Part Two

'Death,' Wesley slammed the book shut. He'd been cross referencing all night, working out at around three in the morning that the root of the word 'shanshu' was not Agean after all but came from the ancient Majars and had proto hungaric roots. That had changed the direction he was looking in and he had used the book of Ranjarin to help with the translation. At around 5 in the morning he had got the word, and he had spent the next 6 hours trying to find an alternate translation, another way to interpret the prophecy. But he had failed. 'It means death,' he told the room. 'The shanshu prophecy is the prophecy of how the vampire with a soul will die.'

'Angel's going to die?' Cordelia asked, aghast. She and Doyle exchanged horrified looks, but the vampire didn't seem to share their disquiet. 'Oh,' he said looking up from his own book, 'is that it?'

'He took that well,' said Cordelia, 'maybe now would be a good time to discuss my raise?'

'It's probably years off ...after the coming battles,' Wesley assured him.

'My raise?...oh.' Wesley glared her, even Doyle gave her a look. Angel didn't seem to mind though.

'Everybody dies,' he said, closing his book. 'Is there anything else?'

'Angel, man, I think this is big enough on it's own, yeah? We need to sort this. Wesley?'

'Apocalyptic prophecies aren't exactly science.' The watcher tried to reassure the room. Doyle and Cordelia nodded along, Angel just looked bored. 'And I could be way off the mark, so no reason to be concerned.'

'Uhuh.'

'So - it's good you're not concerned….not even remotely concerned.'

'Yeah, OK.' The vampire got up and headed into the elevator, going down to his apartment. Left upstairs in the office, the three living members of Angel investigations stared at each other.

'Well it's only a prophecy,' Cordelia said, 'it's not like it came from on high.' Both men looked at her, 'oh...right.'

'But prophecies can be circumvented, yeah? I mean just because something's written doesn't mean it has to be? Prophecies have been foiled, disasters averted? Haven't they?' Doyle looked between his two friends who had lived on the hellmouth, hoping they might know better than him.

'Wait! There was that time the ancient prophecy said that Buffy was gonna die!' Cordelia snapped her fingers as she thought of it, triumphant to have come up with a thwarted prophecy so quickly, but then she frowned. 'Oh...I guess she did die. Scratch that.'

The two of them slumped back against the back of the sofa in defeat.

'It isn't the news that Angel is going to die that worries me,' Wesley told them, 'though obviously that isn't good. What worries me is the way he took the news.'

'You mean old Joe stoic?'

'Exactly, if you had some divine foreknowledge of your own demise, how would you react?'

'Well, I guess I wouldn't be too happy, bud.' But the watcher's words got him thinking, maybe there was a prophecy that had been overturned...

'I think Buffy was power freaked.'

'Precisely. We are connected to life, we have reason to be here, to want to stay. I fear that Angel lacks that.'

'Angel isn't connected to life?' Cordelia asked. 'Is that because he's already dead?'

'In a way. Our connection to life is our desires, our wants. You want to be an actress, you and Doyle want to be together.' the two of them glanced at each other, before looking back at Wesley, 'you might want a day off, or a pay rise or a snow cone! There are things that you wish to achieve, even fleetingly, and they keep you bound to the world. And as we achieve our desires we change, we grow, we evolve. And then we want new things.'

'But Angel can't do any of that,' Doyle said.

'Because he's a vampire?'

'There's only one thing he's ever wanted in his unnaturally long life, he got that and he gave it back.'

'Is this about Buffy?'

'He can't have her, and there's nothing else for him. Wes is right, he's disconnected.'

'Well, we just have to connect him then.'

'It might not be that simple,' Wesley told them, 'he is what he is, a vampire, eternal, unchanging and with a soul that stops him from acting on his base desires. He can't change what he is.'

'So what? We just have to put up with all the brooding until the coming battles are here and Mr. 'I'm so tortured' pops his clogs?'

'If we can't find a way to get through to him...' Wesley told her. She looked at Doyle and raised her eyebrows at him. He got what she wanted him to do. 'I'll go talk to him' he said.


He expected to find Angel working out, beating up the punching bag that hung downstairs. That was how he had found him last time the vampire had seemed to disconnect from the world, after he had been human and spent the day with Buffy, only to rewrite time and let the oracles swallow the day as if it had never happened.

But the punching bag hung still, untouched, and the vampire was stood at the microwave. It pinged and he took his cup of blood out and began to drink. This was worse than Doyle had thought, there was no emotion there. 'Hey, man,' he said, stepping into the kitchen.

'Doyle.'

'Look, about what Wesley said upstairs…'

'What about it?'

'I just think we need to talk about…'

'Why? Because I'm not upset?'

'Yeah.'

'You want me to be upset?'

'Yeah … I mean, no ...I mean - that's some pretty big news, it should warrant some reaction.'

'It's not that big a deal,' Angel told him, 'everyone dies in the end, even vampires. And the ones that live too long can get to an ugly way of looking.'

'So that's it? That's your big plan to deal with all this?… just accept your fate?'

'It's fate, Doyle, you have to accept it, it's fated.'

'I was fated to die,' the half demon told him. ' ...And I didn't. A higher power intervened on my behalf, or at least that's what Lilah Morgan said.'

'Well, If Mrs. Evil 2000 said something, it must be true.'

'My point is that, just because something is written it doesn't mean you just have to lie down and take it, things can get in the way, yeah? But you gotta fight. If you don't fight, then it just becomes a self fulfilling prophecy.'

'Thanks for the pep talk, coach.'

'I'm serious, man!'

'So am I ...what do you want, Doyle?'

'I want you to show some kind of reaction to the motherload of bad news that just hit. What do you want?'

'Nothing.'

'Yeah ...well...that's what Wesley says is the problem.' He sighed. 'You comin' back upstairs?'

'I'll just finish this first,' Angel lifted the mug to indicate the blood he was drinking. Doyle nodded and left him to it, going to report his failure to Wesley and Cordelia.


But Cordelia wasn't going to take this lying down. 'Maybe we should get him a puppy?'

'A puppy?'

'You're right, too high maintenance. A ficus? An ant farm?'

'I'm not sure we can just buy the solution to Angel's problems, darlin'.'

'Well that's not good enough. Angel's gonna have to start wanting stuff. Whether he wants to or not.'


The oracles were angry, they paced up and down, venting their displeasure at the bronze faced figure that stood before them. 'How dare you enter this sacred space?' demanded the female oracle.

'Who do you think you are?' her brother asked.

'We do not appreciate being summoned by a lower being.'

'Who knows no better than to come here on a whim.'

'I am not here on a whim,' the demon replied.

'We do not council your kind,' said the sister oracle, 'the powers of darkness are not allowed to cross this threshold. How did you get in?'.

'The old order passes away,' the demon informed them. 'He that was first shall now be last and those that were dead shall now arise.'

'Yes, and he that is trespassing shall now depart,' retorted the golden woman.

The bronze faced demon put his hand behind his back. The male oracle spoke again, 'we shall speak no more,' he said, hoping to dismiss this lower being from the chamber.

A battle scythe grew into being in the hidden hand of the demon. 'I know,' he said, and swung his weapon.


Wesley left the office and headed out to 'The All Seeing Eye', a bookshop that dealt with the most arcane of materials, and rarest of writings. He was sure, if he just looked hard enough, he could find something that would shine a new light on the prophecy of Aberjian, make it say something different. He settled down into the musty, dusty old store, and started browsing the shelves. If the situation hadn't been so serious, he would have had a really enjoyable afternoon.


Cordelia and Doyle had also left the office. Cordy was insistent that they go out into the world and find something that would pique Angel's interest, give his life some meaning. The half demon wasn't at all sure that this was possible, certainly not in the places that Cordelia would be looking. But he didn't want to upset her, and he did want to help Angel, so he went along. It wasn't like he had any better ideas.

They found their way to a bright street market, where various craft items and homemade goods were being sold. It was a beautiful day, as it always was in L.A, and the pair of them enjoyed their walk through the bustling stalls, taking in the sunshine and looking at the goodies. As always, Cordelia had her arm linked through Doyle's, and she was using this leverage over him to drag him over to look at whatever item caught her fancy. Not that he was unwilling to follow her, wherever she chose to go. It was a shame Angel could never do this, Doyle thought: walk out in the sunshine and just take in the world around him, enjoy the day with the woman he loved. As long as he was a vampire these simple pleasures, which most people took for granted, would always be impossible for him. Even when he'd had Buffy, the pair of them had never been able to spend a day like this. No wonder Angel felt disconnected and prepared to die...what was there to live for?

Cordelia spotted an art stall and dragged Doyle over towards it, 'Angel likes to draw,' she told him, 'maybe we could get him some art supplies...then we can work our way up to a puppy.'

'A puppy that only wants nighttime walkies, right?'

'Right.'

They browsed the stall, Cordy picked up some paints. 'What about these?'

'Do you paint?' the lady behind the counter asked her.

'Oh no, I sketch a little ...but these are for a friend. He's seem rather detached recently. I thought maybe if he had a hobby…'

'Well they say art is the best therapy.'

'They do?'

'Sure. They use it in mental institutions all the time. They get the patients to draw or work with clay. It helps them get back in touch.'

'Well he isn't crazy or anything ...just different.'

'Depressed?'

'Well, he does wear a lot of black. How much are the pastels?'

Doyle zoned out of the conversation. He closed his eyes in order to enjoy the feel of the sun on his face. It had never felt like that back at home, and even though he'd been here for, what? Seven years now? He still wasn't over how good it felt to be truly warm ...every day… It was May now, near the end… it would be at least twenty degrees cooler back in Dublin, if they were having a nice day, which in spring was in no way guaranteed. Not that it was guaranteed even in the summer. He suddenly frowned to himself, what day was it? He'd have to check the paper - because if he was right …

A dark shadow passed him by, even with his eyes closed he felt the way the sun was blocked out for a moment. He opened his eyes but there was nothing there...and Cordelia didn't seem to have noticed anything. The art lady was handing her two bulging plastic bags. Whilst Doyle had spaced out, Cordelia seemed to have bought up the whole stall.

'I think you'll have everything you need and then some,' the lady said, 'You made my day, thanks.' Cordelia smiled in response. 'He must be a really good friend.'

'He is,' Cordy replied, 'thank you, are you ready?' she said the last bit to Doyle, he nodded his assent and they continued on their way through the market. He took one of the bags off her and held that in his left hand, his right arm was being held onto by Cordy's left, and then she had the other bag in her right hand. They walked through the stalls together, perfectly balanced.

The dark shadow passed him by again and Doyle frowned, he wondered what it could be. As the sun was blocked, momentarily, he felt something brush against his left hand, the one that was carrying the bag. He looked down and barely had time to register a dark mark smudged on his skin before he was hit by a vision. It was thankfully short, but he still dropped the bag he was carrying and stumbled, as the pain hit him hard.

'What gives?' Cordelia asked him, but then realised what was up, and braced herself against him, supporting him so he didn't fall over. He came out of the vision and shook his head. 'What did you see?' she asked, but before he could answer he was hit by another and then another and then another. He fell to the floor and his body began to convulse as the visions hit him wave after wave, the next one beginning before the last one had finished. He felt like he was going to die, the pain in his head was so intense. Miles above him, he heard Cordelia cry out, but there was nothing he could do to reach her.

The lady from the art stall ran over, 'what's wrong with him?' Cordelia didn't answer she just knelt by Doyle, looking anguished, not knowing what to do. 'Someone call 911' shouted the lady. Cordy's head snapped up. 'No! you can't do that, he can't go to a proper hospital!' But the crowd that had gathered around the fittting man ignored her, and an ambulance was called. Cordelia sat in the midst of these onlookers, trapped, wondering how she was going to get her half demon friend out of there and away to safety, when he wouldn't stop having the visions.


She didn't manage it, she couldn't possibly move him by herself, he was far too big and heavy for her, and the helpful onlookers wouldn't have let her anyway. They only cleared a path when the paramedics came. Doyle was strapped onto a stretcher and carried away, she got into the ambulance with him and held his hand, silently begging his forgiveness for letting the proper medical authorities get a hold of him.


Cordelia stood in the hospital corridor, crying softly. Doyle had been taken off for tests by the doctors and she hadn't been allowed to go with him. She had no idea what they would find, if they would notice that he wasn't fully human, and what they would do about it if they did.

Angel appeared in the corridor beside her and she hugged him tightly. 'I didn't know what to do!' she confessed. 'What if they find out…?'

'There's nothing we can do about that, now,' the vampire told her, 'have they told you anything?'

She shook her head, 'they won't be able to do anything. It's the visions, Angel, he just won't stop having them...he must be in so much pain.'

Angel hugged her even closer, 'we'll see what we can find out,' he promised. Then they heard Doyle scream, and the vampire found he was done waiting, already. He barged into the room, Cordelia following on behind him, and looked at where Doyle was strapped down to the bed. Even though he was restrained, his whole body kept shuddering. He was being thrown around by the pain of the visions and had no control over where he was thrown to next. Angel had never seen him suffer this much through a vision, before.

'Hey you can't be in here,' The doctor said, 'are you family?'

'Yes. what's happening?'

'He's having a psychotic episode. We've done a CAT scan, there doesn't seem to be any organic damage ...though some stuff doesn't make sense.'

'He has a rare genetic abnormality,' Angel told the doctor, 'but that won't be affecting this.'

The doctor looked at the chart. 'Says there's no history of mental illness? Is that right?'

'Yes'

'And he doesn't do drugs?'

'No … he drinks, but ….'

'Alcohol wouldn't cause this,' The doctor said. He glanced at Cordelia, 'you must be his wife?'

'What?'

'According to his records his next of kin is his wife, Harriet Doyle.'

'The records are out of date,' Cordelia said in a small voice, 'she's his ex wife ...he's ...we're his family now.'

'OK, well I hope his records are up to date about allergies because we can't seem to sedate him and we need to try some pretty strong stuff.'

'Drugs won't help him,' Angel said. 'But I know someone who might.' He whirled around and left the room, stalking off down the corridor.

'Is he always that melodramatic?' the doctor asked Cordelia. But she didn't answer, she just moved closer to the bed and held onto Doyle's hand.

The doctor looked back down at the medical records in his hand, 'poor kid,' he said as he left the room, 'what a rotten way to spend his birthday.'