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Illyria, Alone. Chapter 2.
I was going to do this really long post with recs and stuff, but since I've finished chapter 2 of this thing I'm going to be lazy and post fic instead! :)
Still very short, but that's probably a good thing. Ahem. Chapter 1 can be found here if anyone wants to catch up.
Thank you's to my lovely beta![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kathyh (as usual) and I hope you all enjoy!
(Spoilery for pretty much everything I guess, in case someone out there is still watching for the first time...)
Chapter 2
The first task Illyria set herself was to retrieve Wesley’s body. With great stealth she managed to carry it to his flat from Vail’s palace. It helped that the night’s battle had obviously unsettled the humans and no one paid much notice to her, the streets being full police officers and other official looking characters, trying to keep chaos at bay.
As she was about to wrench the door to Wesley’s apartment open with force, she stopped herself. Humans were weak, and therefore never used force if they could use wits instead. For doors, humans used keys. They carried these with them, secreted in pockets. Wesley should therefore be the carrier of the keys to his dwelling place. After a swift search, followed by a frustrating bout of trial-and-error, the door finally opened and she could carry her burden through and into the bedroom.
For a long time Illyria sat beside Wesley on the bed, thinking. In former times, she would only have had to reach out and touch him, and his wounds would have healed, his heart begun beating again. The loss of this power was as acute as the grief she felt at the man’s death. How could humans live so confined, so powerless, so utterly incapable of shaping their own future? A slave to their emotions and baser impulses, always pining for what had vanished...
No, this was not her way. She would no longer cling to the past. It was gone and her old way of ruling was obsolete. She needed to adapt - she must learn to be sneaky. She sat immobile, as still as the dead figure by her side, slowly mapping out her new plan. It would take time - a long time - but she was immortal and time had once been hers to command, she understood its flows and ebbs. Angel had cut down the large tree that was the Circle of the Black Thorn and it would take time for it to grow strong again. And she would grow alongside, slowly but surely blocking it from the light of the sun, choking it from above and strangling its roots from below. Their weapon was secrecy. Hers would be... the opposite.
When all was clear in her mind, she began inspecting Wesley’s home. Everything was neat and tidy - he had obviously put a great deal of effort into making his home as ordered as possible. But she recognised this for what it was - outward order to help his inner turmoil. Fred had been the same, attempting to arrange the universe into numbers and formulas as a way of controlling it.
Carefully she picked out all the magical and powerful items and soon she had the ingredients she needed for her gathering spell. It was not fitting for her to have to do this, but she had no choice - her depleted powers did not allow for her to reach out as she had in the past. Sitting down cross-legged in the middle of the circle she had drawn, she began.
She cast her beacon city-wide, not knowing how many devotees she had. Those committed enough to have her name or symbol marked upon their flesh would feel the pull and come to serve her.
Two hours later, seven followers had found her. The first six were useless and she sent them away. But number seven, a middle-aged man in a suit, who was obviously of some importance in society, appeared intelligent and eloquent.
She stopped her beacon and found out that his name was Jamesson. She studied him carefully, then laid her first matter before him.
“My Qua’Ha Xahn is dead. He needs to be buried. What are the customs amongst humans?”
Jamesson explained at length. She listened carefully, then asked further questions. After a pause to weigh the options, she made a decision.
“My Qua’Ha Xahn had family. I wish to contact them. Show me how.”
More explanations followed, and another search of the apartment. Telephones and address books were a curious concept, but she studied both meticulously. From the remnants of Fred within her she had memories of these things, but it was like watching a television screen with the sound turned off - the underlying understanding was missing. But as her new guide expounded, comprehension lit up the darkness and she swiftly grasped the idea.
As she looked through Wesley’s book of numbers, she saw the names of Winifred Burkle’s parents. They would make a good first test, having been fooled in the past.
She heard Jamesson gasp behind her when she replied to Trish Burkle’s “Hello?” with a cute Texan lilt: “Mom? It’s Fred!”
As she explained to Fred’s parents that there had been a battle in which all of Team Angel had probably died - except for her, since ‘the boys’ wouldn’t let her fight - she marvelled at the ease with which the words flowed past her lips. Half-truths and deceit mixed effortlessly with her own recent grief, so the emotion that imbued her tale was not feigned. This was interesting and she made a note of it.
And even as she spoke, a part of her mind recalled the first lesson that Wesley had ever taught her of this world.
There's love. There's hope... for some. There's hope that you'll find something worthy... that your life will lead you to some joy... that after everything... you can still be surprised.
She would surprise the world. She would give it something worthy - something to love and worship. And she would no longer be alone.
Chapter 3.
Still very short, but that's probably a good thing. Ahem. Chapter 1 can be found here if anyone wants to catch up.
Thank you's to my lovely beta
kathyh (as usual) and I hope you all enjoy! (Spoilery for pretty much everything I guess, in case someone out there is still watching for the first time...)
The first task Illyria set herself was to retrieve Wesley’s body. With great stealth she managed to carry it to his flat from Vail’s palace. It helped that the night’s battle had obviously unsettled the humans and no one paid much notice to her, the streets being full police officers and other official looking characters, trying to keep chaos at bay.
As she was about to wrench the door to Wesley’s apartment open with force, she stopped herself. Humans were weak, and therefore never used force if they could use wits instead. For doors, humans used keys. They carried these with them, secreted in pockets. Wesley should therefore be the carrier of the keys to his dwelling place. After a swift search, followed by a frustrating bout of trial-and-error, the door finally opened and she could carry her burden through and into the bedroom.
For a long time Illyria sat beside Wesley on the bed, thinking. In former times, she would only have had to reach out and touch him, and his wounds would have healed, his heart begun beating again. The loss of this power was as acute as the grief she felt at the man’s death. How could humans live so confined, so powerless, so utterly incapable of shaping their own future? A slave to their emotions and baser impulses, always pining for what had vanished...
No, this was not her way. She would no longer cling to the past. It was gone and her old way of ruling was obsolete. She needed to adapt - she must learn to be sneaky. She sat immobile, as still as the dead figure by her side, slowly mapping out her new plan. It would take time - a long time - but she was immortal and time had once been hers to command, she understood its flows and ebbs. Angel had cut down the large tree that was the Circle of the Black Thorn and it would take time for it to grow strong again. And she would grow alongside, slowly but surely blocking it from the light of the sun, choking it from above and strangling its roots from below. Their weapon was secrecy. Hers would be... the opposite.
When all was clear in her mind, she began inspecting Wesley’s home. Everything was neat and tidy - he had obviously put a great deal of effort into making his home as ordered as possible. But she recognised this for what it was - outward order to help his inner turmoil. Fred had been the same, attempting to arrange the universe into numbers and formulas as a way of controlling it.
Carefully she picked out all the magical and powerful items and soon she had the ingredients she needed for her gathering spell. It was not fitting for her to have to do this, but she had no choice - her depleted powers did not allow for her to reach out as she had in the past. Sitting down cross-legged in the middle of the circle she had drawn, she began.
She cast her beacon city-wide, not knowing how many devotees she had. Those committed enough to have her name or symbol marked upon their flesh would feel the pull and come to serve her.
Two hours later, seven followers had found her. The first six were useless and she sent them away. But number seven, a middle-aged man in a suit, who was obviously of some importance in society, appeared intelligent and eloquent.
She stopped her beacon and found out that his name was Jamesson. She studied him carefully, then laid her first matter before him.
“My Qua’Ha Xahn is dead. He needs to be buried. What are the customs amongst humans?”
Jamesson explained at length. She listened carefully, then asked further questions. After a pause to weigh the options, she made a decision.
“My Qua’Ha Xahn had family. I wish to contact them. Show me how.”
More explanations followed, and another search of the apartment. Telephones and address books were a curious concept, but she studied both meticulously. From the remnants of Fred within her she had memories of these things, but it was like watching a television screen with the sound turned off - the underlying understanding was missing. But as her new guide expounded, comprehension lit up the darkness and she swiftly grasped the idea.
As she looked through Wesley’s book of numbers, she saw the names of Winifred Burkle’s parents. They would make a good first test, having been fooled in the past.
She heard Jamesson gasp behind her when she replied to Trish Burkle’s “Hello?” with a cute Texan lilt: “Mom? It’s Fred!”
As she explained to Fred’s parents that there had been a battle in which all of Team Angel had probably died - except for her, since ‘the boys’ wouldn’t let her fight - she marvelled at the ease with which the words flowed past her lips. Half-truths and deceit mixed effortlessly with her own recent grief, so the emotion that imbued her tale was not feigned. This was interesting and she made a note of it.
And even as she spoke, a part of her mind recalled the first lesson that Wesley had ever taught her of this world.
There's love. There's hope... for some. There's hope that you'll find something worthy... that your life will lead you to some joy... that after everything... you can still be surprised.
She would surprise the world. She would give it something worthy - something to love and worship. And she would no longer be alone.
Chapter 3.