Descent - 14/16 Descent - 14/16

The Tower of London, 1503

Rain in the courtyard. Initially a mist percolated through the grille that covered the prisoner's pit, then a smatter. Then, as water collected amongst the flagstones, it poured in rivulets onto the filthy stone floor below.

The prisoner woke as the first droplets landed on his skin, and found himself wet through. More water arrived in a gush and a stream arched across his cell. The prisoner positioned his open mouth under the cascade, drinking and washing the gaol-dirt from his face. When it stopped, he moved the rough wooden chair away from the biggest puddles, and sat in the brightest part of the cell, with the bars above his head, waiting for the sun to poke through and warm his frigid flesh.

Eventually a few rays did break through the clouds and reach him, but not with sufficient strength to stop the shivering. Then a shadow passed over the sun. He looked up, expecting to see a guard standing close to the edge of his pit. Instead, he saw a sheet of parchment lying over the bars. It was fine parchment, less than opaque, and the light that came through it lent a light, golden colour, like butter. The prisoner's mouth watered.

A breeze lifted the parchment very slightly, not enough to chase it away, but just to raise one end above the other. The grille was made of ten horizontal bars, like a warp with no weft, and as the parchment moved, it presented an edge to the gap between two bars and became thin enough to slip through.

The prisoner caught the parchment as it floated down to the floor of the cell, and flattened it out on the straw-filled mattress that was his bed. It was damp, but it would dry, he knew, perfectly well, if only he could keep it flat. Sadly, it was unmarked, completely devoid of writing. It would have been nice to read something, but even a blank scroll was better than having nothing to look at except gaol walls and air.

The prisoner was distracted from his prize by a loud squawking and rustling sound, and the spectacle of two rooks fighting in the air above him. They were on the wing, and rapidly moved out of the small patch of sky he called his own, but they left a speck of black behind. This speck danced about, wafted back and forth by the breeze, but always remained within his sight. After a while, a tail feather, black as soot and nearly six inches long, landed in his hands.

The prisoner smiled. "Never was there a clearer sign from God."

Los Angeles, 2001

Wesley rushed into the room, clutching a handful of curling, flimsy paper. "Angel? Look at this."

"What is it?"

Wesley shut the door behind him and dropped his voice to an urgent whisper. The hospital had given them a room to sit in, while they waited for the administrator and the doctors decide whether they could see the patient. Kate was asleep in an armchair, and Cordelia and Gunn were playing a ruthless game of pontoon.

"Christophe was not permitted writing materials during his incarceration, presumably because they were afraid he would have used them to spread his repugnant ideas. However, he did manage to write. Perhaps his family bribed the guards. Anyway, the story goes that he pressed a parchment, written in blood, into the hands of a Council member who visited him to say goodbye, on the morning of his execution."

"And this is what he wrote?"

"Yes. Of course, being the Council, they kept it in their library, despite the author being a denounced heretic. I imagine they didn't know what else to do. Anyway, I managed to get Giles on the blower just now and he knew of a transcript. There's a fax in reception and he sent it straight over. Let me read you some bits."

Wesley read from the first sheet: "I, Christophe, wretched prisoner in the Bloody Tower, do affirm this is my last will and testament to the world. I have ever tried to perform my duty as Watcher to the utmost and it is my eagerness to know more of the vampyr and his nature that has brought me to this sorry state. God is my witness ..."

"He goes on like that for several pages." Wesley leafed through the papers. "But he never pleads for his life, poor man. Perhaps he knew it was hopeless. Then, he starts arguing that his theories were right all along, which, of course, was the one thing likely to get his head put on the wrong end of a spike without any delay."

"Does he say anything new?"

"That's what I was coming to. He seems to have concentrated on the issue of vampires disintegrating after they are staked, since that was the main argument advanced against his theories before his death."

Wesley read on. "Many learned men of the Council have said that the body cannot live on after vampirism is introduced, since as soon as that evil is purged, whether by a stake through the heart or decapitation or any of the diverse methods employed by the Slayer, it becometh as ash after a fire is burnt out. This, they say is evidence of the death of the body. But may there not be another explanation? The demon lives in the liquid parts of the body, this we know from seeing our people drink the evil one's blood and become quickly possessed. When the Slayer does her work, might the demon not depart and take the host liquid with it, thereby desiccating the body and causing it to crumble?"

Wesley paused and Angel interjected, "Do you believe that's possible, Wes?"

"Let me finish, OK? There's not much more." Wesley turned the page again. "Therefore, if we could but perfect the art of providing liquid to the body as the demon departs, as well as restoring the soul as we can so readily perform, may we not save those beings now eternally condemned? My dear friends, if we once again reunite the essence and the matter of the blood, why should it not be whole again, and if the blood is wholesome, why should not the body live?"

"Oh!"

Everyone looked at Kate, who had woken up suddenly. Wesley grimaced at her and nodded, "You see?"

"Yes, I think I do."

Gunn tutted, "I wish one of you would explain it then, cos I think the rest of us are still a little short of a twenty-one here."

"The prophecy," Kate said hurriedly. "It ... it ... sort of makes more sense now. 'from the threesome he must take / that which he cannot return' and ... and ... 'blood will out but will not sate' ..."

"What Kate's trying to say," Wesley interrupted, "is that if you interpret the prophecy in the light of Christophe's theories, it's quite clear why meeting your relatives is necessary for shanshu to occur."

Angel shook his head dumbly.

Wesley put it more bluntly. "We have a soul. We have a body kept in an arrested state by a demon. We expel the demon by whichever method we like. The demon departs taking the blood it possesses with it and we replace that blood with ..."

"No!" Angel whirled away and thumped the wall behind him with the flat of his hand. "I don't want to hear any more."

Wesley carried on regardless, "Their blood prevents you from dying when the demon withdraws. I'm not sure why family blood is necessary, but the prophecy indicates that's so. It's not clear either why these three people are significant, and why their parents aren't, for example. I suspect that will be to do with youth, the blood would have to be young and resilient to withstand decanting from one body to another. Another problem is rejection, but perhaps your residual vampire resistance to disease and trauma would account for that not happening. I haven't really got it all sussed yet."

Wesley looked up to find Angel regarding him in horror. "I'm ... I'm sorry Angel."

Angel glanced wildly from Cordelia to Wesley and back again. "How can you talk like this? Do you have to poison everything for me? He's my family. Why can't you just leave me be?"

"I thought you had a right to know."

A knock on the door announced the arrival of the hospital administrator. "Mr Angel?"

Angel wiped his face and turned to face her. "Yes."

"Mr Kinsey has indicated he knows you and would like to see you." She raised a hand as Angel stepped forward. "He confirms you are a long-lost relative, and have recently re-established contact. I'm sorry Sir, you'll appreciate we had to check, in fairness to our patient."

"Of course. Don't worry about it. Can I .."

"Just a moment, Sir." The administrator indicated a chair. "If I could detain you for just a few seconds." Angel sat and she continued, "Mr Kinsey said you were not aware of the nature or extent of his illness, and he would like you to be prepared before you see him. I'm afraid he has a rare and fatal bone disease."

Angel frowned. "A bone disease?"

"Yes, Sir. It was picked up in a routine check-up just a few weeks ago. His bone tissue is, in essence, atrophying inside him. His vital organs, muscles and blood seem not to be affected, but of course if the wasting continues, eventually his skeleton won't be able to support him. The disease has advanced rapidly and Mr Kinsey is in some pain. You will notice he finds movement difficult, and in fact it's quite dangerous for him to put any stress on his bones at all."

"Is it curable?" Angel asked.

"You'll have to speak to the doctors about that."

The administrator paused, and Wesley's quiet voice inquired "How rare?"

"The doctor will talk to Mr Angel about it. You'll appreciate I'm not qualified to say much more."

"Are there any other known cases?"

She sighed, "You didn't get this from me. There are no other known cases currently. There have never been any cases reported."

"So, to put it in layman's terms?"

"No-one has ever seen this disease before."