Disclaimer: I do not own Angel the Series. Neither do I own the poem "Ozymandias" by Percy Shelly
This is a little idea I've had just started in my word files for a while. Got blocked a bit with what I was working on, decided to take this bunny out for a spin. It goes slightly against what happened in the canon at the end, but it's fanfiction for a reason.
Nothing Beside Remains
By Alkeni
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.
Wesley had received an education in more than just demons, and dead languages at the Watcher's Academy.
A Watcher was to be educated, enlightened, civilized. Able to engage in a discourse on the works of Catullus or Plato as easily as those of Reinhart and other authors of demonological tracts. The great poets, classical and more recent – albeit all English. Shakespeare and other playwrights.
Those skills, unlike his knowledge of demons and languages and magic, had proven almost entirely useless in his line of work.
It had given him an appreciation for poetry. He preferred the Latin and Greek masters than the more recent ones – even 'Beowulf' counted as recent, in his mind. But there some of the recent poets that he enjoyed, or that stuck in his memory well.
Percy Shelly's work, Ozymandias was always one of his favorites. Its dual meaning, its skill at evoking so well the legs it spoke of, the inscribed pedestal, the hot sun glaring down on the empty sands of the Egyptian desert. Smith's poem covering the same subject had its merits, but Shelly evoked a much stronger image.
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!
Sometimes, Wesley wondered if his own life had been guided by it – his own life was something for one to look on, and despair. A warning to others, a life to not live, perhaps.
Only in his more maudlin moments did he think that...
But if now wasn't a time for maudlin, he didn't know what was.
Fred was dead, the being that had hollowed her out, was now wearing her body like it was clothing was before him, knelt on the ground, letting the dust that had been her army running through her fingers. He could.
He could feel the despair coming off of her – he had despair of his own to accompany it.
Valha ha'nesh. The great temple of Illyria, home to her army.
You're too late. My army will rise. This world will be mine once again.
So much for that.
Valha ha'nesh. Far more intact than anything made by mere mortal hands could ever be. Far more intact than mere statue of Ramses II could ever be, after so long...
And yet, it was in ruins – majestic, glorious, as far as the eye could see. It's grandeur even now was impressive. But still...in ruins.
Illyria, still kneeling, her keening loss acute – almost pained as the dust flowed through her fingers.
Wesley had never been to Egypt...probably never would...
He'd seen ruins in England – Roman, from the 'middle ages', pre-Roman, even later. None were so vanished as to be as like the statue described in Shelly's poem. None were as grand as this, as Valha ha'nesh.
Vala ha'nesh – grand and imposing, Illyria's army still stretching across it – now in dust, sometimes even piled in vaguely intact shapes...
Vala ha'nesh – its very grandeur, even now, did not detract from its collapse...indeed, it only brought that collapse, that decay...that despair into even sharper relief.
"My world is gone..." Illyria murmured...
It was not her army, or her temple she mourned in her words...not alone...
Illyria had gone to sleep when the world worked one way...when her kind ruled...and now...
And now she was the last of her kind, with no kingdom...no army...
Her despair continued to come off her – her loss...even her grief...
In a way...it was almost satisfying, to know that this...thing...this being that hollowed out Fred's body and consumed her soul...that it felt such loss, such loss as he felt...
He leveled his gun at her head, standing behind her...one click, and it was ready.
"Now you know how I feel."
Nothing beside remains.
Illyria turned to face him, looking at him with cold alien eyes in Fred's face...
For the briefest of moments, she almost seemed as if she wanted him to pull that trigger.
Wesley lowered his gun. "Even if this could kill you, I wouldn't pull the trigger."
"Why? My world is gone...there is nothing here for me. My kingdom...dead. My army...dust...you hate me, for what I am, for what I did to this shell." There was no expression, no emotion in those eyes, even on Fred's normally expressive face.
But the tone...the words...she was lost...she had lost.
"Yes. I hate you, for what you did to Fred. And that is why I would not kill you. Not even if I could."
"I do not understand."
Wesley put the gun away, turning. "You will. In time. Look on your works, mighty Illyria, and despair. For nothing beside remains around the decay of this colossal wreck, boundless and bare. Your world is gone, Illyria. And yet, you will remain in this world, surrounded by beings beneath you, with no place to belong. You will feel despair...you will remember what you've lost. And yet, you will live. Because you know nothing else but survival."
Wesley looked back at her, at the thing wearing Fred's body.
"That is why I will not kill you."
"Do you understand now?"