Title: 'Was Sehrt, Das Lehrt' ('What hurts, teaches')
Author: Kirsty (Krevlorneswath@hotmail.com)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Joss made 'em. The quote at the end is from Sartre's 'The Condemned of Alton'
Pairing: .General quasi-philosophical drabble. Mentions of A/Darla, possible A/Penn, possible A/Spike.
Summary: Practise is sometimes Purgatory.
Distribution: Let's chat about it over tea and scones. I mean…uh…yeah?
Spoilers: General 'Angel' season three, everything before that, in particular 'Somnambulist' (s1)
Notes: The title is a move from fencing. It's basically the idea in the Fechtschulen that pragmatic knowledge follows only from realistic instruction (i.e., no pain no gain)
I'm happy to live in Denial Land over the whole siring thing, but I don't think Angel is somehow. . .
All ironies and mockery are absolutely intentional.
Thanks to the awesome Rune for giving this a once-over!
Why?
No, scratch that. It is far too grand a question to deal with now.
Why now?
Still too general.
Why *then*?
Closer.
Why *not* then?
Ah. . . Now that's the crux of it, isn't it?
Angel picks up the sword, testing the weight. Light but strong. The blade is new, the feeling as he grips the hilt is not. There are many swords in the weapons cabinet upstairs, each made for a specific purpose – cumbersome rusty broadswords designed for the crude "slice 'n dice" as Cordelia puts it, fine rapiers for what Angel would always deign as *real* fighting. He has picked up a foil for fencing, in fact. So many puns are edging their way to the tip of his tongue, so he bites the offending muscle and pads to the centre of the room.
At any rate, he doubts verbal wit would be much use today, considering the fact that he is alone. Alone in the dark with a big pointy weapon. Such a new look for you Angel. He takes off his usual black cotton shirt and begins.
He bows, as customary, not unaware of the irony of the situation. The dead fighting nothing. Is politeness really necessary? The steely blade glints in the light and, if human, his reflection would be caught for an instant. So perhaps this is an example of nothing fighting nothing? He shakes his head as he practises the first position. He really ought to lay off the Sartre. Existentialism may recognise a limited degree of optimism, but for someone who is already dead, the outlook is exceptionally bleak at the cheeriest of times.
En garde.
His carefully controlled moves make little sound as he paces along the basement floor. It's a magnificent dance in many ways. Clean, precise…lethal. No wonder he enjoyed this so much a century ago. Darla did too. Oh – only when it took her fancy of course. But on that rare occasion when it did, she would happily watch Angelus for hours, enthralled by the beauty of her darling boy. He turns and thrusts.
Stab. You're dead.
He pauses. Was that for her? He killed her before, just as smoothly, almost emotionless. And he was angry enough to do it again not so long ago. Darla, Darla, Darla. Thrust, parry and another death blow. She's old news. They're all old news. So why does he maintain this eternal repetition?
{What we once were informs all that we have become.}
He continues, facing up his new opponent. The imaginary partner has now gained a face, and a handsome one at that. Penn. Such potential in the lad, such hatred. He rolls under the assault he already knows that Penn will – *would have* provided Angel tilts the blade at just *so*, as to nearly pierce the heart.
Another disappointment in his unlife. The fight with the prodigal son is one that Angel knows he always would have won. Because Penn, unlike the elusive Darla, even unlike the paradoxical ever-unpredictable, oh-so reliable Spike, always had to lift his best work from daddy dearest. He stands and swiftly performs the Vater Streich, or 'Father Strike', and his opponent goes down.
Penn was sycophantic in the most bothersome of ways, lacking in originality, lacking that indefinable quality as to make Angelus really stand up and take notice.
{We were to meet in Italy, remember?}
Penn had waited for his Sire for a century. One hundred years of possible exploration all over the world. One hundred years of culture, wars, and one hundred years of dim-witted humans crowding from every corner of the globe just begging to be slaughtered. And all Penn had achieved was perhaps a few minor riots, nothing to make too much of a spectacle of himself, naturally. But he had *done* nothing.
Angelus may have been his Sire, his mentor, but he had never loved the child. He never truly *loved* anything, except for perhaps himself. And yet still, Penn had waited. Angel turns and slices off another imaginary head.
Sorry Penn, but I never would have been impressed.
A few moves later and Angel takes a small break. He's not tired, but he's got used to timing his breaks alongside human stamina. It's just habit now.
So who is the last demon to do battle with today? He picks up the sword again and almost laughs at this flagrantly trite attempt at catharsis. He's using a real sword to battle inner and outer demons. Oh, how very painstakingly clichéd. .
He shrugs and swings the blade again in a rough circular motion.
He really doesn't have time for introspective metaphors right now. Thinking is always a good, agreed, but in this instant he's happy to let his subconscious ramble, without taking into account any potential gross literary ramifications. He's a Champion, not a Poet.
And speaking of which, the first name to enter his conscious is perversely enough - Spike. In a world full of geniuses and madmen, the boy unfortunately never managed to fit into either category, despite evidence to the contrary.
{You? A plan?}
The lad William… Now there was a difficult topic. At best Angel could only describe him as a contradiction. At worst, he was Drusilla's mistake. For some reason, a numerous number of Watcher journals had assumed that Angelus was Spike's Sire, something that he had sometimes laughed at, and on a very rare juncture, had felt the faintest pang of regret. At times he was tempted to travel to the Watcher's Council just to inform them that their beliefs were a load of crap, and that furthermore, even if he had been William's Sire, he most certainly had not had any sexual relations with him. But when this thought had crossed his mind, Angel never really had enough inclination to follow it through. That tiny stab of regret was always to linger at the back of his mind. Because… What if he had?
What if, for some bizarre reason, he had taken a greater liking to the boy? What if he had transcended his nature and actually *loved* him? Loved Spike? Had sex with Spike? It isn't the gender issue that bothers Angel as his parries now arrive in quick succession. It is more the fact that it is *Spike* he was thinking about. The near literal child of the 'family'. Insolent, unpredictable, no finesse, always letting his passions override his good judgement. It was a constant source of agitation for Angelus and a never-ending font of delight for Drusilla. At the time, this was what Angel thought kept the boy alive – he occupied Dru. A diversion, a distraction. Her very own Black Knight to appease her romantic nature.
He and Darla had wagered over how long their little girl's new fancy would last. Angelus had arrogantly proclaimed three months, tops, whereas with a knowing smile, his lover stated that a century sounded about right. He never did pay up on that bet.
So what to do with Spike? He never seemed to fit in with any of Angel's plans but remained undead and irritating nonetheless. Lost in thought, Angel finds himself advancing too far, and recklessly scratches the blade against the rough brick of the basement wall. He frowns and takes a look at the damage. Only superficial. With a sudden burst of creative flair, he tosses the foil into the air, watching it spin, and then land firmly in a spare sheath fastened to the brickwork. He cringes. Perhaps a rain-check on Freud would be a good idea too.
He could probably kill Spike, if needs be. In fact, after that ring incident, Angel would have happily found Spike a few new orifices to thrust hot pokers into. Repeatedly.
But he doesn't hate him.
In fact, the number of beings Angel truly hates can be counted on the fingers of one hand. A hand with a digit or two missing, even.
Spike was possibly a lost opportunity or a welcome mistake. Angel still can't decide which. And for some reason, this bothers him.
The polished floor reflects nothing as Angel walks to the stairs, and for that he is grateful. No reflection, no reality, no limits to what he thinks he can do here. He hears Cordelia call and the brief illusion is shattered. Maybe tomorrow he will face a more substantial form of chimera.
He steals a last glance at his training ground for the day, knowing in his heart that he will be here again tomorrow, knowing that he'll be going through the motions yet again. In one room he is able to do everything and nothing. A paradox of endless repetition is to be his rightful solace. Figures.
{Both your life and your death are merely nothing. You are nothing, you do nothing, you have done nothing, and you can do nothing.}
Time to go save another soul.
End.
Author: Kirsty (Krevlorneswath@hotmail.com)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Joss made 'em. The quote at the end is from Sartre's 'The Condemned of Alton'
Pairing: .General quasi-philosophical drabble. Mentions of A/Darla, possible A/Penn, possible A/Spike.
Summary: Practise is sometimes Purgatory.
Distribution: Let's chat about it over tea and scones. I mean…uh…yeah?
Spoilers: General 'Angel' season three, everything before that, in particular 'Somnambulist' (s1)
Notes: The title is a move from fencing. It's basically the idea in the Fechtschulen that pragmatic knowledge follows only from realistic instruction (i.e., no pain no gain)
I'm happy to live in Denial Land over the whole siring thing, but I don't think Angel is somehow. . .
All ironies and mockery are absolutely intentional.
Thanks to the awesome Rune for giving this a once-over!
Why?
No, scratch that. It is far too grand a question to deal with now.
Why now?
Still too general.
Why *then*?
Closer.
Why *not* then?
Ah. . . Now that's the crux of it, isn't it?
Angel picks up the sword, testing the weight. Light but strong. The blade is new, the feeling as he grips the hilt is not. There are many swords in the weapons cabinet upstairs, each made for a specific purpose – cumbersome rusty broadswords designed for the crude "slice 'n dice" as Cordelia puts it, fine rapiers for what Angel would always deign as *real* fighting. He has picked up a foil for fencing, in fact. So many puns are edging their way to the tip of his tongue, so he bites the offending muscle and pads to the centre of the room.
At any rate, he doubts verbal wit would be much use today, considering the fact that he is alone. Alone in the dark with a big pointy weapon. Such a new look for you Angel. He takes off his usual black cotton shirt and begins.
He bows, as customary, not unaware of the irony of the situation. The dead fighting nothing. Is politeness really necessary? The steely blade glints in the light and, if human, his reflection would be caught for an instant. So perhaps this is an example of nothing fighting nothing? He shakes his head as he practises the first position. He really ought to lay off the Sartre. Existentialism may recognise a limited degree of optimism, but for someone who is already dead, the outlook is exceptionally bleak at the cheeriest of times.
En garde.
His carefully controlled moves make little sound as he paces along the basement floor. It's a magnificent dance in many ways. Clean, precise…lethal. No wonder he enjoyed this so much a century ago. Darla did too. Oh – only when it took her fancy of course. But on that rare occasion when it did, she would happily watch Angelus for hours, enthralled by the beauty of her darling boy. He turns and thrusts.
Stab. You're dead.
He pauses. Was that for her? He killed her before, just as smoothly, almost emotionless. And he was angry enough to do it again not so long ago. Darla, Darla, Darla. Thrust, parry and another death blow. She's old news. They're all old news. So why does he maintain this eternal repetition?
{What we once were informs all that we have become.}
He continues, facing up his new opponent. The imaginary partner has now gained a face, and a handsome one at that. Penn. Such potential in the lad, such hatred. He rolls under the assault he already knows that Penn will – *would have* provided Angel tilts the blade at just *so*, as to nearly pierce the heart.
Another disappointment in his unlife. The fight with the prodigal son is one that Angel knows he always would have won. Because Penn, unlike the elusive Darla, even unlike the paradoxical ever-unpredictable, oh-so reliable Spike, always had to lift his best work from daddy dearest. He stands and swiftly performs the Vater Streich, or 'Father Strike', and his opponent goes down.
Penn was sycophantic in the most bothersome of ways, lacking in originality, lacking that indefinable quality as to make Angelus really stand up and take notice.
{We were to meet in Italy, remember?}
Penn had waited for his Sire for a century. One hundred years of possible exploration all over the world. One hundred years of culture, wars, and one hundred years of dim-witted humans crowding from every corner of the globe just begging to be slaughtered. And all Penn had achieved was perhaps a few minor riots, nothing to make too much of a spectacle of himself, naturally. But he had *done* nothing.
Angelus may have been his Sire, his mentor, but he had never loved the child. He never truly *loved* anything, except for perhaps himself. And yet still, Penn had waited. Angel turns and slices off another imaginary head.
Sorry Penn, but I never would have been impressed.
A few moves later and Angel takes a small break. He's not tired, but he's got used to timing his breaks alongside human stamina. It's just habit now.
So who is the last demon to do battle with today? He picks up the sword again and almost laughs at this flagrantly trite attempt at catharsis. He's using a real sword to battle inner and outer demons. Oh, how very painstakingly clichéd. .
He shrugs and swings the blade again in a rough circular motion.
He really doesn't have time for introspective metaphors right now. Thinking is always a good, agreed, but in this instant he's happy to let his subconscious ramble, without taking into account any potential gross literary ramifications. He's a Champion, not a Poet.
And speaking of which, the first name to enter his conscious is perversely enough - Spike. In a world full of geniuses and madmen, the boy unfortunately never managed to fit into either category, despite evidence to the contrary.
{You? A plan?}
The lad William… Now there was a difficult topic. At best Angel could only describe him as a contradiction. At worst, he was Drusilla's mistake. For some reason, a numerous number of Watcher journals had assumed that Angelus was Spike's Sire, something that he had sometimes laughed at, and on a very rare juncture, had felt the faintest pang of regret. At times he was tempted to travel to the Watcher's Council just to inform them that their beliefs were a load of crap, and that furthermore, even if he had been William's Sire, he most certainly had not had any sexual relations with him. But when this thought had crossed his mind, Angel never really had enough inclination to follow it through. That tiny stab of regret was always to linger at the back of his mind. Because… What if he had?
What if, for some bizarre reason, he had taken a greater liking to the boy? What if he had transcended his nature and actually *loved* him? Loved Spike? Had sex with Spike? It isn't the gender issue that bothers Angel as his parries now arrive in quick succession. It is more the fact that it is *Spike* he was thinking about. The near literal child of the 'family'. Insolent, unpredictable, no finesse, always letting his passions override his good judgement. It was a constant source of agitation for Angelus and a never-ending font of delight for Drusilla. At the time, this was what Angel thought kept the boy alive – he occupied Dru. A diversion, a distraction. Her very own Black Knight to appease her romantic nature.
He and Darla had wagered over how long their little girl's new fancy would last. Angelus had arrogantly proclaimed three months, tops, whereas with a knowing smile, his lover stated that a century sounded about right. He never did pay up on that bet.
So what to do with Spike? He never seemed to fit in with any of Angel's plans but remained undead and irritating nonetheless. Lost in thought, Angel finds himself advancing too far, and recklessly scratches the blade against the rough brick of the basement wall. He frowns and takes a look at the damage. Only superficial. With a sudden burst of creative flair, he tosses the foil into the air, watching it spin, and then land firmly in a spare sheath fastened to the brickwork. He cringes. Perhaps a rain-check on Freud would be a good idea too.
He could probably kill Spike, if needs be. In fact, after that ring incident, Angel would have happily found Spike a few new orifices to thrust hot pokers into. Repeatedly.
But he doesn't hate him.
In fact, the number of beings Angel truly hates can be counted on the fingers of one hand. A hand with a digit or two missing, even.
Spike was possibly a lost opportunity or a welcome mistake. Angel still can't decide which. And for some reason, this bothers him.
The polished floor reflects nothing as Angel walks to the stairs, and for that he is grateful. No reflection, no reality, no limits to what he thinks he can do here. He hears Cordelia call and the brief illusion is shattered. Maybe tomorrow he will face a more substantial form of chimera.
He steals a last glance at his training ground for the day, knowing in his heart that he will be here again tomorrow, knowing that he'll be going through the motions yet again. In one room he is able to do everything and nothing. A paradox of endless repetition is to be his rightful solace. Figures.
{Both your life and your death are merely nothing. You are nothing, you do nothing, you have done nothing, and you can do nothing.}
Time to go save another soul.
End.