Dire warning given and primed for fulfilment at the slightest provocation, Angel waited for the Veii's guards to make the next move. He doubted he could take them all, but he'd be sure to buy enough time for Wesley to see Connor free of this place…even if he didn't make it himself.

"Wesley," Angel said, not daring to look back, though he ached to do so. Like ravaging wolves, his son's captors would be sure to attack if he dropped his guard for even an instant.

"He's alive," came the ex-Watcher's reply.

And Angel sagged with stark relief, human face supplanting the demonic mask he would have worn for a bloody massacre had the answer been anything but. For a few, terrible moments, he had feared the worst, his vampire hearing unable to detect the reassuring sound of Connor's heartbeat through the noise of the scuffle.

Long before the incongruous 'Hi Dad', before even Connor's very first, in drawn breath to cry, it had been the precious sound of his son's heartbeat that Angel had become so sensitively attuned to. It was a small thing, yet had prevented Angel from staking Darla that night at the amusement park, inadvertently murdering his unborn, ensouled child in the process.

But though Connor still lived, Angel could smell his son's blood, freshly spilled, could see it staining the sand beneath his feet and he felt his anger rising anew. Someone had hurt his son, had hurt him so badly that even Connor's usual disregard for pain had been tested, then snapped in two.

"No!" A horrified gasp cut through the silence. "It can't be…"

Standing upon a stone dais, the Veii priestess who had orchestrated Connor's kidnapping had collapsed back against her throne, pale and shaking, lips moving wordlessly in denial. Angel took menacing step toward her, prepared for a lengthy 'discussion' over Connor's treatment at her hands, when, with a sigh of steel, a blade was whipped forward to bar his way.

The bearded swordsman who held him back cocked his head. "Who are you, vampire," he demanded, "that I should not kill you where you stand?"

Before Angel could move to take the man down, cast him aside like so much garbage as he went for the cause of his troubles, Wesley spoke up.

"He is Angel, a champion of the Powers. We are all allies here, not," he glanced at the guards who even now awaited the order to attack, "enemies."

"The boy's father?" The swordsman frowned, then lowered his weapon, turning to his priestess.

"No," she said again, this time addressing Angel. "He is yours no longer. You can't have him!" The last was spoken petulantly, like a child refusing to relinquish a favoured toy.

"I'm his father," Angel retorted, bluntly. "He's my responsibility."

"You gave up that right when you cast him from your house. For the crime he committed against you, he must be made to atone."

"I think that's for me to decide, don't you? Whatever happened between me and my son is not your concern."

"And, when once more he reveals his true nature," she cajoled, mockingly, throwing her hands into the air, "when he threatens to destroy us all, will that then be my concern?"

Angel glanced back to his son, little more than a boy, still not yet a man. The potential was there, both for good and evil no matter how much Connor strove for the right, and Angel could sense the other, the mayhem simmering beneath the cool as glass exterior, waiting for just the right trigger to set it off unchecked.

In that respect, he and Connor were much alike, both with inner demons to contend with, though Connor had yet to acknowledge his own, brazenly convinced of his own superior morality. Left to his own devices, there was no telling what the boy might become as he continued to grow, to become stronger and faster as each day passed. No telling how Connor might come to deal with the challenges life had yet to throw his way, whether they would make or break him.

Angel couldn't begin to guess what the future might hold for their little family, father and son, but there was one thing he knew for certain. It was going to be one hell of a ride finding out.

Turning back to face the priestess, armed with convictions only a father could possess, Angel said, "What Connor did to me…I forgive him."

He paused, the difficulty with which he spoke those words surprising, yet had he not told Connor the very same thing, even as the boy was exacting his revenge for Holtz's death by nailing his true father into a coffin, destined for a watery grave.

Determined to finish the thought before the disturbing memories of three months under the sea returned to ruin his magnanimous mood, Angel continued, almost introspectively, "I forgave him that very night."

"No," the priestess said, again, sounding more panicked now. "You lie. You cannot say such a thing."

"I just did," Angel said, folding his arms, effectively ending a conversation that, in his mind, had only one possible conclusion. "Now, I'm taking my son home and if anyone tries to stop me…"

"Kill him!" the priestess screeched, suddenly, taking all present by surprise.

"Priestess," the man with the sword protested. "You cannot order such a thing. He is not our enemy. The others, they will…"

He faltered, the punishment for such a crime too horrendous to say aloud, but she was beyond reason now. Angel could see the madness lurking behind her cerulean eyes, spilling from its fragile container of sanity, and readied himself for a fight.

"Captain," the priestess continued, icily as she addressed the swordsman. "I command you!"

"Please, Valenza," her captain begged her, "do not do this."

"Kill him," the priestess finished, triumphantly. "Kill the vampire!" When he hesitated, she shouted, "Now!"

The Captain appeared shocked yet he slowly turned to face Angel nonetheless, reluctance and raw regret etched across his features.

"As you wish, mistress," was all he said, before raising his sword.

*****

Feeling a warm dampness seeping through his shirt, Wesley glanced down at the wounded and bleeding burden he held against his chest. Angel's son, hanging limp, unconscious and Wesley felt an odd surge of protectiveness. It had been but a few months since he had carried baby Connor in his arms, such a little time had passed since he had attempted to spirit the child away.

Pressing the back of his hand to Connor's tear-stained cheek, Wesley felt the waxen skin beneath cool and clammy to the touch. The boy was in shock and in dire need of rest and recuperation if his healing ability were to kick in and begin its unnatural work. For all Wesley knew, the condition the boy was in might turn life threatening at any moment.

"Angel," he said, worriedly, to the vampire crouched at his side. "We need to get him out of here."

"I will."

There was no hesitation or doubt in the reply as Angel slid out of his leather jacket to tuck it around his child with such tender care Wesley could hardly bear to watch. Angel had been so protective of his baby son, mama bear vibes Lorne had called them, that even now Wesley wondered how he could have been such a fool to think the vampire could do anything to harm Connor.

"Wesley," Angel said, as he rose from his haunches.

"Yes?"

"Look after him."

They stared at each other for a long moment, before Wesley was forced to look away, able only to nod wordlessly at the heartfelt request. That Angel would trust him with Connor now, after all that he had done, was beyond anything Wesley had ever expected.

He settled down with the boy's weight sprawled across his chest, the tang of iron-rich blood heavy in the air, and watched the vampire stalk to the centre of the cavern where his opponent even now awaited him.

A challenge, the Veii's captain had said, as he raised his sword in salute to Angel. They would duel, the winner taking Connor as the prize and, surrounded by such superior numbers, Angel had no choice but to comply.

The priestess had not been happy, had screeched and wailed like a harpy until her captain had spoken to her in hushed tones. Only Angel, with his sharp hearing, could know what was said, but it seemed to calm the irate woman and she had given the vampire a smug look before returning to her seat upon the throne, a mad, regal spectator for what was to come.

Angel took his position before the captain and caught, one handed, the borrowed sword that was hefted his way. Wesley looked on as he swung the weapon experimentally a few times, gauging both weight and flexibility, before turning to his adversary.

During his time at the Watcher's academy, Wesley had read with great interest of Angelus' skill with a sword, had hungrily poured over the account of his duel with Buffy Summers before the stone statue of Acathla a few years previous. And though the Slayer had eventually managed to overcome Angelus after what had been termed an intense fight to the death, Wesley doubted there were many others who could defeat the vampire in such a contest.

The murmurs from the Veii's guards were stilled as Angel raised his blade in silent salute, before dropping into an en guard stance, the captain quick to follow.

The initial clash of steel was loud in the silence and Wesley started, fragmented thoughts flying to the last words Angel had spoken. Look after him. He tightened his grip on the boy who was even now beginning to stir, determined not to fail either son or father a second time.

"I give you my word," he said, quietly, as the fight began in earnest.

*****

The gasp that sought to tear from Connor's throat was quickly, instinctively stifled and he tensed as a presence loomed over him. For a blind, panicked moment, he was unsure where he was, what had transpired to leave him in such agony, and he thought it might have been a demon. Somewhere, nearby, he could hear the disconcerting sound of metal on metal, struck in rapid succession, and he struggled to open his eyes to see.

"It's alright." Soft, soothing words, a masculine voice with a clear, crisp accent. "You're safe. You're not going to be harmed again."

Father, Connor almost asked, in his delirium, then recalled that Holtz was dead and the scent of the man holding him was unfamiliar.

He broke free of the confining grip and managed to push away, before curling over helplessly as a tidal wave of pain washed over him to leave his body weak and trembling. He remembered now, the priestess had tortured him, the torment not unlike the weapon Fred had used on him the night of Angel's return. Except this time he had practically asked for it, foolishly believing he could handle anything the woman might throw his way.

What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger, had been one of Holtz's favourite sayings. Yet whatever the witch had used, had hurt. Badly.

His nerves were still twitching uncontrollably, unable to relax, anticipating more of the soul-shattering pain that had been sent screaming into his body, collapsing his resistance.

"Connor." The male voice made him go very still. "Your father's here."

My father's dead, he nearly said, mind still ragged and raw, unsure himself whether he was speaking of Holtz or Angel.

Rolling to one side, not even bothering with an attempt to rise on boneless legs, Connor brushed aside the hair that had fallen into his eyes with a hand that shook shamefully, to observe the man crouched in the sand beside him. He bore a certain familiarity, yet Connor was certain they had not met. He never forgot a scent, a useful tool in Quor-toth for tracking prey, but there was something tantalising reminiscent about this man, like a very old, frayed memory.

Seeing Connor's suspicions, the stranger confirmed, quietly, "I used to work for your father…before you were taken."

It didn't take much to work out who the man with the haunted eyes and the unshaven jaw was. Back before Angel's return, Connor had heard Fred and Gunn arguing over someone named Wesley, when they thought him safely asleep in his room. Fred had pressed for their exiled former colleague to be included in their search for the vampire, while Gunn had denied her request time and time again.

He abducted Connor, if you recall, Gunn had once said, too loudly, forgetting that Connor's excellent hearing would allow him to listen to every word, even though he was two floors above. And then he allowed that psycho Holtz to take Angel's kid to a hell dimension.

Willing his trembling forearms to bear his weight, Connor dragged himself upright to stare at the stranger who had unwittingly gifted him to the man he had called father for sixteen years. God's will, Holtz had told him often enough, yet had neglected to mention how exactly Connor had come to be with him.

Uncertain whether to feel grateful or resentful towards this Wesley, Connor gave in to neither emotion, but instead glanced over one shoulder towards the continued sounds of the fighting.

The bearded man who had taken him prisoner was engaged heavily in a sword fight, parrying blow after blow as his tireless opponent kept up the attack. Despite his own skill with an array of weaponry, Connor was grudgingly awed by the display, barely able to catch each thrust and feint as they were executed with incredible precision.

The captain was holding his own, though, moving with a surety and grace that allowed him to block each attempt to pass through his guard. He attempted a cut of his own and forced his opponent to dive under the blow, rolling forward to rise and spin and block the next move with a clang of metal.

Connor's eyes widened in surprise as he caught sight of the second swordsman, face tensed in concentration and effort…Angel.

Wesley followed his wondering gaze and nodded. "Your father," he stated, quite simply. "He's here to take you home."