Disclaimer: the author does
not claim ownership to the characters or plot development mentioned from
"Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or "Angel". These properties expressly belong
to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Greenwolf Corporation, 20th Century Fox Television,
WB Network, etc. Any other characters contained in the original story are
the author's.
Season One Historical Note:
The action in this story takes place after "To Shanshu In L.A."
Author's note: Wiseblood,
who's been stealthily co-reading, provided extra-tremendous help with this
chapter.
ON THE ROAD TOWARDS RECONCILIATION
by Evan Como
Chapter Six
Etrix March squinted through
her kitchen window into the bright July morning and remembered. She remembered
how, the instant she and Roland had first stepped into this room, they
knew they'd found their home. It had been a typically unsunny Seattle winter
day then, but the gloominess hadn't clouded over the possibilities they
both felt in their hearts. They had held one another in front of the windowed
wall, gleefully shivering as arctic air blustered in through the broken
glass.
She'd wept and he'd kissed
her tears. They'd laughed themselves delirious.
Trixie chuckled to herself.
At the time, the Queen Anne-styled house had been in such derelict condition
that she and Roland practically moved in for free. Her late husband had
been good with his hands and even better at making friends. Although it
had taken nearly a decade, with the aid of his fellow weekend handymen
at the Postal Service, everything wrong eventually got righted. By June
of 1962 their home had become a showpiece.
A vast, empty showpiece.
"I guess we really don't
*need* a six-bedroom mansion just for the two of us," Trixie admitted aloud
one afternoon to Roland while he picked apples in the backyard.
Resting his arm in front
of him, he lowered a branch just enough to peer over.
Nature helped picture her
recollection. Filtering through the leaves, September daylight intensified
the blue of Roland's eyes and the straw blonde of his crew cut. It dappled
his cheeks -- the color of the Spartans in her bushel -- and glimmered
the shallow smile concealing the depths of his aplomb.
"Then I guess we'll just
have to start filling it, Trix," he replied. And, as collectedly as he'd
accepted her otherworldliness, Roland began filling five of those bedrooms
with children. Mining the Emerald City of its waifs, by one-at-a-time or
by three-, Roland assembled their family. That the children were only under
their temporary custody didn't matter; they extended their arms -- their
hearts -- with boundless devotion.
Anticipating a child returning
to his or her natural caregiver didn't make the separation any less painful,
however, no matter how often it occurred. Etrix still mourned a departure
as deeply as she'd celebrated an arrival. "Gretchen will be just fine,"
Roland had murmured against her cheek, barely brave enough to avoid falling
apart, too.
"But it's like a little piece
of me breaks off every time we lose one," she'd sobbed against the chest
of his tear-soaked shirt.
He'd clipped her nose with
the crook of his little finger. "Imagine that, Trixie! No matter where
you end up or how old you get, to be able to reach inside and find a morsel
of someone's love!" He cradled her even more tightly. "I think that's just
grand!"
She lifted her head just
enough for him to bend over to nuzzle her nose. "Like you're inside of
me?" she sniffled.
Roland's lips were warm on
her forehead. "Like we've always been inside of each other..."
Seated on a boulder by the
Quinault River with his hiking clothes in tatters and his arms dripping
blood, Roland had said to Etrix and her Warrior, "Life is certainly full
of interesting experiences." From that very first day until the final one
when his unselfish heart wore out, Roland made sure there were splendid
experiences a-plenty for the people he loved.
Her blink nipped a tear in
its duct. Suspending her attention from Tibo seated in the back yard and
engrossed in his trembling meditations, Etrix searched the singular presence
of her mind. Even after half a century, she was still achingly aware of
her separation from the Gift. She had accepted the perpetual silence in
much the same way she had resigned herself to imposed infertility -- that
no matter the cost, she'd made the right decision to leave the forest,
to walk away forever beside the man who had claimed her heart.
But, oh... The caress of
a child's first breath, to account for miniature fingers and toes, to place
her lips against a downy newborn head...
She stared at Tibo, entranced.
He was her natural nephew. And, surrounding her were two Warriors, another
Messenger, and a young man formerly of Council. A month prior, when a gruff
little male -- his obtrusive demeanor set off by a sporty hat and an imitation
leather coat -- rang her doorbell and introduced himself, Trixie's breath
had caught in her throat.
Fifty years without so much
as a visitor from The Powers That Be and suddenly she didn't have enough
room for them all!
A voice behind her shrieked
"MINE!" bringing Trixie's attention back to the room and to her nine hungry
wards. She turned and rejoined the activity in her big, bright, wonderful
kitchen.
"Bong," Trixie admonished
while calmly driving two Hot Wheels off the oak tabletop and into a pocket
of her apron, "no toys while you're eating." The 10 year-old narrowed his
almond-shaped eyes and opened his mouth but after Trixie tossed "Anyone
else got toys?" into the air with a juggler's flair, he fell silent.
The other children took renewed
interest in their plates.
"How come Gale gets to drink
soda for breakfast?" Chandi asked while her discontented nose crinkled
above a plastic glassful of milk.
Gale looked up, wide-eyed
and red-handed. Sweeping past, Trixie snatched the still unopened soda
from her hand and set it back into the refrigerator door. "But, I've been
wanting a Coke since last night when you said I couldn't have one, Trixie,"
Gale argued.
After shoving a glass of
milk in the Warrior's hand, Trixie affectionately ticked the tip of Gale's
nose with her bent pinkie finger. "You can have one this afternoon after
the kids are gone."
"Yeah, and I bet you'll probably
figure out some way I can't have one then, either," Gale burbled into the
liquid while dragging her feet and disgruntlement to the window.
"You're taking the kids out?"
asked Angel from the safety of the one spot in the kitchen that was morning-sun
free. He counted to ten; the ten little discs he'd flipped over were golden
brown and identical in size. The same couldn't be said for the children
in the lively room, each of varying heights and personalities but still
sharing one exact trait.
Ravenous hunger.
Kevin, age four, wasn't tall
enough to see onto the stove's griddle top, but that technicality didn't
deter his interest. He waited patiently to inspect the latest stack of
pancakes Angel lifted onto the serving plate. "Is that ten?" he inquired.
Angel nodded. His face was
as serious as his diminutive overseer's. Satisfied, Kevin smiled brightly
and gave his best thumb's-up.
While receiving the platter,
Trixie playfully pinched Kevin's pudgy cheek. "The kids are going to the
Discovery Center with a few of my former Foster kids," she said in response
to Angel's question.
"Do you think that's safe?"
Taken aback, Trixie sighted
the vampire, cross-browed. "Safe?"
"You know," Angel dipped
out another 10 pancakes, "sending them off with other people without you
there."
Keeping the tone of her voice
below the sizzle of the batter on the aluminum grill hardly subdued Trixie's
umbrage. "Barring a force majeure, Angel, they'll all be fine. Lynda, Kent
and Gretchen have been adults for years, with good jobs and families of
their own."
"Still..." Angel met the
woman's eyes, her brown irises glowing coppery with anger. "You need to
be careful. They're just little kids."
A nod of her head brought
with it, understanding. Her consideration smiled down upon Kevin. "They're
*modern* little kids, Angel. They're smart and they all have instructions
to stay with one another. Even with Lynda, Kent, and Gretchen -- whom I
trust implicitly."
He glanced over the plate
to the table of children before accepting Trixie's experienced decision.
"How many more pancakes?" he asked, smoothly changing the subject.
Trixie patted his arm with
her free hand and offered a heartening, "We'll know that when they stop
eating."
Relieved that the friction
between him and Trixie had been successfully negotiated, Angel regarded
his assistant with a smile. "I bet you're hungry, Kevin," he suggested.
But the child's reply -- two arms tightened above Angel's right knee, soured
the taste of accord. Kevin's unguarded heart laid siege; its gentle meter
volleyed an unwitting pizzicato upon Angel's dormant peroneal artery.
"-- in here!" Cordy shouted,
pushing the kitchen's swinging door open wide.
The door sounded "ooof!"
on its hinges and had nearly closed before Wesley nudged it inward with
his shoulder. While walking his and Cordy's plates to the sink, he coolly
readjusted his glasses.
"Angel! The pancakes are
the bomb and a half!" Cordelia exclaimed. A flick of her wrist banished
several brown curls behind her shoulder. "And it looks like you made a
friend," she added, plucking at Kevin's soft golden locks with her fingers.
After Kevin buried his face
in Angel's thigh, Cordy tugged on his ear. The little boy's blush disappeared
into his collar.
"How come you're looking
like that?" she asked, returning her attention to Angel.
Angel bent his eyes from
the pancakes, down at his clothes. He frowned. "Don't I always look like
this?"
Cordy poked his waist and
shook her head. "Like this," she said. Squinting hard, she leveled hazel-eyed
intensity at the cooktop. "How come you're looking at the pancakes like
you're afraid they're gonna run away with the spatula?"
"Hey!" Angel attacked the
griddlecakes, flipping them over with preternatural speed. "You have to
turn them over at the right time or else they get too brown or not brown
enough. I almost ruined these, Cordelia," he griped. Just to make sure
that wasn't the case, he tapped at a few with the tip of his finger.
"Guy, Angel. Just when I
thought I've already seen you at your most anal, you surprise me. Who knew
pancakes? What else you got up your sleeve to obsess about?" she teased,
peeling back his unbuttoned cuff. Her faced conveyed immediate appreciation.
"Check you out! You're finally wearing that silver bracelet I got you.
Who needs art supplies when there's so much fab jewelry in the world?"
After double-checking the
clasp, Cordy twisted the heavy links once around. Angel self-consciously
retrieved his wrist and smoothed his sleeve in place.
"Cordelia, sweetheart, would
you mind getting more syrup?" Trixie asked, presenting the empty platter
for the next serving.
"No big!" Cordy consented,
sprightly proceeding to the open pantry.
The hostess offered an encouraging
smile. "One more serving and I think you'll be finished, Angel. It's been
a treat for the kids not to have to eat hot cereal, although --"
"Cordelia?" Angel murmured.
The spatula tumbled from his grip and clattered onto the griddle. "CORDELIA!"
he shouted, whipping around. His impulsive step spilled Kevin into the
flood of the vampire's natural enemy.
Pandemonium manifested. Kevin's
frightened wail was a siren pitched high above Trixie's call for "TIBO!"
and Angel's demand for "WESLEY!"
Snapping to attention, Wesley
heeled away from chatting with Gale at the window to see a panicking Angel
trapped behind the barrier of sunlight. Warrior and Watcher quickly accessed
the situation -- Wesley bolted for the small enclosure off the kitchen
at Angel's direction, Gale yanked the cord on the window shades.
From inside the pantry, came
the thunderous rattle of avalanching boxes and cans. Everything within
the kitchen followed suit -- glasses dropped onto the table, eating utensils
rained down into plates, the bank of blinds clacked shut against the panes,
effectively snuffing out the cheery aura.
Tibo raced in through the
door, throwing it closed behind him and, in nearly the same motion, snatched
Kevin off the floor. Herding the children, he stampeded them into the next
room.
Powdered with sugar down
the side of one leg, Wesley appeared at the pantry alcove with a very disoriented
Cordelia crooked by his arm. Angel met them and took over, catching Cordelia
just as her knees buckled. She lost the last of her wobbly balance before
reaching the table.
Wesley, Gale, Trixie, and
even Angel held their breaths while waiting for Cordelia to recover. Her
entire face wept; perspiration streamed from her pores. Her breathing was
shallow, as if the effort would cause her to burst.
"Cordelia?" Angel whispered
after one eternal minute.
Cordy barely opened her eyes.
She winced. "Any kids?" she choked. The four heads shaking 'no' gave her
the permission she needed to puke.
"Oh, God," Gale petitioned
almost too softly for Angel to hear. Pale, nervous, and cloaking their
mouths with their hands, she and Trixie eerily resembled Cordelia's post-Vision
condition.
The door swung open on a
good-natured laugh. "Gretchen and Kent got here just in time, I guess.
All the kids -- " Tibo stopped mid-sentence, finally noticing the stricken
facial expressions.
"Vision," said Trixie, crossing
his path on her way for the mop.
Tibo approached quietly.
Avoiding her splatter, he knelt at Cordelia's feet and bowed. He placed
his forehead to her knees. "La'am," he rasped, awestricken. "They Who Speak
have spoken to you."
While Wesley relayed a glass
of juice from Gale, Cordelia seemed oblivious to his intensive scrutiny.
He looked to Angel for an answer, only to find Angel looking to him for
the same. He shrugged and, without thinking, reached for Cordelia's cheek;
but a conscious thought stayed his hand. "Don't try to speak, Cordelia.
Just relax," he soothed.
Cordelia sipped. She scrunched
her nose. "This tastes like a matchbook," she royally complained.
Wesley swallowed his smile,
but his dimples eked out nonetheless. Angel took that as a sign to relax,
further relieved when Cordelia reached for his palm.
And spread it across her
forehead.
Recovering more slowly than
usual, Cordy leaned with both elbows behind her. "Did I happen to mention
'ow', already?"
"I believe we all caught
the inference from your prior upheaval," Wesley joked, taking a seat by
her side. Adjusting the notepad on his knee and uncapping a pen, he smiled
to himself, then at Gale.
Angel cleared his throat
and raised his brows, signaling for the presentation to begin.
"So, what's this about a
matchbook?" Wesley prompted, dismissing the indistinct unease he detected
in Gale. The Warrior had refused to glance in his direction, preferring
to stare at Cordelia as if past experience could fathom the Vision from
the depths of the young woman's head.
Cordelia batted her drowsy
lashes. "Like when you light a match?"
"Sulfur," Wesley said, writing
the word simultaneously.
"And she's burning up," Angel
intimated. Despite the circumstances, it felt nice to have Cordelia exchange
his one palm for the other. The chill-depleted hand he covertly balled
into a fist beneath his long shirttail.
Tibo rested back on his heels.
"You *saw* your vision," he hushed, his voice quavering. But his adoration
was curtailed by a pinch that pulled him sideways.
Leaning against Tibo's ear,
Gale sneered, "You ever think that's, maybe, why they're called *visions*
in the first place?"
"Cave," Cordelia interjected.
She stopped short of taking another swig of juice, unwilling to risk intensifying
the flavor on her tongue.
Trixie offered a plastic
bottle. "Children's aspirin is all I have in the house. Maybe just take
an extra one?"
Cordy chomped four instead.
"Mmmm. I remember these. Orangey, not sulfuric!"
"Well, well," Wesley said,
tapping the pen against the pad with each word. "Adjectiving with chemicals.
Someone's feeling better."
The Seer coughed at Wesley's
comment and, after he flinched aside, she grinned wickedly. Unfortunately,
the fake-out sapped her strength. A lazy blink later, she inspected Wesley's
handwriting. "Six people, I think. Hard to count."
"You might not be able to
see them all," Etrix ventured, unable to repress the undertones of her
jealousy. The desire to be a vessel for Those Who Speak, to be a source
of comfort for Cordelia, riled the ex-Seer's emotions. Worthless to assume
either task, Etrix took to cleaning up instead.
As Trixie reached for a plate,
Cordy offered "thanks" with her glass. Concentrating, she continued, "Maybe
seven? Big and little jackets. Not all the same size."
Gale came around and leaned
over Wesley's shoulder, flipping the pad back to the previous day. "That
could be one of the camping parties," she said directly into the top of
his head. When his chin tilted up, she expanded, "The teenagers in one
of the families."
Cordelia sniffed. She rubbed
her sleeve under her nose.
Its purpose spent, Angel
reclaimed his hand and took a turn with, "Smells like?"
"Like that janitorial supply
closet at Sunnydale High."
"Mildewy." Wesley nodded.
Insulted by Angel's wide-eyed inquisition, he defended his deduction. "It
was a rather quite pronounced odor, Angel. And as many times you visited
that campus, you can't tell me that *you* couldn't smell it."
"Hey, I wasn't making accusations..."
Angel yielded.
"Cave. Sulfur. Hot. Location-wise
that would give us... A mineral spring?" Wesley asked, hoping someone would
answer. Even projecting his gruffest deportment couldn't combat the look
on Angel's face. It was a wonder how such blankness could express so much
emotion. There was a well of affection in those deep brown eyes; restrained
humor tipped up the corners of those quirky lips. And to make matters worse,
Cordelia sat there attempting her version of the same. Wesley swore at
himself for possessing the thoughts that Cordelia's present debilitation
left her unable to do much more than present the faintest of smiles.
Alone, Angel and Cordelia
had formidable personalities; together, their tag-teamed adorability could
pummel Wesley's reserve.
"Lo'woroo," Trixie interrupted,
sponging crumbs off the table and into her hand. "Sacred to the Monya who
migrate from the tundra during the winter and settle in the mineral caves
near the rainforest."
"Used to migrate," Gale corrected,
forking scraps from one plate onto another. "The Monya were annihilated
a dozen years ago."
Trixie ceased her activity
out of respect, sadly recalling, "But, they were so peaceful."
"Peacefulness is what got
'em killed, Trixie," the Warrior-in-residence replied matter-of-factly.
After stacking the last of her plates, she straightened up and yanked on
the hem of her tee-shirt. She strode past Tibo and grazed him deliberately.
"Looks like this assignment is all yours now, Angel," was sniped on her
way out of the room.
Strong enough to assist her
nephew to his feet, Trixie was unable to hold back his retaliatory pursuit.
"So, we'll get to Lo'woroo
and do this," Angel asserted. He stood and took Cordelia's elbow.
Trixie explained, "But, this
isn't someplace you can drive to. You'll have to hike and it won't be easy."
After assisting Cordelia
to her feet, Angel steadied her. "Just show me where," was met with a pat
on his arm. The Seer tapped her forehead in reply.
Within the span of one moment,
all of Angel's supernatural fortitude had been vanquished. The vampire
crumpled to the bench. "Nooooooooooooooo." Shaking his head, in the throes
of a disagreeable fugue, Angel moaned against the portents of the summons.
Cordy tugged his ear, assuaging,
"It's OK, Angel. I've led us before; I can lead us again. After all, practice
can only make me more perfect!"
Trixie laid a consoling hand
on the vampire's shoulder. Grateful for a role, she told Wesley, "I'll
start making the arrangements."
-0-
Cordelia just wanted to sleep
and Wesley had helped her upstairs. The Vision had left her so exhausted
she'd climbed between the covers without removing her shoes. She didn't
stir as he untied her laces and tucked her toes away. While exiting their
room, he spied Angel in the half-shadows of the staircase leading up to
the attic. The faintest rustle of fabric and the slightest click of the
door, before Wesley had fully turned away, informed him Angel had slipped
inside.
To keep watch.
Descending the stairs, Wesley
heard the Warrior and her Messenger shouting in anger. Each step closer
to the library brought the calamity of their situation to bear.
"THERE HAD TO HAVE BEEN VISIONS
LEADING UP TO THIS ONE, TIBO!" Gale screeched.
Tibo, immobile as a stone
sculpture, stood resolute against the tempest of Gale's accusation. Except
for the insolence he wore with smug satisfaction, he was unemotional.
"Aren't you the least bit
embarrassed that the Powers That Be gave *your* Vision to Cordelia?" she
taunted.
The tirade made Tibo turn
inward and he took on the aspect of someone upon whom great wisdom had
been bestowed. With his head bowed respectfully, he scathed, "Obviously
less so than you are to have your assignment delegated to Warrior Angel."
The thunderous clap of Gale's
hand across Tibo's face unharnassed the storm of their contention. The
Messenger lurched at his Warrior, but Gale pivoted out of his direct onslaught.
As he stumbled past, she slammed her clasped fists down onto the base of
his spinal column. Tibo lost control of his motor skills and thudded onto
the floor.
"Gale!" Wesley wrangled her
backwards. Upon realizing how easily he'd accomplished that feat, he knew
he'd done the equivalent of interrupting an archer. Gale had been a weapon
at the ready, set to release, and he hadn't considered the stupidity of
positioning himself in front of her target.
Shaking, she shied away from
Wesley and struggled with her reflexes. While watching Tibo slink away,
she pelted him with her thoughts. "I think..." She stepped to the window
but couldn't see past the water spots dotting the glass. "I suspect that
Tibo's been holding onto his Visions."
Alarmed, Wesley rushed her.
His authoritative mien was diminished somewhat by the concerned tilt of
his head. "Can he do that?"
Gale nodded. "I used to."
Repulsed by the connotations
of her confession, he moved away. "Dear God. Surely Cordelia's not -- "
"No! No!" Her hand waved
vehemently. "It's different with demons, Wesley. The Powers that Be just
snatch you and make you this... This THING and then they pair you with
some piece-of-shit cretin who only has one basic thought process." Uneasiness
shaded her unspoken designation of that single-mindedness as "kill."
"And was there no other way
you could voice your dissent?"
The disdain in his voice
cut deeply. She cocked an accusatory thumb at herself. "Demon of Discord,
remember? For one thing, I HATED being fixed in this dimension; but they
needed my hard copy to retain the Gift.
"So, I blew off that first...
Year." She snorted. "What Tibo and I are doing? *Nothing* compared to me
and Werlo. I finally got him killed," she said, astonished by the self-satisfactory
tone in her admission even after 156 years. She dashed the relish from
her voice to continue, "The PTB upped the pain-factor but they must have
forgotten I'd been a Slayer. FUCK pain! And then, one day, I got the message.
Boy, did I get the message."
At his core, Wesley found
her actions reprehensible. With one hand against the window frame for support,
he listened in profile. "Corporal punishment?" he presumed.
"Death Vision."
She had paused long past
the point of awkwardness, but Wesley didn't know what to ask. He knelt
into the window seat and sat back against the framing, shifting sideways
across the fluted wood in an effort to rub out his anxiousness.
Gale used Wesley's movement
as an invitation to join him. Seated as if to occupy only the cushion's
corded edge, with her elbows on her knees, she hunched forward.
There was a haunted aura
about her, like the sheen of her immortality had finally begun to erode.
For someone who had always been accomplished at twisting together the worst
things to say, it wasn't so difficult to imagine that she'd have a difficult
time forming thoughts with a vocabulary light on delicacy. "Sometimes,
if you just begin with something basic," Wesley recommended.
Or, when in doubt, return
to the basics. "I guess I should thank Cordelia for reminding me how glad
I am to *not* be a Messenger anymore."
While waiting for her rancor
to subside, Wesley sighed at the view. "If I'm understanding you correctly,
you're saying that the Powers That Be are punishing Cordelia." Her sorrowful
eye-contact denied his assumption and he exhaled, grateful.
"I do think the Vision was
meant for Tibo, though."
"Hardly making the situation
any less worse, especially if Cordelia witnessed these campers being killed."
"Slaughtered." To allay his
horror, she rubbed his knee. "Nine times out of ten, this many victims
would be slaughtered, Wesley. But, Cordelia's recollection was too vivid.
I think that she may have seen -- but still hasn't seen -- the aftermath."
"The bodies would have been
stacked, hence her inability to make an accurate count," he said, disgusted
with how clinical his reasoning sounded in his ears.
Gale stroked the drapery.
"She's amazing though, Wesley. When I finally settled down, it took years
to pick up the details that she manages."
Proudly, Wesley accepted
the compliment for his associate. "After having her mind seized by the
Forces of Darkness, Cordelia was imprisoned by a series of unremitting
Visions. The crash course must have done wonders for her ability because,
since recovering, she's been incredibly focused."
"But she'll still never be
able to relate to you or Angel everything she receives." To Wesley's perplexity
Gale expanded, "Most of what a Messenger sees is inexplicable."
-0-
Tibo, perched on the porch
stoop, pulled a hydrangea's bouffant cluster apart cup by cup. "Cordelia
is incredible," he said as his Da'ur took a seat beside him. "The Gift
lives within her."
"She saw their deaths, Tibo,"
Etrix snapped.
Puzzled, Tibo stopped his
activity and faced her. "The Powers That Be do not send such messages."
With her sandaled foot, Trixie
scuffed the maimed petals aside. "They do, Tibo. And, they did. I don't
know if Cordelia saw them die, but she knows that they're dead."
Pausing, he mulled over the
connotations of her statement before replying, "The Prism did not say that
they were dead; so, I will not believe you."
"You stupid boy -- "
The fingers on Trixie's throat
crimped any further comment. Locked jaw notwithstanding, Tibo's words were
clear. And hostile. "You are still dear to my father, but that gives you
no right to speak to me in this way."
Striking off Tibo's grasp,
Trixie retaliated with a verbal drubbing, "Six years, Tibo, and you've
yet to have a complete Vision? You can fool your elders, you can fool my
dear brother, but you cannot fool me or Gale. The Powers That Be aren't
talking *to* you, idiot; they're speaking *through* you. But, you're too
pig-headed to listen and learn from those more experienced."
Rearing back, he cackled,
"Listen to you or Gale? Both of you whores and with your Gifts reassigned?"
Quaking lower teeth forewarned
a tremulous flush. Trixie, already glowing rosy, blazed fuchsia. "How dare
you say such things! When you have *no* understanding of either situation."
"I know what I see so I do
have sight, Da'ur." His bottom lip peeling from over his upper enraged
Tibo's normally placid features. "I will fulfill the direct wishes of the
Powers That Be and They will reward me. Perhaps even allow me to serve
with the Warrior Angel."
Shaking her head in disbelief,
Trixie laughed cynically. "You've admitted your distaste for humanity to
me any number of times, yet you aspire to cling to a vampire, Tibo? Your
double-standards are insane."
"He is more than a vampire,
Da'ur," Tibo said, his eyes respectfully hooded. "Through him, the Messenger
Doyle achieved Har'a'un."
Howling, Trixie swiped tears
from the creases of her eyes. "Martyrdom? Is that what you're angling for?"
Without warning, she took
a fistful of hair on either side of his head and yanked him to attention.
"If you want to be a martyr, Tibo, I think that Gale would be more than
happy to oblige you. But first, that would mean you'd have to present a
full Vision, wouldn't you?" she scoffed.
He shoved the matron away,
stomped upright, and regarded her with contempt. "You mock me, Da'ur, fine.
But one day soon you will have to honor my success."
-0-
The tufted cushion in the
projecting bay window provided seating for a half-circle view of the hillside
neighborhood where the more prominent, modern homes abutted the few remaining
Queen Anne Victorians. Still, what the older homes lacked in numbers, they
made up for with eccentricities -- steeply pitched roofs with scalloped
gables and castle turrets, an asymmetry of windows mounted into fish-scale
siding, all with elaborate brickwork -- finished-off with a chimney totem
or two.
Beyond the authentic colors
of sienna, hunter, and ochre and the more brightly painted houses of periwinkle,
coral, and plum, Puget Sound shimmered light blue and the apricot tones
of the false sunset sky. Mount Ranier's summit rose above an ermine ruff
of clouds, topped with a snowy crown glinting silver and gold.
The last of the commuter
ferries criss-crossed the harbour like busy, hive-bound bees, their ribbon
wakes chopped to bits by knifing waves. There was something nostalgic about
the activity; the vessels could be conveying horses and carriages as easily
as automobiles. Sea-commerce cities were fascinating places to be, especially
when one had a vantage as spectacular as the one Wesley shared with Gale.
He'd been to the Port of Long Beach and he'd visited San Pedro Harbor,
but compared to a city where the populace used waterways for day-to-day
travel, Los Angeles' industrial seaports possessed little charm. He smiled
to himself and said a silent prayer -- that the City of Seattle would never
find the term "chunnel" worthy of exploration.
Far-Northern summers meant
everlasting sunsets and, unlike the sun's morning appearance when she burst
on the scene fully radiant, she took her time shedding vibrancy in the
eve. Wesley's few favorite childhood memories were of magickal hours-long
dusks in his Grandfather's garden before, in the blink of one eye, twilight
fell like a thief.
Melancholy triggered his
lips.
She waited. And watched him.
The ten minutes he'd been silent felt like an hour. Wesley sat in the window
with his right leg drawn to his chest, his cheek resting on his knee. Gale
wanted into his thoughts, but he hadn't extended an invitation. So she
waited. Waited.
And watched him. Engaged
by his long, dark lashes raising and lowering; endeared by his chest drawing
in and out. It was summer and he was even paler than he'd been in the spring.
It worried her to imagine him disregarding the privileges of humanity to
mete out the requirements of associating with a vampire.
He seemed more fragile than
ever -- almost sickly. The idea of him lying in a hospital bed filled her
with dread. But Wesley was here; close enough to touch the way she wanted
to. And, on that impulse, she crept to him.
As if he'd been waiting all
along for her to make their decision, his arms opened wide. He enveloped
her limb after limb, twining his legs around hers, securing her back against
his chest.
"That's why you can never
go home after you've romanticized every other place you've ever been,"
Gale said, settling comfortably. "Every city reminds you of where you'd
rather be."
His chin, adrift, floated
along the fall of her mane. "Like every person reminds you -- " he spoke
against her nape.
Unsure, she froze for a moment
until warmed by the familiarity of his touch -- cautious then frenetic
inquisitions traveling the length of her arm, his left forearm slithering
around her waist. Making presumptions, his fingertips ducked beneath the
hem of her shirt and traversed the bungee-corded waistline of her shorts.
His hands reintroduced themselves to her form. Politely or with ravishing
tenacity, tentative or subtly demanding, Wesley thusly plied claim.
Removing his glasses, he
tucked them into a corner of the window-box for safety. There were no sights
to be seen except her; no view except the landscape of her flesh washed
with sunglow. This female in his arms... He knew her body before the first
sensation of her flesh beneath his touch. She was supple and she was intense.
Abruptly, his arm clinched tight across her midriff.
She gasped. His swollen familiarity
pressed insistently against her spine. Her hand drifted to his face, cupped
his cheek. He set his lips to her wrist, traced her palm with his nose,
explored the whorls of her fingertips with the grooves of his lips.
His thumb gently stroked
the under swell of her beast until his fingertips, picking aside the petal
of bra, plucked its tender bud. His insouciant mouth suckled the tip of
her littlest finger and puckered up and down the line of her throat.
"Seattle is so pretty. Do
you like it here?" he murmured. Looping a few strands of hair away from
her ear, his finger nearly slipped free of its noose before he relooped.
He slipped and relooped again and again.
"Living here?" Gale asked,
arching her back as he nudged aside her outseam to caress her hidden curves.
"Maybe if I wasn't so alone," she ventured, teeth punishing her lip for
allowing the remark to escape.
His tea-tinged breath in
her ear -- and its irregularity, so him. The scent of his masculinity --
pungent and warm, enhanced by the library aroma of stability and wisdom.
"Hmmm?" she murmured, lightheaded
and soaring like an osprey above the shore. She ground between his legs
with her shoulder blade cleaving the center of his chest. Bringing her
face to his, her lashes whisked his chin.
Perspiring, Wesley paced
his breathing. His mouth lingered on the crescent of her cheek, his moistened
lips parted for conquest. He bent forward to whisper --
"Hmmmm?" she moaned, fingering
his teeth. Tasting the back of his hand until it had traveled far too low
-- Oh! far too low -- to kiss.
The slivers of his nails,
traveling the length of her elongated throat. Her lips, so near. He whispered
again...
Gale turned on her hip and
lifted her mouth to meet that lilting voice. His "What time will the children
be home?" was hers to consume. The moment -- their moment, his breathing,
her breath nearly one. So near to being one...
Routed by the course of a
deafening cry.
Even before Angel boomed
his name from Cordelia's room, Wesley had reset his glasses and jostled
Gale aside. Fluidly, he rose without hesitation and hastened up the stairs.
Deflated, Gale sat up on
her knees, waiting until even Wesley's sound had disappeared before she
moved. "I'll find Cordy a sedative," she sighed.
-0-
Nightfall was oppressive,
as oppressive as the atmosphere inside the room where Angel had claimed
the edge of Wesley's bed to focus on Cordelia. It didn't matter that there
was barely anything outside to see; Wesley stared into the immense black
void and followed a lone freighter's progress towards Bainbridge Island.
His hard swallow washed the last flavor of Gale down his throat.
Outside the door, children
galloped after one another in the hallway. Giggling, they waited nearby
before racing back from whence they came.
Wesley cast his eyes at the
floor and, before turning around, made a mental note to pick up all the
gold-leafed pasta Angel had picked off a wall-piece. "She's been quiet
for hours, Angel. I think we should both get some rest," he suggested.
Angel's eyelids were clenched.
"We were watching TV and she screamed like that, Wesley."
Wesley threw his eyes to
the ceiling. Returning to the window, he discovered the vessel had powered
away that quickly. No doubt, he thought, in fear of Angel's retelling.
Making a taffy-pull of the
pillow, Angel kneaded and stretched and punched. "Yeah, I figured, adulterous
transvestite makeovers is really stretching it for programming content,
even for Ricki. But Cordelia wouldn't stop shaking and -- "
Unconfined down sifted from
his fingers onto the floor. "Did you bring the Scroll?"
With his forehead cradled
between his middle finger and thumb, Wesley rubbed at his temples. "An
aftershock of her earlier vision doesn't require the Scroll, Angel."
Springing to his feet, the
vampire paced to the door. "And what's taking Trixie so long with the arrangements?
We need to get this over with and get Cordelia out of here."
"Angel? Stop. And, please,
just sit down." Relinquishing his lookout, Wesley kicked goose feathers
and pasta under his bed and removed his second pillow for safety. "Trixie
doesn't have to hurry. I told you, the campers are dead. If you don't remember
hearing me the first time, please listen now."
Angel stilled. He twisted
violently and leveled his irritation at the ex-Watcher. "Good. Then we
can leave."
"Did you just hear yourself?"
asked Wesley, abhorred.
Tipping an ear toward his
chest, Angel listened. "Still silent," he reported.
Irate, Wesley flung his pillow
at the headboard. "You joke, Angel; but we're here for a reason."
"Pardon my lack of insight
if I haven't figured out what that's supposed to be. Visioning dead rescuees,
well..." Two fingers tapped Angel's temple. "At least in L.A., that's not
the way the program works!"
Wesley reached over the clock-radio
and flicked the lamp to its night bulb. "It's late, Angel. And, I really
don't feel like arguing with you. Tomorrow, I'll make a map of our route
and, I'm assuming that Trixie is trying to get us gear for however long
we'll be in the forest."
With the room dimmed, it
took on an unhealthy ambience. Regretting his dousing decision, Wesley
returned to the window. "You realize, Angel," he finally spoke, blind to
his own reflection, "that with Cordelia in the lead, this entire excursion
is going to have to occur during the day."
Taking the foot of Cordelia's
bed, Angel proclaimed, "I can manage." It was the fervid roll of her head
giving him niggling doubts of just what he was capable of handling...
...
He couldn't catch his breath.
Wheezing, he couldn't stop stumbling. His brother had taken hold of his
arm and was practically dragging him across the pasture.
"C'mon, Liam!" said he. Launching
forward, he gripped the yew's first branch, swung his legs up and over
and promptly fell back to offer his arms. "This first one's the hardest,
but you can make the rest of the way on your own."
Liam stared at the upside-down
boy whose dark brown curls were springing in all directions. He wanted
to say 'no', but all Liam could do was gasp. He couldn't even protest after
his brother snatched him up by the underarms.
Coaxing, "Take it, Liam,"
after Liam placed his tiny hands onto the gigantic limb Middle Donn
reached down. Grabbing Liam's waistband, he hiked the much smaller boy
into the tree. "Ready?" he asked.
Liam coughed once, twice,
and began to follow.
The older boy made it seem
so effortless. Taking each branch, finding a foothold, he had memorized
each knob and outcropping. Every so often -- not to make sure that his
brother was following because that was a given -- he lent a hand upwards.
Liam sat on the highest branch
with his eyes closed and his arms barely hugging the massive trunk. He
was tired -- so sleepy, breathing open-mouthed and sweating beneath his
woolen pullover. His yawn and a swallow interrupted his panting.
At long last, he opened his
eyes. Yawning again, he looked around...
The tears were involuntary.
"Liam. What?" His brother's
concerned face hovered nose-close.
Liam's hard blink blurred
his vision. "S... s... sc... ared," he stammered, sealing his eyes and
grinding his face into the bark. "Too hi-igh!" he sobbed.
Graced by meadow song, the
silence between them lasted too long. The frightening thought that faeries
had arrested his brother for trespassing bolstered Liam's eyes wide.
But his brother had never
left his side. With the corners of his mouth tipped -- one high, one low,
he was considering The Bens. "I'm sorry, Liam. I thought... " The look
on his face encouraged Liam to follow his determined gaze seaward. Up on
his knees, one arm bracketed his little brother. He whispered, "Do you
see? The Indies, Liam. And beyond them, the Americas."
With his courage faltering,
Liam squinted and shook his head. "I see a schooner with her jib all in
tatters. And the island." He looked into his brother's face for approval.
Impulsively, he smoothed the soft, freckled cheek, confessing, "I can never
see as far as you get to see, AthairÃn."
Smiling mischievously, the
older boy's teeth snagged his lower lip. He tilted Liam's head past an
evergreen branchlet. "Maybe you're still too small, but I know you can
at least see to Scotland. You can see that far, can you not?"
Liam, loathe to disappoint,
nodded his head affirmatively.
Pleased, his brother plopped
back without looking. Fearlessly straddling the limb, his long legs swung
to and fro. "So, first you'll visit the Scots and then who will be next?"
Liam shrugged. A brisk wind
chilled the moisture on his skin and he shivered violently. His still-streaming
tears felt like snow on his face. "First I want to go home," he cried.
Carefree hands pushed the
hair out of Liam's eyes; gentle kisses blotted the torrents from his cheeks.
A voice reassured, "I keep forgetting that you're not nine, too. And, I'm
sorry."
"But, I am getting bigger,"
Liam argued, more afraid he'd start being left behind.
"You are getting bigger.
You're almost bigger than me!"
"That's not true!" Liam sniffled.
He pinched the toe of his boot. "See, I still got wads of stuffing!" But
his brother didn't see; he'd scrambled onto a branch.
"C'mon, Liam, you wee mouse.
The view is grand from this one. Look!" he shouted, swinging his offered
hand to point into the distance at the advancing dark speck. "It's Da's
surrey."
Through ceaseless tears,
Liam shook his head vigorously. He looked into the boy's dark brown eyes
sparkling with daring. Adamantly holding onto the tree's trunk, Liam complained
through his chattering teeth, "Too high and too far out. Come back. You
might fall if you stay." Then, timidly, he unwrapped one arm from his support
and held out his tiny hand, even though he knew they weren't close enough.
But, still...
"Liam!" The reproach was
lilting, as laughter bubbled from deep within his free-spirited core. He
was always laughing, this one, as if life could hold such charm.
The wind howled across the
field. It tickled the yew, spiriting a few black-green needles away.
"Pleeeeeeease!" Liam pleaded.
Wiping away tears with the heel of his palm put something in his eye. Relentless
terror wouldn't allow for a breath.
A laughing shush, "Liam."
In response, the tree jiggled.
"Come back!" Liam wailed.
A tremor. A simple snap.
With gaping eyes, the older brother turned to the younger.
"No. No. No," Liam chanted.
"No, no -- "
A creak became a long, pitching
moan. The limb croaked the first notes of a Bean Sidhe's lament.
"LIAM!" his brother shouted
over the yawing ruckus. "LIAM!"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Little
fingers strained to be long enough, but they weren't. Not strong enough
to hold the shearing limb to the trunk, he reached out as far as he could.
"Please, please," Liam whimpered --
And then, silence. Nothing.
No wind. Not the sea, nor the hooves of a horse. The tree held its caterwauling
and waited...
Waited...
Liam's brother faced West.
"Promise me, Liam, you'll sail?" His features, so handsome, were serene.
So mature. "I'm so glad you were mine," he whispered sincerely, will all
the love in his heart. All the love in the world. He flicked a kiss from
his lips and smiled the way he always had smiled, just for his brother.
Within the beat of their
hearts...
One pattered no more.
The smiling boy, with his
arms open wide and heavenly gaze deeply hollow, lay upon his wooden raft,
adrift on an emerald sea. Continuing to offer his 6 year-old palm, Liam
was amazed to find it suddenly large enough to cover the entire odd lay
of a body...
...
Shay's voice faded in and
out, carried on the breeze. Cold words. Daytime fading, it was so cold.
"Best you get home with the little one, Donn. I saw the Sister pass
over an hour ago. It should have been you with the news for your wife."
His father's chin was so
hard on the top of his head. But, he didn't know that he was hurting his
littlest boy. And, his breath wasn't right -- or else that was the smell
brought out by the heavier drizzle on his sunny-day -- not his rainy one
-- woolen coat. They weren't warm; the coat wasn't warm. They were wet
and they were shivering. And his father's chin hurt his head.
"What if..." the faint voice
wasn't familiar, "...everything we've been doing?" His father's hold
began to loosen, one arm less sturdy than the other. He struggled to bind
his son to his chest, wringing the lapels around them both. But he was
trembling like the tree had trembled. And his teeth were making the same
kinds of sounds.
"Let me have Liam, Donn,"
Shay hushed, reaching inside in an attempt to pull the boy away.
Thankfully, Shay's request
was refused. Liam was too weak to hold onto his father's neck; his weary
head sloshed against the reeking shoulder. Water dribbled off his father's
untidy hair. Their steamy sighs were stale.
Liam recognized some of the
faces in the field (his brother would have known everyone's names). All
of them were far better dressed when they went to church on Sundays. The
men stood in a circle, shaking their heads and taking turns drinking. There
was a magnificent rug on the grass that someone had forgotten to smooth
the lump from under. The men were all pretending that the lump wasn't there.
"GOD!" The haggard man gasped
and smacked the palm of his hand to his forehead. Staggering away, his
footsteps were jarring.
Shay kept pace at a trot.
"Where are you off to?" He tried speaking casually, but there was
a worried catch in his voice. He took hold of his friend's shoulder and
finally got him to stop. "Donn!"
Deep lungfuls of air came
out as a roar, "OUR INHERITANCE IS TURNED TO STRANGERS, OUR HOUSES TO ALIENS!"
He shuddered and moaned. "What, dear Lord? Why? Why? Be this Your will?"
"Donn..." Shay cautioned.
"All we've done, Shay? Be
this a sign? Bedding with the English -- "
Shay's massive hand clamped
off the uncertainty. "Keep your voice low, Deartháir. These
men," he flung a head of red curls at the workers, "would sooner garrote
you than thank you for the food on their tables. To them, any contact with
the English is pure treachery. What we do, we don't do lightly; we
don't do for ourselves. You know that and that God of yours knows
it, too."
"But what it is we do...
Our moral purpose..." Slumped against the tree, he lost purchase on his
grief and nearly his son along with it. His head bowed penitently. "*His*
will, Shay. Not ours. Not us to judge, nor us to punish."
"Nor us to deliver?" The
shorter man stroked away the sodden strands of hair screening the set of
woeful, brown eyes. "I don't prescribe to your God any more than I prescribe
to Mohammed or the Sidhe. What we do, we do for the good of the land and
I refuse to believe any supreme authority would deem that as wrong."
Eyes dropping to his Liam,
his brows knit in confusion. "Then, why take my son?" he slobbered into
the child's hairline.
Shay's arms encircled the
pair. "Take my words a heartless thing to say, but consider it better that
your God took the buachaill now rather than the English, later."
-0-
evancomo@netscape.net
Angel's
Journal
