Author: Wren
Summary: Struggling to come to terms with the sudden death of his true love, Angel finds no solace in his dreams.
Disclaimer: The following story is completely fictional. Any events similar to those in any other story are completely accidental. The author is in no way affiliated with Joss Whedon or any of his associates, and therefore has no legal ties or ownership to the original materials upon which this fanfiction is based. Any original characters appearing herein are the sole property of the author, however.
Author's Notes: Originally written in 2005. Following the events of Season 5, Angel struggles with the idea that Buffy died, and he was not there to help her. In sleep, all of his doubts and fears are made reality.
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He saw her face, her golden skin kissed by sunlight, framed by flaxen locks that glittered in the warm rays. Her gaze shifted, and rested upon him, the green pools of her irises illuminating as her mouth turned up in a beaming smile that seemed to glow more brightly than the sun up above.
It was always like this. Sometimes she would laugh, while other times she would say his name - whisper it into the soft breeze that always seemed to stir, like chords of music. She was always there, and each time, he was taken aback by how astonishingly beautiful she was. Like a goddess, basking in a glow that was meant only for her glory, magnified by the radiance she herself gave off. A sun goddess.
It always started out peaceful. Each time he always wished - yearned - for her to run into his arms. His arms ached to hold her, and often it was more than he could bear. Once in awhile it would happen. On rare occasions, she was run to him - leap into his arms, and wrap herself around him. In those moments his heart was filled with such joy that he thought it might break, overloaded by the surge of love.
But it never lasted. Something always happened - something dreadful and excruciating that would slice him to the core, reopening all the wounds that had been mending. He never wept. He couldn't anymore. All his tears had been used up, leaving behind a hollow emptiness that could only ache.
He knew what was going to happen, but he was powerless to stop it, and so savored every moment of the illusory bliss he was granted. He soon felt the body in his arms stiffen, the foreboding sensation within him cresting as his fears slowly became reality. It had begun.
The scenario was always different, seldom did one bear a remarkable similarity to another. For as long as he had been experiencing them, he still could not isolate their origin. Whatever the cause, or the method by which they came to be, they never ceased, and so it was with a heavy heart and much reluctance that he subjected himself to this cruel torment day after day.
"No," a pitiful, cracking voice gasped, forcing him to return his attention to the rigid form he still clung to - to play his part in this merciless, unending game. He felt her body pull away from him, too slowly to be considered jerking, yet with just as much revulsion. He raised mournful eyes to look at the now shriveled form of the woman he loved so dearly. Though tears eluded him, he still felt his heart crack as he regarded her. Her once bronzed skin was now sallow and wrinkled. Her former vibrant, satiny hair was limp and brittle, cascading over hunched shoulders, with protruding bones. Most painful of all, though, was her face.
Her parched lips were partially opened, allowing gasps of air to be sucked in with difficulty, yet remaining firmly set in the evilest of scowls. Her eyes still shown with life, though they were clouded with abhorrence as they glared back at him. "Are you satisfied?" she spat bitterly, her voice raspy as she again gasped for breath. "You condemned me to this fate, and now it has been fulfilled. Does this leave you free? Are you at peace now - now that I am no concern of yours?" she cried venomously, her voice piercing through him like knives.
The wind picked up speed, and the earlier noon was suddenly gone, leaving them shrouded in a dark and unforgiving night. Her back was turned to him, and he could hear the whine of her breaths as she sucked in air. It occurred to him that it was cold - much colder than was possible for even a Californian winter's eve, but that was neither the point, nor of importance. Still, he felt his body quiver as the frosty wind ripped through his shirt, and despite how he pushed the discomfort from his mind, he began to long for something more to cover up with.
"Thought you would have felt at home," an icy tone sneered. He looked up abruptly, his gaze seeking out the speaker, now clad in a tattered black frock. Her skin was now tinged with blue, which grew more vibrant around her lips. "It's your fault," she told him simply, her tone nearly emotionless, but stronger than before. She gazed around herself thoughtfully, at the tombstones that suddenly sprung up from the Earth. "So many people... so many people saved, and so many lost. Help them, yes... and help yourself." She paused, her gaze fixed on him as the scorn arose within her tone. "You were always good at that."
Her face was instantly gone as dark brown eyes flew open, gazing unsteadily at the ceiling above. Tears streaked his cheeks, and he reached up to clear some of the excess water from his eyes. With a shaky sigh he relaxed back onto the bed.
Another night, another dream. But as all dreams come, so they end.
Now here was a new day, filled with an existence without sunlight, a world filled with evil.
Another day without Buffy.