#Great Green Wall of Africa

[solarpunks]

How the UN is Holding Back the Sahara Desert

Permaculture instructor Andrew Millison journeys with the UN World Food Programme to the Northern border of Senegal to see an innovative land recovery project within the Great Green Wall of Africa that is harvesting rainwater, increasing food security, and rehabilitating the ecosystem.

[labelleizzy]

How the UN is Holding Back the Sahara Desert

[unbfacts]

[bumblebeeappletree]

In Episode 2 of the series, Permaculture instructor Andrew Millison journeys with the UN World Food Programme to the border between the African countries of Chad and Sudan, where over 1 million refugees have fled into Chad from the Sudan civil war. He visits a project where refugees and Chadians are working together for water harvesting, food production, and massive land restoration. Could this be a new model for how refugees can be integrated into nations while healing degraded landscapes?

EPISODE 1: Inside Africa's Food Forest Mega Project

   • Inside Africa's Food F...  

WFP Resilience Building:

https://www.wfp.org/re...

Thanks to Evelyn Fey of the WFP media team for camera and drone videography

Special thanks to BOMBINO ( https://www.bombinomus... ) for use of music tracks.

[ponyway]

United Nations doing something good for a change

[spiced-wine-fic]

The Great Green Wall or Great Green Wall for the Sahara and the Sahel (French: Grande Muraille Verte pour le Sahara et le Sahel; Arabic: السور الأخضر العظيم, romanized: as-Sūr al-ʾAkhḍar al-ʿAẓīm) is a project adopted by the African Union in 2007, initially conceived as a way to combat desertification in the Sahel region and hold back expansion of the Sahara desert, by planting a wall of trees stretching across the entire Sahel from Djibouti City, Djibouti to Dakar, Senegal. The original dimensions of the "wall" were to be 15 km (9 mi) wide and 7,775 km (4,831 mi) long, but the program expanded to encompass nations in both northern and western Africa. The concept evolved into promoting water harvesting techniques, greenery protection and improving indigenous land use techniques, aimed at creating a mosaic of green and productive landscapes across North Africa.[1] Later it adopted the view that desert boundaries change based on rainfall variations.[2]

The ongoing goal of the project is to restore 100 million hectares (250 million acres) of degraded land, capture 250 million tonnes of carbon dioxide, and create 10 million jobs in the process, all by 2030. 

The project is a response to the combined effect of natural resources degradation and drought in rural areas. It seeks to help communities mitigate and adapt to climate change as well as improve food security. The population of the Sahel is expected to double by 2039, emphasizing the importance of maintaining food production and environmental protection in the area.[3]

Wiki

[jonksi]

How the UN is Holding Back the Sahara Desert

[biophonies]

new thing for new business cards: some lush future Africa, de colon1zed & self determined, where the great green wall has grown thick and steady & date palms & mango trees could maybe share canopies, adapting to the new weather patterns & all hope is not lost

(see more things from me via my newsletter, patreon, or bluesky)

[celeluwhenfics]

I was just tagged by @inkedmoth on a last line tag game, and instead of following the rules I just went and wrote an entire passage from scratch, oops? It's not a fic, it's an original work I'm writing based on the ABSOLUTELY BATSHIT CRAZY experiences I'm having here. It's still very unpolished, I can't format properly on my phone and once you find out yhe real event that inspired it you'll understand I didn't sleep THAT well, but hopefully it gives you an idea of what's on my mind these days as I'm very much not active on the dash?

***

At dinner, one of the White researchers had once again proved that money and diplomas couldn't buy common sense. The park is double fenced, with all entries are guarded against intruders, she had said; and the camp is fenced against large animals. Wasn't it a bit overkill to have two armed rangers guarding the camp every night?

Kiptoo laughed in a dry cascade, his shoulders jumping until he had to secure again the sling of his rifle.

'Just sleep, Mam,' he said, and his good humour had been enough to amuse the guests into avoiding further silly questions.

But Beth's eyes had gone to William. He had just smiled and shaken his head, taking a sip of coffee. Visitors never took him seriously, especially the women. They stared at him, so tall and straight in the green ribbed sweater of his uniform, the combat pants, the kepi and the scratched rifle hanging at his back. They saw his high cheekbones, his great soft eyes and perfect lips, and they asked to take pictures with him. He was part of their dream safari, and they would bring home images of him alongside their best shots of lions and elephants. It was only a matter of time before tour operators would print his picture on flyers and tourist cars. 'Come experience Africa at its most authentic! Real Maasai rangers will risk their life to keep your wealthy idiotic mzungu asses safe!'

But suddenly Beth thought of the smell of wood smoke and dust on his skin: that she had never forgotten. She tried to think of something else, or to catch a look from him, to guess what he thought. But his eyes stayed down, fixed on his coffee, as Kiptoo told of the elephant who used to visit the camp at night, his enthusiasm bridging the gaps in his English: a flow of words that would bring good tips.

It was only a little after the lights were out that they heard the first gunshot. Sitting on her bed, Beth held her breath. That hadn't happened in months. The tourist's questions had brought bad luck. An oppressive silence followed, with the night birds startled and the people listening for what would come next. It had been close, terribly close. She reached for the solar lamp, which faintly buzzed on. A second shot popped the silence and echoed sharply. What could it be? Would they hear human voices, if it was someone? It didn't sound like an exchange of fire. William had three shots, and Kiptoo had one, therefore... Staring at the wall, she tried to calculate scenarios, imagine what it would sound like if poachers-- No, it must be the rangers scaring away animals, surely.

She heard Kiptoo pant as he ran past her door, towards the gunshots: William had been alone with the threat. Her throat convulsed. A third shot resounded, and guests stirred in their huts, speaking and - yes - laughing. Beth's hands clasped the covers to keep them from shaking, and she murmured a prayer. For the camp's safety, for the animal, that no blood had been spilled so close, so close, and for William. William alone in the dark. And she waited, and waited.

Moments passed, marked by the slow return of the night sounds, first the insects, then the birds, then a lazy hyena whooping in the distance, and the guests' snores. Kiptoo didn't shoot. She slowly made her way under her covers, wishing she could be sure of what happened before going to sleep. She laid motionless, hoping for a sound, a sign, that could quiet her heart's race and bring peace to her sleep.

After perhaps half an hour, the plop of a lizard on the canopy of her bed jolted her awake from an anxious doze. She scowled at the trivial, ugly pink reptile as it wriggled away into a crack of the wall. But first faintly, then distinctly, she heard footsteps approaching. Silently she untangled herself from the covers and the mosquito net, and cracked open the door.

There was the click of an ammunition box: it was William. She called to him with a rangers' hiss. He seized, tensely surveying the darkness until he recognized her as the source of the sound. She could tell from the fall of his shoulders that he rolled his eyes.

'What was it?' she asked in a whisper.

'Lions. Sellah's pride.'

'Are you ok?'

'Yeah, I was just shooting up. Sorry for the commotion.'

She sighed in relief. The night was still now, and the clear sky had a hundred million stars, obscured only by the silent flickering flight of fat fruit bats between the trees. Lions close to the camp, the tourists would like that story. William was safe, and he was right there. Perhaps, the moment was right, and at last he would--

'I need to move on,' he whispered. 'Go to bed.'

And without awaiting for an answer, he walked away. The step of his boots on the path and the clacking of his gun against his belt vanished in the thick choir of nocturnal multitudes singing in the grass.

'Usiku mwema, sukari' she murmured to the darkness. 'Please, stay safe.'

***

Tagging (more like, saying hello to) @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras @emmathefanficgal @butoridesvirescens @torchwood-99 @dilettantefeminist @hastyhobbit , if you want to share part of a recent WIP?

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

🎄Wrapped Up In Christmas Memories🎄

a Doctor Strange x OC fic

genre: angst, catharsis, eventual healing...and above all love❤️💚

characters: Stephen Strange, Hope Collins (OC); established relationship

word count: 2.8k

Chapter Three

Lunch--and Hope, who had brought along a tray to his study with enough of the promised meal for the both of them--had been over an hour gone, and Stephen had made no progress at all.

He had been trying to delve into a freshly discovered manuscript that appeared to have been penned by The Ancient One when she had been apprenticed to Merlin, during his tenure as the Londinium Sanctum Master. Though it should have been a fascinating read, a slew of intrusive thoughts continued to hold his mind in an unforgiving grip.

What made it worse was they had nothing to do with the recent battle in Africa, nor the loss of life suffered or serious injuries incurred. It turned out the battle he was facing at this most inopportune time was trying his damnedest to keep the wall holding back his painful memories from collapsing after so many years of it being secure and reliable.

Dozens of now inescapable recollections surfaced the harder he tried to focus on the task before him, causing his eidetic memory to send a cascade of images from his youth--all with their attendant feelings--to cloud his mind. Christmases on the farm, the Christmases of his childhood, those carefree days before loss wreaked its terrible toll upon his heart. His mother, Beverly, gone before he'd graduated college. His sister Donna, whose tragic death cemented the course of his life to become a man of medicine. A man who had lived--despite his trademark arrogance--to save others in the best manner available to him, because he couldn't save her.

Setting his reading glasses atop the manuscript, Stephen sighed hard and covered his eyes with one hand. Leaning back in his chair, he considered if trying to meditate could be the remedy he needed. In answer, a long-forgotten image asserted itself behind his closed lids.

His mother, smiling down at him softly, as she accepted a drawing he'd made for her in school that afternoon, one of the last school days of the year before Christmas vacation. The afternoon light was brightly streaming through the window above the kitchen sink, a few dust motes swirling about within it.

That very particular quality of light--which always accompanied those final, wonderful, anticipatory days before Christmas, and ever left a warm, contented feeling in his chest when the season brought it back, even after he'd walled that memory away--shining in full upon his mother. How young and free of care she had appeared then, before silver strands had threaded her hair and sorrow had etched itself in the lines of her beloved face. Why she was the sun and the moon to me at six years old, Stephen realized. So gentle and understanding and beautiful to me. Tears prickled his eyes. And like Hope, a well of Christmas kindness.

Beverly Strange. The maleable blue-green of his eyes were one of her gifts to him, and a lifetime love of music in its many forms. Beverly Strange had been a music teacher before she ever became a farmer's wife. And for most of her life--despite how stony her husband grew over the years, grimly implacable in the face of what he found to be frivolous--she had done her best to fill their household with music. It was no fluke that Stephen developed such a great love for music that his prodigious intellect maintained a mental catalog of music trivia encompassing multiple genres.

Beverly had given private piano lessons as much for personal fulfillment as for the extra money the family had needed in lean years on the farm. Until the birth of Stephen's younger brother Victor, she had also volunteered as Choir Director at the community's small Lutheran church. Stephen could remember spending many an afternoon in the weeks leading up to Christmas and Easter in the choir loft, coloring quietly and humming along while Beverly conducted practice. Once her youngest child, Donna, had been old enough to sit in a church pew under Stephen's supervision (for their father rarely attended weekly services) Beverly had resumed a place in the choir and was often featured as a soloist during the holidays. Stephen had been damn proud watching his mother sing her favorite carol, Oh, Holy Night; how straight she had stood, free of his father's angry shadow, and of how flawlessly (to him, anyway) her notes had risen--in his child's mind he had been sure they had reached Heaven itself.

Most of all, though, he had always been proud to see when some parishioner or another was moved to tears by the purity of her rendition. Decades later, he could easily recall that feeling if he allowed himself to remember, could hear her in his mind--but the pain of Donna's death and the toll it wreaked upon his mother had long since precluded him from indulging in such sentimental recall. Beverly's music had fallen mute the day his sister had drowned; she had never sung in church again, nor had Stephen ever heard her sing in their own home in the too short years that followed before her grief prematurely aged her into the grave.

Stephen himself had adopted a stoic mien in the wake of losing Donna, internalizing the blame he felt for failing to save her, and by extension, their mother. Nearly two decades later, it still hurt too damn much to remember the first--and very rare--people who had loved him unconditionally, as both had been lost to him well before their time. And as his most vibrant memories of them included Christmastimes, he had turned his back on all but the most superficial of holiday celebrations.

He had kept his painful thoughts and memories buried deep in all the years since and had only confessed them to Christine (whom he realized in retrospect was the third soul to have loved him unconditionally) one sloppy, drunken night two months after his accident. She had given him what solace she could, gently urging him to not be so hard on himself, reminding him that both Donna and Beverly would wish for him to seek some healing, and staying with him until he drifted into a dreamless sleep. When she returned to check on him the next day, he had closed himself off again, rejecting her concern as unnecessary. Brushing off the incident as impertinent to his current life and goals.

But now...oh now! A wee bit at a time, Hope--who loved him as unconditionally as his past dear ones--had been chipping away at that wall. Reintroducing Christmas into his life by osmosis, without a hint of pressure for him to embrace the season. As she'd promised over two weeks ago, she'd gone about her Christmasing without the sort of fuss that might bother him. With each little Yuletide advance she had made in the Sanctum, he had found himself relaxing and accepting, smiling in concession, happy to play witness to her happiness in the season. With Christmas closing in, Stephen had begun contemplating what sort of gift he might manage for his own Who-girl. He'd been hoping to find a gift that spoke his heart clearly, but each idea that had come to mind fell flat soon after he thought it up.

His attempt to study The Ancient One's chronicle seemed doomed to fail today, for Stephen now found himself additionally distracted not only by the question of what to give Hope, but also by the carols she was playing in the living room portion of his quarters. Celtic Woman, he told himself with no effort to recall the facts; released October 2006, peak chart position number one on Billboard for US Worldwide Albums. The trilling of the all female group was pleasant enough, but not at all conducive to the study he was attempting.

Meaning to simply ask Hope to lower the volume so he could concentrate, Stephen rose and headed the short way to the main room of his suite. The fragrances of cranberry and evergreen greeted him as he drew near, for she'd made a substantial investment in candles for the season, and they were clearly alight as she wrapped presents. Hope was deep in her element and happy to be so.

The music paused between tracks, and when it resumed, it stopped Stephen in his. The opening strains of O, Holy Night filled the air, and in a heartbeat they landed upon him, sending him back to his youth, well before he had known loss and heartbreak. To those crisp, cold Nebraska evenings when his heart had swelled with love and pride to see his mother sing. Unprepared as he was for those powerful images and sounds to fill his senses, Stephen backed away, his eyes stinging with tears of mixed grief and recollection. Tears he'd put off for far too long in his quest to avoid the pain. And yet he knew that just several feet around the corner was the very soul who had given him the exact comfort, love, and strength he'd needed to complete the dreadful journey he had undertaken to save this Universe from Thanos--and that she'd be only too glad to learn this part of his past and help him find healing. If he, at last, could brave facing it.

By some remarkable coincidence, or as if she'd heard his thoughts, Hope's answer came unbidden, her voice blending in as though it had been meant to be a message for his ears alone.

'Sweet hymns of joy, in grateful chorus raise we..., ' she sang as his heart seemed to crack open in bittersweet relief. 'Fall on your knees, O hear the angels voices...' Stephen wrapped his arms across his chest while he wept to remember the love and warmth that had been his in the little church and in every moment spent in his mother's company. How had he made himself ignore such a miraculous gift? Surely the joy of it far outweighed the sorrow! How foolish to have gone so long without allowing himself such comfort.

The carol now drew swiftly to it's close, and still his Hope sang sweetly, following the notes faithfully, unaware that she had reawakened a dormant part of his heart. 'O night,' she crooned, in happy harmony with those recorded singers, 'O night divine!' He swiped his tears away with both his palms, deciding he must tell her this part of his story. His reasons for divorcing Christmas from his life. And that he understood at last that every day of this beautiful season, she'd been patiently showing him that love was stronger than even grief.

The decision made at last, Stephen steeled himself to share what he had hidden from even himself for far too long. Drew several slow calming breaths with the discipline of his Order. Silently ran through the things he wished to share with Hope. And then patiently channeled the energy of his aligned chakras to bolster his resolve and his ability to share not only his story, but all of the feelings filling his heart.

Calmer now, feeling a quiet peace he had never dreamed of achieving regarding the sad experiences of his younger self, Stephen wiped away the last of his tears. Though Hope would likely read what he was feeling in just a few moments anyway, he didn't want to alarm her--for in the end, the revelation to come would be good for his soul and for the future that they were building together.

Her back was turned to him as he rounded the corner so that Stephen paused a moment to take in the sight of the homey Christmas that Hope had created. The tree she'd designed to please him topped with her family heirloom star. The lighted evergreen garland dressing the fireplace mantle and archways between the hallway and next room. Flameless candles in the windows. Lovingly wrapped presents beneath the tree, the paper on each accented with an ornament or decorative trinket. And her latest addition, personalized stockings hanging from the mantle. His, of course, was blue & red and featured a felt version of the Eye of Agamotto (her own creation) and other mystical symbols. Hope had added a light blue, sequined butterfly ornament to her own red & gold stocking, attached near the hanging loop--a lovely reminder of how they had met, a couple of months before The Blip.

A wave of love and gratitude seemed to envelop him. Hope hadn't just made his suite of rooms--indeed, the Sanctum itself--homey. She had turned it into a home. A home the like of which he hadn't experienced since his childhood.

Gently, he cleared his throat to get her attention. "Hope...honey..." he started, but then fell silent when she turned his way.

Her sunny smile greeted him, but just as he had expected, she read his face, the mix of all his emotions writ there, and was immediately on her feet and heading his way. "Stephen, is...is everything okay? Are you alright? Is there...some word from Kamar-Taj?"

"I'm fine, honey. Everything is fine." She stood before him studying his face, trying to decide if he was attempting to downplay whatever appeared to be troubling him. Stephen took her hand. "Come sit with me a bit. There's something I want to share with you," he told her, leading her back to the sofa,"Something I've done my best to ignore for far, far too long." The concern on Hope's face only deepened. "You don't have to worry, sweetheart. For the first time in what feels like forever, I'm ready to face the ghosts of my Christmases past--and finally keep them from spoiling a most wonderful Christmas present."

Hope gasped in soft surprise, and Stephen raised her hand to kiss it, then assured her, "Because both you--and I--deserve the brightest Christmas we can make for one another."

(just one brief chapter left to go)

🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄❄️🎄

tagging: @strangedreamings @ben-locked @aeterna-auroral-avenger @hithertoundreamtof23 @mckiwi @ironstrange1991 @darsynia @icytrickster17 @aphroditesdilemma @veryladyqueen

[dotterelly]

I heard about this project a few years ago, then happened across this recent update video for it. The great green wall in Africa - an attempt to block the expansion of the Sahara desert that is not only working but also providing food and water for local populations at the same time, not to mention access to plants used in local medicines as well. There's a lot of work still to do, but it's amazing to see how far they've come!

[buzz-london]

Inside Africa's Food Forest Mega-Project

Permaculture instructor Andrew Millison journeys with the UN World Food Programme to the country of Niger in the African Sahel to see an innovative land recovery project within the Great Green Wall of Africa that is harvesting rainwater, increasing food security, and rehabilitating the ecosystem.

[bumblebeeappletree]

🌱 Join us to rewild the planet: https://planetwild.com/9/join

💬 🔜 🌳 Comment to plant a tree! — We will plant one extra tree for everyone who leaves a comment below, before the end of the year. So go hit the comment section and let’s plant some trees together!

Forest Gardens are a genius approach to tree planting where trees are mixed with fruits and vegetables to create a biodiversity paradise. It’s a natural solution to overcome poverty, drought and desertification.

In our ninth mission, we’re planting 40,000 trees to turn the barren land into these beautiful forest gardens.

Chapters

0:00 What are Forest Gardens?

2:45 Getting tree planting right

4:34 What is Permaculture?

6:59 Our support

7:35 Collaboration with Andrew Millison

10:43 Mission Debrief

_______________________

What is Planet Wild?

We’re a global community of people who care deeply about nature and want to help our planet bounce back – one mission at a time.

EVERY MONTH, we work with wildlife pioneers worldwide to

🦁 bring back endangered species

🌊 support oceans and aquatic life

🌳 revive forests and rewild landscapes

EVERY MEMBER can vote on how we spend the money, connect with us on our Discord, and collect unique badges for each mission they support.

EVERY MISSION is documented in videos like this. 100% transparency.

EVERYONE can join. The bigger the community grows, the bigger these missions will get!

👉 Become a Planet Wild member: https://planetwild.com/9/join

👉 Follow us on Instagram:

/ planetwild.official

[dragonnan]

50:12

The Great Green Wall: Africa’s Answer to Desertification | FULL DOCUMENTARY

[enigmatist17]

Weight of the World (Part 5)

Part 1 2 3 4

This is the final chapter of this, but not of the series I'm doing as a whole I named Branching Path, which you can find on A03 all neatly together :)

---

Spike grumbled as he shifted in his seat for the dozenth time, grateful the first-class cabin was delightfully empty on his side of the aircraft.

Spike was not a fan of flying.

He'd never understood the damn obsession to soar above the earth in these bloody machines, when there were perfectly good things like ships and trains to travel great distances. Yet, it was the only way he was getting to sodding South Africa in the next century, so for now, he'll sit and scowl until they finally land just before dawn. A demon-run taxi business got the vampire to his hotel for the next day, some of the cash Giles had given him securing the vampire a car and the specifics of where it was he needed to go, the demon he'd been dealing with surprised that Spike wanted to go there.

"I've never seen a vampire come back from there, you know."

"If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked." The other shrugs, and Spike spends the day sleeping as much as he can despite the thrum of anxiety underneath his pale skin. By the time the sun sets, a 4-wheel SUV with blacked-out windows is awaiting Spike, and after partaking of some blood that had been packed in the backseat, Spike pulls out his map and begins to drive. It took a solid two days of steady driving to reach his destination, spending most of it debating back and forth if what he was doing was right. Did he deserve this? Did he need this? He'd heard stories of the person he was going to, a demon who could grant wishes of almost any kind if you survived a brutal gauntlet of challenges, the number uncomfortably short from what Spike had heard over the years. Yet here he was, an utter fool going toward what could be death...for a Slayer and her sister.

What has his unlife come to?

His car comes to its final stop outside a small village. Spike drains the last of the blood in his car before he steps out and takes a long and slow breath. Dozens of eyes look over at him almost simultaneously. The humans are still talking and enjoying their evenings but watching a vampire cross through their land with a purpose, ignoring what could be easy meals for the cave system that overlooked their home.

Not many things made a vampire's hair stand on end, but whatever was in these caves made Spike want to turn tail and run. Another breath taken, Spike fished his lighter out of his pocket before flicking it on, wanting to see whatever had been painted on the walls all around him as he advanced. Depictions of death weren't terribly surprising, the drawings becoming more simplistic and looking faded as he cautiously ventured deeper inside, the inquisitive side of him wondering just how old some of these paintings were, just before his flame was snuffed out.

You seek me, vampire?

The voice was everywhere and nowhere all at once, Spike looking around as he continued to venture forward, tucking the lighter back in his pocket.

"You do the finger paintings? Nice work." Spike wanted to cringe at how his normal sass wavered but found that fighting his ever-increasing instincts won out over his pride.

Answer me

"Yea, I seek you."

Something about a woman. The Slayer and her kin made from the stars

"Yea." Spike slowly approached the figure he could now see in the shadows, a low warning hovering in his throat. "Everything's gone to hell, and I'm tired of not being a bad enough bitch for it."

Why does this want you to return to your former self?

The being almost sounds amused, and Spike scowls.

"I can't be the man I wanted to be for the Slayer, never got a soddin' chance, but 'er little sister? She deserves protectin', and I figure I'm the closest thing she's got to one, but I'm no good like this." The vampire waves a hand over himself, and the green eyes continue to watch him. "You know what I want, and I'm willing to do anything."

The being laughs now, the scowl deepening as the figure begins to walk backward.

Look what you've been reduced to, a once legendary dark warrior now pining like a pathetic human. Do you truly believe you will survive what I have for you?

"Give me your best shot." His answer is a snarl, and the being now fades into the darkness surrounding them both.

Prepare yourself vampire.

---

Time seems to pass to the beat of its own drum here. It feels like hours since the being spoke to him, but Spike could be patient; he could wait. He knows that combat and the like will be needed, so to save clothing for later, his boots, socks, and shirt get removed, folded neatly, and placed by some of the cave drawings so he can find his way out when all is done.

It would be done, because he wasn't going to die in some bloody cave, not after everything.

It is time for the first trial, do you understand what I require?

The sudden voice make him flinch, Spike taking a slow and deep breath before nodding, assuming this thing could see him.

"Yea yea, it's not like you haven't been clear about it, oh great, mysterious one." The sass doesn't waver this time; the vampire knows what he's here for and can feel the beginning of his adrenaline rush as he focuses, pacing around the caves that now resemble an arena more than it did a few minutes ago. "This is a test. I don't get what I want unless I pass said test. That about the size and shape?"

Yes

"And since your pad is decked out gladiator-style, and no number two pencils have been provided, I guess we're not starting with the written." He can hear that cursed laugh from wherever the bloody thing is, hands clenching and unclenching as he circles the room. The punch from something behind him sends Spike rocketing to the side, using the wall he fell against as a springboard to land a punch back at whatever it is that had tried to hit him.

It was a massive mountain of a bloke, some sort of joke dancing on Spike's tongue as they sized each other up, but it died just as quickly when the man banged his fists together, lighting them on fire.

To the death

"Son of a -" Heat radiates from the entirety of the right side of his face as Spike is decked with a solid punch, landing back onto his ass as the man quickly moves to follow with more blows. He's able to scramble back to avoid a few hits, but ends up taking one to his chest when Spike quickly gets to his feet, throwing him back enough to slam onto the wall behind him. He doesn't have a chance to move before flaming hands grip his upper arms, skin sizzling as Spike desperately slams his head into the other's face, the man letting out a pained noise and stumbling back. By the time he'd righted, Spike had squirreled away again, the larger man letting out a guttural cry before following after the vampire. While most demons were too prideful to realize when retreat was a wise idea, Spike was not one of those fools, which had served him and his survival well. While he was far more the brawler than his Sire and Grandsire's had ever been, Angelus had carved into him the need to analyze and learn from his more powerful foes when to fight and when to draw things out for the advantage. So he did just that, dodging and weaving while taking continual hits, waiting for his time to strike. It comes when he receives another uppercut to the face, Spike falling to the ground with a groan of pain, the vampire hearing the man rearing up another punch.

He does the worst thing possible and catches the approaching first in his hand. Both he and the other are surprised as Spike uses the distraction to get onto his feet, punching the other man back with a snarl.

"Bad move, bad move, bad move." The other man glares and shoots his arm forward, realizing too late that Spike had leaned down far enough to catch his wrist, flipping him onto the ground with a thud. The vampire wastes no time in kicking the other square between the legs, watching as his enemy turns to try and get up again, exposing his back to Spike, who simply walks over and snaps his neck with a quick jerk of his hands.

"Looks like local boy loses." His words end in a half-delirious laugh, Spike panting heavily as he takes in the victory.

So it would appear

The demon steps forward in curiosity, and Spike gives him a nasty grin.

"Good on me, then, eh? I got what I came for; I passed the test, right?"

Indeed, you have passed the first stage of the test.

"Wait...first stage?" The victory high came crashing down as fast as it had burst in his chest, and the dread of fighting another beast made him tremble slightly. "Bugger."

---

Time truly doesn't pass in these caves, perhaps another test for the poor souls who come to this bloody hell on earth.

Spike had lost count of the foes he faced, demons who looked human to those whom he'd only seen in books, real or otherwise, all trying to kill the vampire like it was their holy calling. He knows it's all a test, a way for the demon who lurked beyond even his own enhanced sight to weed out the weak from the strong or some shit, but he couldn't be arsed to care. He was William the Bloody, no one could best him, and no one was going to take what he came for from him, the latest horned foes going down when Spike sliced its head off. Exhausted, Spike grabs the head and staggers back to the entrance of his latest combat arena, chucking the head towards those bloody green eyes.

"That was a bloody doddle and a piece o' piss." He groaned, falling to his knees for just a moment's rest, glaring at those eyes with as much fury as he could muster. "Got any more ruddy tests for me, you ponce? I'll take anything you can throw at me, if it'll get me what I need. Bring it on, bring on the whole -" He stops when there's a loud crunching noise from below him, throat tightening when he feels something begin to crawl up from the depths and up his body. "Bloody hell..."

There are hundreds of them, hundreds of scarab beetles that scrape and gnaw at his skin, crawling into his nose and mouth and it's pure agony.

He's not sure when he fell down, but he didn't scream, just writhing around on the floor as he kept them in, hands clenched so hard he pierced his skin as the agony continued for what felt like an eternity.

Buffy and Dawn, Buffy and Dawn, he loves them so much he won't scream.

Soon, merciful darkness takes him.

The thudding of approaching footsteps is what drags him from the darkness, his body so battered Spike can do little more than to lie on the floor and see what awaited him next.

You have endured the required trials

"Bloody right I have." He doesn't ever want to move again, but he refuses to face this bastard on the ground, so with a shuddering breath Spike turns and pushes himself onto his knees, knowing he wasn't going to be making it fully upright.

"Give me what I want." Spike shudders at the cool air to his back, the chant of Buffy and Dawn keeping him from revealing any weakness. "Make me what I was, what I need."

Very well. We will return your soul

Spike doesn't see the hand that comes from the darkness; the moment it touches him, the world burns. His entire body is burning as something he'd forgotten claws its way inside, settling into a hole he'd never felt and searing its very presence into every square inch of his body. His eyes glow as he looks for something, anything, to stop the pain, but there is nothing there but the darkness of the caves.

You walk with a soul once more

Spike struggles to force air down his dead lungs as the burning begins to slowly fade, head spinning as he crawls up and onto his feet, now very alone and closer to the exit than he remembered. He can hear someone talking, more than one someone, but they go unacknowledged by the vampire when another effect of his newly acquired soul hits him like a freight train.

The screaming washed over him like a tidal wave, and Spike fell to his knees with wide eyes as voices from the last 120 years clamored to be heard, all of them so angry.

He doesn't feel the needle that is inserted into his neck, once more falling into a darkness that now terrifies him more than anything.

----

Three weeks later

----

Wesley Wyndam-Price was finishing up the last of his paperwork for the evening when he heard the front door to the Hyperion open. He sighed at his now lost evening before going to greet whoever appeared.

"Hello, welcome to - " His jovial greeting dies in his throat when he takes one look at the person who had entered. "Spike?"

The vampire who had entered said nothing in return, and had it not been for the platinum-blonde tips to curly brown hair, Wesley wasn't sure if he would have recognized Spike right away. It doesn't help his infamous duster is also missing, the vampire wavering in place clad in scuffed boots and ripped jeans, his black shirt little more than shreds from something that had clawed at it repeatedly. Spike doesn't seem to be aware of his surroundings; whatever he's saying to himself is a constant stream of languages that switch faster than Wesley can pick up, his eyes soon wandering toward the door.

"Spike, you don't need to go." Spike's eyes snap to Wesley, but it's clear he's not all there, the other slowly raising his hands. "You're quite safe here, I promise."

"No, no, no, no, no one's safe from William." The words are nearly drowned out by the crazed giggles Spike bursts into, the sound nearly making Wesley jump. The vampire wavers in place before deciding a nearby bench is a place to take refuge, collapsing onto it, and curling in on himself with more giggles. "I'm not safe, not safe, not safe, not safe." He seems to be done talking as he tries his best to imitate an armadillo; Wesley slowly steps backward until he can reach the phone on the front desk, dialing a familiar number as quick as his shaking fingers can.

"Hello?" Relief floods Wesley, and after another check to see if Spike has still not moved, he relaxes further. "Hello?"

"It's me....Angel, he's here."

"Don't let him leave; I'll be right down." The line clicks as it goes dead, and Wesley carefully places the receiver down before approaching the curled-up man with what he hopes is a friendly smile.

"Spike?" The man doesn't move, except for one eye peering out from the little space between his limbs. "Are you in any pain?"

"Pain?" The answer is slightly muffled, and Spike begins to laugh again after a moment. "I deserve it, the pain. All of it, all of it because the voices are right; they are right because I am a bad, bad, bad, bad man, a bad man whom you should stake. It's justice, innit?"

"No, I don't believe it is." The former Watcher moves closer, that impossible eye following him without a blink, wanting to say more, but pauses when a familiar figure hovers in his peripheral, stepping back to allow them to step forward.

"Angel." Spike's voice is flat when his grandsire kneels beside him, his expression neutral as the other looks at him. "Have you come to kill me?"

"No." The older vampire shakes his head, Spike flinching when he raises his hand and covers his head again.

"Please stop, please stop I'm sorry." Angel gently rests his hand over one of Spike's hands, the smaller man trembling like a leaf in the wind when he gives a gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry."

"I know." Angel remains by Spike's side for a good hour, the man switching between pleads and bouts of laughs he can't stop until finally, Spike uncovers his head again.

"Can I rest now?"