Author's Note: Really sorry guys. I won't be able to update tonight--so, you're just going to have to get this chapter about eight hours early. lol It's a long sucker, too. No complaining, now. :P

Surprises lay ahead... O.O

Enjoy!

Chapter XI

"That is the second time I've been associated with this 'Smurf' creature since my time here," said Illyria, sidestepping one of her rival's attacks. "Though it displeases me to say—I've grown somewhat curious at its relevance."

Angel ducked her sweeping strike, feinting to her right thereafter. "Oh," he said, shrugging a shoulder at her question. "It's an old cartoon show. They were like little… ah… I don't know—elves? But smurfs."

Illyria scoffed in irritation as he knocked aside one of her kicks. Neither one was battling at their full ability, but it didn't irk her any less. "But what is their significance towards me?" she asked more hospitably. "Did they worship me? I must say, half-breed, you will certainly not be gaining my good grace if you are calling me after my followers."

Angel laughed. "No," he amended. "They just had blue skin."

Illyria faltered in her stance, shoulders slumping slightly. "Oh," she said, a little disappointed. She looked back to him expectantly. "Did none of these car-tunes worship me?"

Angel smiled at her mispronunciation. "Cartoons. And no. I don't think their creators knew about the Old Ones or the Deeper Well." At her look of disappointment, he quickly amended: "But they could have. Some of them used to be our clients." Briefly, he wondered if she was going to ask if Wolfram and Hart's clientele involved the smurfs.

"What of this Crash Bandicoot?" she asked, pressing further. "He battled many gods, did he not? Surely, he knew of me."

Angel stopped in his movements, allowing his shoulders to sink. "Illyria, Crash Bandicoot is a video game character."

Illyria frowned. She suddenly brought her two weapons down against him, to which he deflected quickly with his broadsword. The blades sang upon connection. "But his crystals," she insisted. "They most resembled those of my sarcophagus. Who are these cartoon beings that they do not know of my essence or chronicles?" she demanded.

Angel gave her a tolerant, though reproving, look. "Don't you think you're being a little harsh on them?"

She stepped back, allowing him to gain proper footing again. She glared into the floor beneath her feet. "Perhaps you are right," she ceded. Reluctantly, of course.

"Besides," Angel went on, shrugging and setting himself for an attack position. "You probably have all sorts of nerdy-types bragging you up on the CR's," he assured, attacking from her left, faking a jab and then rolling to the side. "Qua-suses, or sahns—whatever you call them."

"What is a CR?" Illyria questioned with a tilt of her head, dodging his attack easily and blocking his second with a crossing of her weapons.

"Chatty Rooms. Internet Boards. Hell, they talk about me there."

"I do not know of these, either." Illyria seemed crestfallen, and then confused. "Are you certain you pronounce this correctly? Chatty Rooms?"

Angel paused in thought, a slight 'o' to his mouth. He blinked, trying to shrug off his uncertainty. "Probably not. I'm technologically challenged that way," he confessed. "You should have seen me with a cell phone." He set out with another forward attack.

"I know what that is," Illyria declared happily, and easily blocked him.

"So did I," Angel agreed. "Doesn't mean I could wield the thing like a Scythian bow, though." He pressed towards her with a spinning attack which took a lot of effort, considering his condition.

She had to work to deflect it, though, for which he was proud. "We old ones are strangers in this new world, aren't we?" she mused aloud, staring off.

Angel paused to rest, putting his hands on his knees. "I think we always will be. We're too accustomed to our time of youth. We got used to things the way they were."

Illyria tilted her head slowly, her eyes flickering about the room without a pattern in reverie. "I think I was never young."

"You must have been," Angel shook his head. "You couldn't have existed forever. Only one guy I know of can say that. And we're His houseguests." Angel straighted. "Though, His hospitality towards me leaves something to be desired..." he mumbled as an added afterthought.

"No," she agreed. "I think I am just so very old, that I've forgotten."

Angel watched her, grateful that they were taking a small break. He hated to say that he was getting worn out, but… he was getting worn out. His broad shoulders slumped, causing the broadsword's point to drag tiredly on the concrete. He guessed it was concrete. Or cement. He didn't know the difference. He smiled though, despite his exhaustion. "You know… you referred to us both at one time," he pointed out. "Last time someone referred to themselves in comparison to you, you put them through a wall. I think you're growing as a person," he told her lightheartedly.

Illyria wasn't all too amused. She faced him with a scowl he found rather comical. Her sharp eyes narrowed at him and when she spoke, he could tell she was miffed. "You use my patience out of turn, half-breed," she cautioned him, readying her weapons again. Though she appeared irritated, he knew by her face she wasn't angry.

He pressed further, going back to his previous proclamation. "Are you saying we're friends, Illyria?" he ribbed, knowing it would aggravate her.

It did. She sneered, narrowing her eyes at him. "Bold little leech." Without a warning, she attacked from a forward position. Taken by surprise, Angel struggled to block it, steel ringing in the little church basement.

She struck again from the side, and he danced around it, blocking the next. Her following, though, he was not so quick to deflect. One of her blades struck the back of his hand, the sudden pain causing him to drop his weapon. It clattered to the floor as he grimaced, trying to shake off the minor injury.

Illyria immediately backed off, her features falling troubled. "Are you all right?"

He hissed at the burning discomfort, but nodded. "Fine."

Illyria watched him carefully. If she were human, her cheeks would have reddened. She bowed her head slightly. "I… I am sorry."

His eyes went back to her, surprised at her apology and the fact she was issuing him one. "Really," he said, showing her his hand, and that no serious harm was done. "It's okay."

She inspected his hand for a moment from where she stood, but shook her head. "Still… you are tiring quickly now. You should rest."

Angel sighed. "Taking a break sounds promising," he agreed, but then shook his head as he bent down to pick up his fallen weapon. "It's not that I can't handle it, it's just…" he searched for the words, "I don't know… I feel… weird."

Illyria gave a slight tilt of her head. "Explain."

"I really can't say," Angel stepped back and leaned against the rear of the sofa. "Ever since today, when I woke up, I've felt… strange." He gave another shake of his head. "Something's off."

Illyria sifted through what he'd told her, searching for an explanation. "Do you think it is my blood in you that causes this?"

Angel shook his head. "No," he said. "Because I've felt the same up until today. I look the same, don't I?"

"You continue to appear pallid, but you are still healing. Even so, your shell's appearance has improved since the moon before this coming night."

Angel pushed himself away from the sofa. "Maybe I just need a drink," he muttered.

"There was something, though…" Illyria began hesitantly, catching his attention as Angel cast her a glance over his shoulder as he stepped around the sofa. "You fought stronger than you should have. For a being of your condition, I mean." At his confused expression, she explained further. "You still cease to exceed my strength in your current state, but your attacks and the way you defended were slightly beyond the bounds of someone who should lack full strength, thus far."

"Maybe you just miscalculated."

Illyria scowled. "I should skin your hide."

"I'm just saying," Angel put his hands up in surrender, and to his displeasure, he felt his voice catch, becoming a little dry. He couldn't be losing strength. "I feel like I got run down and backed over a few times by an eighteen-er. I can't be as strong as you say."

Illyria's brow drew together in thought. "Then I do not know what to think," she murmured.

As Angel moved over to the small table bearing counter to his dinner, he felt a little light-headed, the room spinning slightly around him. He blinked, trying to shake it off. He took up the glass he'd poured himself, leaning against the table for support. He huffed, shaking his head. "You and me both, Dory," he agreed, putting the glass to his lips and taking a few gulps.

Illyria still stood in the center space of the room. She cast him a glance. "What is a Dory?"

Angel made a face at the taste in his mouth. "It's ah…" He pulled the glass away and inspected its contents. It certainly seemed fine. Pig's blood. Just like always. "Another cartoon character." Trust me, Angel thought, if you've been around Lorne enough, you find yourself learning all the pop culture history. "She's a blue tang, from… from…" Everything was spinning again. He closed his eyes tightly, opening them again in hopes of clearing his vision. "Finding… Nem…"

It started in his middle. A dull sort of ache that grew upwards, slowly at first.

"Angel…?"

The snail's pace over, it flushed through his system, up, traveling along his spine…

The glass slipped from his fingers, plummeting and shattering against the floor—sending glass flying and blood pooling.

…before it reached his skull—assailing him with a sharp, sudden and blinding pain. Angel cried out, bringing a hand to his forehead while his other grasped at the table's edge, trying to steady himself.

"Angel!"

Despite her call, he could barely hear her—her voice had sounded drowned out compared to the rushing in his ears, so far away. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, and yet pictures danced across his vision.

Flashes of light… and a doorway… white stone room… blue and gold-skinned creatures… a man and a woman—or male and female… black robes… bright azure eyes… familiar… more light assaulting his already aching sight… and…

Nothing.

Angel gasped, coming out of his state, panting as the pain slowly, slowly, began to ebb away from his being. He took in his surroundings. He hadn't even realized he'd fallen, for now he was on the floor, on his knees. She was at his side, knelt beside him—one hand on his back, another on his arm.

"Are you all right?" She asked for the second time that day—though this time there was significantly more alarm lacing her voice. "Angel…"

He blinked hard, putting a hand to his brow and groaning. "It's okay," he said. "It's…" he focused back on what he had witnessed, confused as ever. He was surprised he'd had a vision—he'd forgotten completely about possessing the gift—but he couldn't understand what had been shown to him. "I… I saw…" he shook his head, at odds. "Oracles. But… they're dead, I don't understand…"

"Saw?" Illyria repeated. "You have the gift of Sight?" she proclaimed. "How?"

"Visions. I… got them from a friend." Angel winced, his splitting headache finally dissipating.

"Can you rise?" Illyria asked, unsure of what she should do.

Angel placed his palms firmly on the floor to steady himself. "I think so."

"These Oracles. Is it vital we convene with them?"

Angel nodded. "I'm thinking there must be something going on, or down, or… I don't know…" he winced. "God… I don't…"

"Angel, what is it?"

Angel cried out, collapsing fully onto the floor, unable to hold himself up.

"Another one?" Illyria said, worried and not knowing what to do. "So soon after?"

"No…" Angel cringed, shaking his head. The pain was returning in full scale. "No… something's wrong…"

Illyria was certain of that. She kept her hands on him, unwilling to leave his side. Thoughts began to rush through her mind—worries and fears. What would she do if he left her? She would be alone. Utterly and completely. As of this moment, she knew no one in this world but him.

Angel shouted in pain, and suddenly, the walls around them began to shudder. Illyria knew of earthquakes. She could sense them. Even caused a few, back in her day. But this was no earthquake. She knew not what it was, and so it frightened her.

Not for her own protection—she could more than take care of herself. But she knew nothing of what was causing her ally this grief, or what was stirring around them. The walls trembled, the old boards moaning eerily. Dust shook loose from the ceiling, and some of the weapons clattered off one of the tables.

Angel cried out again—the pain unlike anything he'd ever experienced. The vision had brought him pain that birthed within his skull. But this… this new torment… originated within his chest, and he clutched at it now without release. This pain did not come in flashes or jabs; it never let up. It was as if all he had ever known was this anguish—everything that came before was a blur.

It felt as if a thousand demon knives were tearing into his flesh at once—magnified to a worse amount. Internally, his body was on fire—had to be—yet freezing at once.

He screamed in agony, squeezing his eyes shut as tears sprung and streamed from them. Illyria was at his side, in a panic. He felt his face change to its vampiric likeness, his cry morphing into a monster's suffering roar—fangs bared. Illyria's brow arched helplessly. She could only hope the torment would end, and she would stay with him until it did. If it did.

As if on cue, Angel's demon face began to recede back into hiding—his eyes fading from gold to brown again, and his fangs shrunk back into normal incisors. A brilliant white light—dwarfed significantly—seemed to flash in his eyes for a split moment.

The human eye wouldn't have been quick enough to spot it.

A final scream died on his lips, and left him trembling—shaking horribly. Illyria held him, best she could. "Angel…"

His breathing was shallow and quick—too quick. It was almost a wheeze, pained and uneven. His teeth chattered slightly, even though he wasn't cold. Illyria was sure of that. Where her hand touched the skin of his hand and the back of his neck, she would swear he was falling ill to a fever—compared to the usual coolness of his undead flesh.

Her sharp ears picked up on something… a steady drum. She looked around, nervous that someone may have been planning an attack. Now would certainly not be a convenient time.

Angel found it hard to focus his gaze on anything—the pain still fresh in his mind, while something else sought to meddle with his internal gears. He felt completely drained, a strange sensation within him… he still couldn't steady his breathing.

The drum continued, like a heavy bass thrumming…

BOOHM… BOOHM… BOOHM… BOOHM…

BOOHM-BOOHM… BOOHM-BOOHM…

Illyria warily looked around, her large blue eyes probing the area. "What is that sound…?"

She felt Angel squeeze her hand slightly, without even realizing it, probably. He laid on his side, in a manner, one hand—the one she held—against his chest, and the other outstretched against the floor.

Illyria was about to question him further, when her query died on her lips before so much as a syllable passed them. She felt something… as she gripped his hand, and he in return…

Slowly, as if someone had turned her time-deceleration ability against her, her gaze slipped and drifted down to him.

Not only did she continue to hear the drum… she could feel it.

She was about to speak—or attempt to—before something else far more important and evident caught her attention as if it seized her with a hook. "Angel…?" she began, gaze steady on his other, outstretched, arm.

A slight ray of fading sunlight still leaked through the boarded windows. It tenderly kissed everything it touched: the floor's smooth surface, a small corner of the worn, yet beautiful, area rug, and…

Two inches of Angel's hand was blanketed by a golden shaft of light.

His flesh went unburned.

O.O - R&R, please and thank you!