any mind. The woman moved around the table, seating herself next to the flustered William. 'I am not a whore, sweet sir. Maybe in another life, but not now.' She stroked his arm. 'I am merely a traveller, looking for some entertainment on my way through this dreary town.'

'My-my apologies, my lady.' The barrier of shame in William's throat was not moving. 'It's, er, it's only because one would not expect to usually see a lady in a place such as this.'

She smiled and offered her hand. 'My name is Darla.' He took the hand and placed a chaste kiss on her pale skin. Giving her first name was unusual, and although no wedding ring was apparent, he assumed she must be married to be un-chaperoned.

'William Pratt, my lady.' He bowed his head slightly to accompany his introduction; he was still finding her closeness to him uncomfortable. 'May I enquire as to the origin of your travel?'

'North America.' Darla replied, that siren smile on her face. Immediately he was captivated, nearing the rocks.

'You are far from home, my lady. What brings you to London?'

'Love, my dear William.'

'You travel with you husband then?' He waited for an answer, his eyes focused on her beautiful face. She laughed then, a sweet twinkling noise that enchanted him more than her face.

She never replied to the question, and for hours they sat talking about her travels. She spoke of the Americas, France, places he had never heard of in India and Africa, wild and dangerous places that enticed the writer in him. She spoke often of a man named Henrich, whom he assumed to be her husband, although the way she spoke of him was as if he were her saviour. He wondered how such a young woman had seen and experienced so much in such a short time.

It was drawing close to an hour past midnight when William noticed the lateness of the time.

'My lady Darla, allow me to accompany you to your quarters. I cannot allow a lady to travel alone through London; it is a dangerous place.'

She chuckled a little, and then nodded. 'You are quite gracious, dear William. I would be most grateful.' He could not help but beam at her. William had fallen helplessly under her spell. As they left the tavern, Darla took his arm and William smiled again, his earlier woes forgotten. Stepping outside the tavern into the dark and drizzle of London, a voice sent him crashing back to the reality of his life.

'William Pratt?' Footsteps brought the owner of the voice into the dim light of the oil lantern, a tall blonde man, oddly reminiscent of a Viking. 'That is you? William Pratt?'

'Robert Pevin.' William half-greeted, half-groaned. A childhood tormentor, who enjoyed mocking him, was not what William wanted this evening.

'William the Bloody!' Darla raised an eyebrow at the nickname, whilst William sank into himself. Pevin grinned broadly. 'Leaving a tavern of ill repute with what looks like a wench of ill repute!' The man guffawed loudly. 'Tell me, will you be composing a poem based on your victory over the weaker sex?' William was blushing bright red now, whilst Darla looked at the brute with interest. He leered at her. 'Please excuse the fool, my lady. Might you be looking for a real man to escort you this evening?'

Robert Pevin smiled again, revealing perfect white teeth. Darla regarded him for moment, smiling her sirens smile and then turned her nose up.

'I would think not, sir. I have a gentleman to accompany me already.' Robert's face fell into anger. Before he could respond, Darla started off down the street, a blindly obedient William following. He was so dumbfounded by her rejection of the other man, that he allowed her to lead him away from the lit streets. He did not argue with the direction, until he realised they were by the Thames, the pungent smell of the river making him gag. Darla seemed unaffected.

The buildings around them were slaughter houses and half derelict shells, piles of mud and bricks, probably the ruins of what the Great Fire of 1666 had destroyed. No one lived, or boarded, in these parts and for a moment, William grew fearful.

'My lady, I believe we are lost.'

'I believe you have, dear William.'

Darla turned and faced him, smiling softly. William furrowed his brow, looking at her with confusion.

'I'm afraid I do not grasp your meaning, my lady.'

'Stop calling me that, dear boy.' She sighed. 'You're lost. Lost in a world of propriety and manners. I saw you in that tavern and I thought, what possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to his knees?'

William stared at her for a moment and then shook his head. 'I think that perhaps I should leave.'

'You've been alone too long William.' He bristled at her comment.

'You do not know anything of me.' He said, trying to strengthen his words but they came out barely more than a whisper.

'I've seen you.' She continued. 'A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength. His vision.' She stepped closer to him, almost pressing herself against him. 'His glory.' He held his breath, instinct telling him to run, her worlds compelling him to stay. 'You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine.'

'Yes.' The word came out as a breathy whisper and then he stopped. 'No. No. I must go.'

Darla grabbed his arm. 'I'm lonely.' She sighed. 'I have been for a long time. We're both looking for something more, William. I can give you that. Don't you want to see the things I've seen?' William hesitated, caught in her eyes and the promise of her words. She smiled, knowing he had surrendered.

'Close your eyes'...

Westminster, Pratt Residence, November 1680

'This is not what I envisioned.' Darla snarled, slamming the door behind her as she entered the drawing room of the Pratt house. William relaxed on a chair, licking the blood from his fingers whilst his legs were draped over the arm. His posh clothes were torn and bloodied and he smiled as he savoured the red liquid on his hands. He chuckled at her vexation and she glared daggers at him. 'You're finding this so funny, dear William.'

'Spike.' He drawled.

'I beg your pardon?' She paused, exasperated with the fledging vampire.

'The name is Spike.'

'Is that a reference to the mess you made on London Bridge with the corpses of your former peers? Beautiful work, really, but those were "pikes".'

'Prefer Spike. It's more...brutal.' He jumped from the chair, and grabbed her around the waist, making her yelp in surprise. 'And you love it brutal.'

She smiled. 'You are young, you will learn. These things need more finesse. A brawler will not survive long as a vampire. If the angry mob doesn't get you, a Slayer will.' She pulled away, readjusting her dress as the newly christened Spike stared at her. He tilted his head to the side, a curious look on his face.

'What's a Slayer?'