Chapter: 4
Universe: Angel, Season 5.
Pairing: Wes/Illyria Wes/Fred
Illyria stirred and sat up in bed, fabricating an outfitting more fitting of Fred than herself. She hadn't slept of course, she didn't sleep, but she had watched Wesley sleep, and it seemed almost peaceful. He was almost quiet all night except for when he muttered her name under his breath, "Fred... Fred..." Always, he muttered the shell's name. Never hers, though she gave herself over to him with increasing frequency it was never her name that slipped from his lips during slumber.
The sun was up, that was enough of a cue for Illyria. She stood and yanked the blinds open, hoping it would wake Wesley.She began gathering his things to pack, and set out a clean outfit for him to put on when he woke.
"Awake." Illyria commanded, pulling the sheet off of Wesley.
Wesley grumbled and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "You'd think by now that you would find a less jarring way to get me up." Wesley rolled out of bed and grabbed his clothes. "Thanks." He nodded, acknowledging the fact that she had gotten everything ready for him.
"You are much too slow when the sun rises." She said by way of explanation.
He chuckled. "You're not wrong." He grabbed the bag she had packed up, and slipped on his shoes.
Illyria held the door open for him and handed him the keys to his motorcycle.
"We make the last leg of our journey today." She stated, climbing on the bike behind him and accepting the pink helmet.
"Yes." He agreed, and hooked up the bag to the side of the bike before roaring off down the expanse of highway and desert.
Green grass came into view; sunshine gleamed through the leaves of towering trees. Quaint little houses all lined in a row crowed each side of the street. Past the homes of welcoming southern folk, down the main street, all the way to the outskirts of the tiny town. The motorcycle rumbled to a stop next to a sign that read, Restfield Cemetery.
Wesley removed his helmet and reached for something in his pocket, He handed it to Illyria, who dropped her helmet onto the street.
"This is where she lived?" Illyria observed her surroundings carefully.
Wesley nodded. "Her childhood was spent here." He walked through the entryway; Illyria followed.
"Texas." She said the world as if it was distastefully strange.
"Yes." Wesley replied, walking farther back into the cemetery.
"And it is here she now rests?" Illyria questioned, watching Wesley kneel onto the grass before a rounded knee-high stone.
"Her memory, yes. Not her physical body..." Wesley trailed off. He placed the small stuffed rabbit down in front of the tombstone, pausing as he remembered the frantic look in her eyes when she had asked for him,
"Feigenbaum. I-I have to have Feigenbaum here. He's The Master of... I have to have Feigenbaum here."
"Who is Feigenbaum?"
"I...I don't remember."
Tears trickled down his cheeks from the memory. Her brain had already been collapsing, synapses randomly firing, memories fading. She had sobbed and he had held her in his arms, hushing her torrent of tears.
"This child's toy, it holds significance. Feigenbaum." Illyria intones knowingly, remembering the incident detachedly.
"Yes..." Wesley turns to take the book from Illyria's blue-tinted hands. He flips it open to a page and begins reading, "She was such a little girl that one did not expect to see such a look on her small face."
Illyria listened to the familiar words, connecting them to memories of the shell that had been hardwired into her system.
Wesley held on to his faltering composure and continued. "It would have been an old look for a child of twelve, and Sara Crewe was only seven..."
Illyria studied her blue-tinted hands, the length of her arms, and the blue and brown tips of her hair.
"The fact was, however, that she was always dreaming and thinking odd things and could not herself remember any time when she had not been thinking things about grown-up people and the world they belonged to."
"Wesley?" Illyria interrupted. "Where is my place?"
Wesley spun to look at her suddenly, resting the book on his lap. "Here. With me." He replied simply.
"Why?" Illyria persisted. "Because I look like her?"
Wesley faltered, thrown off guard by the turn this had taken. "Perhaps at first, but now..." Wesley paused.
"Now this is my place. Because I have no where else to go." Illyria offered. "Because your world and my world are both gone?"
Wesley nodded and stood.
"She felt as if she had lived a long, long time..."
He shut the book and placed it next to the stuffed rabbit, resting against the tombstone. He turned and strode away from the place where his lover's memory would rest.
Illyria gave a glance to the tombstone, before turning away, with a heaviness in her heart that she did not yet understand. The words on the stone were simple, yet they resounded with the goddess whose capacity for human emotion had longed since ceased-
In Loving Memory of Winifred Burkle, Hero.
As she strode from the cemetery, a single tear escaped her ice-blue eyes.
A/N: The End. I always knew this is how I wanted to end the piece. I hope you enjoyed it. I had a hard time coming up with the inscription for the tombstone, but in the end I decided simple was best.
FRED: My boys. I walk with heroes. Think about that.
WESLEY: You are one.
Fin.