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Spike strolled through the rowdy crowds on the O'Connell Street Bridge, his arm wrapped tightly around a sweet colleen named Meg. She was chattering about her job, her former boyfriend, her brother the footballer, her da the bookmaker. Spike was nodding and murmuring every so often, his eyes scanning the crowd, looking for the quickest way through.
"Where are we going, Billy?"
"I told you. Some mates are having a party in the green."
Meg giggled and cuddled closer to him. "You're cold. So, there'll be beer?"
"On St. Patty's day, in Ireland?" he scoffed, making her giggle again.
A pair of drunken Americans in garish, lime green leisure suits, stumbled in front of them, singing 'When Irish Eyes are Smiling'. Scowling, Spike brushed past them, muttering under his breath about polyester being the devil's fabric. Reaching the end of the bridge without being accosted again, he tugged Meg down Grafton Street, a pedestrian walkway out of necessity on this day each year.
'The Foggy Dew' blared from a pub and Spike glanced in to see a crowd clinking glasses and cheering as a live band played traditional Irish music on the harp, fiddle, tin whistle and bodhran. Spike made note of the place for later and continued through the celebrating crowds.
Crossing the street to St. Stephen's Green, he noticed the sounds dying away, the celebration behind them, only the tree shrouded paths before them.
"Where are your friends?" Meg asked as they walked down the dimly lit pathway past the duck pond.
Ahead of them, sitting on a bench, feeding a duck, sat Spike's goddess. Dressed in a white muslin gown, her hair in old fashioned curls, she looked as if she had stepped out of a Regency painting.
"There's one."
"You didn't say some of your mates are girls." Meg began to pout and drag her feet.
Spike pulled her forward, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "That's just Dru. C'mon."
As they approached the bench, Drusilla looked up and smiled dreamily. "Look, Spike, the little ducky likes me." She tossed another bit of bread and the duck scrabbled for it.
"Well, of course it does, luv."
"Do you think it would make me quack if I ate it?"
"I brought you something much better for dinner, my own, sweet ducks." He grinned at his lover and shoved Meg forward.
"Hey," the girl protested, only to be caught by Drusilla and dragged down onto the bench. "Let me go."
Drusilla's hand snaked out and grabbed the back of Meg's neck, forcing her to sit still. "Hush now, little one. If you protest, mummy will have to punish you and make your neck go snap."
Tears leaked down Meg's cheeks and she looked up at Spike, pleading silently.
He ignored her, reaching down for the bag of bread crumbs. "You eat well, luv. I'll go keep the ducks company." He walked down to the edge of the water, whistling for the ducks and throwing crumbs onto the surface of the pond.
As the ducks clamored for the bread, Spike heard a soft, sad moan of pain from behind him and the scent of blood hit him. He smiled, happy that his lover was eating something for the first time in nearly a week.
A few minutes later, he heard footsteps and turned to see Drusilla fling Meg into the pond. The body made a huge splash, sending the ducks quacking away.
Drusilla giggled and clapped her hands. "She tasted yummy, Spike."
Wrapping his arm around her, he tugged her close, placing a kiss on the top of her head. "I'm glad, pet. Would you like to go listen to some music now?"
"Oh yes," she sighed. "And dance. I feel like dancing, Spike. Can we?"
"Are you sure you feel well enough?" he asked carefully.
She nodded. "As long as you hold me."
Spike guided them back down the path, back towards the celebration in the streets, the crowds, the music and the beer. As they stepped onto Grafton Street and were swallowed by the crowds, Drusilla asked, "Can we have green beer?"
"That's an American atrocity, luv. Let's have some stout instead."
"Can we have it in a man?"
"Anything my princess wants." Grinning broadly, Spike swung her into the pub he'd noticed earlier and led her to the dance floor, as a new song started.
"I remember Connolly," Drusilla murmured as she swayed in Spike's arms. "He bled a lot."
"British guns will do that, luv."
She shuddered delicately. "Guns are nasty. I much prefer to rip my foes throats out. Much more personal."
Spike chuckled and pulled her closer.
"Is Ireland free?" she asked, confused.
"Not quite, Dru. Not quite..."
And the chorus rang out.
*The black flag was hoisted, the cruel deed was over
*And gone was the man who loved Ireland so well
*There was many a sad heart in Dublin that morning
*When they murdered James Connolly, the Irish rebel...
End