The Angel's Knight #12 - Confronting My Past
#
New York, October 14, 2017
#
I took the earliest flight out from Los Angeles the same night Cordelia told me about Ethan and arrived in New York in the late afternoon. Jet lag will probably kick in soon, especially as I haven't gotten much in the way of sleep last night, but for the moment I'm fully awake and not looking forward to what I'm here to do.
Why am I even here? I don't really know. Yes, Cordelia has said a lot of things I should be worried about. Events in my past that, even I have to admit, don't make too much sense. I don't remember where or when I learned to sword fight. I don't know why I barely managed to get a spell together to defeat Amy's mom when I had been doing these things for years. I don't know why I have a hard time remembering any specific event from my past preceding the night we summoned Eyghon for the first time.
Is that reason enough to visit a man whose death can't come one minute too soon? I don't think so, really, but for some reason I can't quite grasp I am here, a continent away from where I really need to be.
Finding the hospital Ethan is in was not that hard. The Angel Foundation has lots of contacts in law enforcement and the government. Actually entering the building is a lot harder. I find myself filled with dread at the mere thought of going in there. Am I afraid of Ethan? No, not really. He is dangerous, I have few illusions about that one, but we have beaten him once too often for me to really be afraid of him.
What is it I'm afraid of then?
The nurse leads me to a separate room in the wing reserved for the rather well off patients. Looks like Ethan invested a sizeable chunk of his ill- gotten gains into a full health insurance package. Did he know he was suffering from a neurological disease? Or maybe it's something magical, a spell that misfired, mistaken for an illness by the doctors here. Not too likely, Ethan was always very careful when it came to magic. We both know a little too well how bad things can get when you are not careful with magic.
It all goes back to that one night, does it not? The night we all grew up in a hurry. God, were we young. So full of it, so certain that we had it all figured out. We had been doing minor spells for years by then and considered ourselves the next coming of Merlin because we could make a whiskey bottle float (after we emptied it, of course).
The wake-up call cost most of us their lives. Randall died that very night and everyone else except Ethan and me followed when Eyghon returned to hunt us down. If not for Angel Ethan and I would be dead as well and to this day a part of me can't help but think that we would have deserved it all. We summoned this creature into the world. God alone knows how many people it killed before Angel stopped it.
I shake off the memories and finally enter Ethan's room. It's empty except for a small table, a single chair, and the bed. A slight body is huddled beneath the covers and for a moment I believe the nurse has brought me to the wrong room. This cannot be Ethan, can it?
He has no hair left. His whole body seems to have shriveled in on itself, making him look much shorter than I remember him being. He looks malnourished, little more than skin and bone. There is an IV drip and the needle going into the back of his hand seems thicker than any of his fingers.
I have hated this man for the longest part of my life, but looking at him now ... maybe this is exactly what he deserves. To waste away, to die so much more slowly than most of the people he has on his conscience. Still, looking at him now, I can't find any hatred in my heart. Only a small amount of pity and a strange feeling of closure.
"I guess this is it, Ethan, old mate," I mumble to myself, not sitting down. I don't intend to stay long. "I doubt you have a very nice afterlife to look forward to."
He doesn't react to my presence, which is just as well. What could he possibly say that I want to hear? Something about my past? I doubt it. The most probably reason for my memory problems is Eyghon. Maybe he muddled things all these years ago when I let him possess me, maybe that is why I can't remember some things. Whatever it is, Ethan certainly is not in any position to help me with it, even assuming he would want to.
This trip was a waste of time. I should go.
"Ripper?"
The voice barely qualifies as a whisper and for a moment I think I imagined it. It makes me pause, though, and I can't quite bring myself to continue walking out the door. I turn around and see Ethan looking at me. His eyes are dim, unfocused, but he is looking at me.
"Hello, Ethan."
I find myself walking back towards the bed without conscious effort. I really should be going. Cordelia thinks Ethan has something to say to me, wants to apologize to me, but I really don't see what he can possibly say that I would want to hear. Or how I could possibly accept any apology he might come up with. I remember once telling Buffy that forgiveness is an act of compassion, given to people because they need it, not because they deserve it.
Maybe the fact that I am not capable of any forgiveness towards this man is a sign of weakness, but I don't really care.
"You are here," Ethan whispers, a small smile on his lips. "Isn't that strange, you being here."
I finally take the chair and sit down next to his bed, carefully out of reach of his withered hands. Ethan is never to be trusted and one does not need strength of muscle to put a spell on someone. During the flight here I prepared several wards of my own. Not magic in the strictest sense, more of an all-purpose defense mechanism to fend off any tricks Ethan might have up his sleeve. Ever since he once transformed me into a demon by spiking my drink I have been very careful.
"A friend said you might have something to tell me."
Ethan looks confused for a moment, his eyes sliding off me as if he's seeing something else, something no one but him can see. He stays silent for a long minute and I wonder whether he might have forgotten I am here.
"I think I know what happened," he finally continues, coughing between words. "I ... there was so much power in the air that night. And I wanted it so ... so badly."
"What are you talking about, Ethan?" Did he do some kind of ritual? Is that why he is here, barely clinging to sanity and wasting away before my eyes?
"I forgot," Ethan goes on, apparently oblivious to my words. "We all forgot. Or suppressed, I guess. We couldn't handle what we had done. God, what have we done?"
"We?"
He drifts off again, staring at nothing. There is a sinking feeling in my stomach, some kind of instinct that tells me his words are incredibly important. What did he do? Who is we? Did Ethan set something in motion? Is that why Cordelia got a vision of him? I still don't understand what all that has got to do with my past, my muddled memories.
"I'm sorry, Rupert," Ethan whispers, focusing on me once again. "I'm so sorry."
I feel a spark of anger and much prefer it to that earlier feeling of dread.
"What are you sorry for, Ethan?" I growl at him. "For doing your best to make my life a living hell more than once? For threatening my children? For killing innocents? Tell me what you are sorry for, old friend!"
Ethan seems to shrink back from my words and for a moment I feel a bit guilty. Only for a moment, though.
"It was all that night," he murmurs, not looking at me. "Too much power. What we did ... Chaos was the only answer. No rules, no need to make sense of anything."
He certainly isn't making any sense right now. What night is he talking about? And Chaos? Ethan started worshipping Chaos only a short time after ... that night.
"Are you talking about the night we summoned Eyghon, Ethan?"
"It shouldn't have gone like that. We thought we could control it."
"I was there."
By now I am very much convinced that he is just talking crazy. Is he going to apologize for what happened that night? Ethan has many things to feel guilty for, but that night is probably the only one among them that I cannot condemn him for. We all messed up that night. We all got Randall killed. If that is the only thing he feels guilty for than he is certainly far beyond redemption.
"Yes," Ethan says, looking at me like he sees me for the first time. "You were there. I remember. You ... oh God, I remember. It shouldn't have happened that way. I never meant to..."
There is so much anguish and pain in his eyes now that I can't help but flinch back.
"Ethan, I don't understand. Yes, a lot of terrible things happened that night, but..."
Something causes me to fall quiet. A look in his eyes such as I have never before seen on a human being. A look of such complete and utter horror and self-loathing that I think my heart skips a beat. Ethan opens his mouth and...
A moment later he falls back onto the sheets and the life sign monitor beside him shrills in alarm. Half a second later two nurses are inside, shoving me away from the bedside and working frantically to save a life that is far beyond saving. I can hear them yell at each other. A doctor comes in and says something about adrenalin or such. I don't pay any attention.
Ten minutes later they pronounce Ethan dead. Heart failure, it seems. Probably related to his disease. The brain just stopped sending the right signals to the heart and everything stopped. One of the nurses gives me her condolences. Yes, I did say he was an old friend, didn't I? I nod, not really hearing her words.
I have no clear memory of leaving the hospital or walking back to my hotel room. I probably should make preparations to head back to Los Angeles with the first flight tomorrow morning. There is much work to be done. People depend on me.
I sit down on my bed and just stare at the wall in front of me, my thoughts whirling around in circles. Ethan is dead. A small part of me can't help but be sorry for that. He was, at one time, my best friend and more. All that is no longer important, though. No, what haunts me is those final words he said. The last words he uttered before his heart failed.
The doctors can say what they want, but I know that he died because of that memory he seemed to regain at that moment. That look in his eyes... I imagine that it must have been very much like the look Angel had when he first regained his soul. When the human being he was remembered everything he had done in his 150 years as a cruel demon.
Ethan remembered something and he told me. Only it cannot be true. Just another trick? One last cruel joke to play on me before he died? Or maybe just ramblings of a madman, nonsense made up by a diseased brain in its death throes. Does it matter? It isn't true, that much is for certain. Me sitting here is all the proof I need for that, isn't it?
Ethan's last words were nothing but nonsense.
"I'm sorry, Rupert," he said. "I'm so sorry I killed you."
TO BE CONTINUED
#
New York, October 14, 2017
#
I took the earliest flight out from Los Angeles the same night Cordelia told me about Ethan and arrived in New York in the late afternoon. Jet lag will probably kick in soon, especially as I haven't gotten much in the way of sleep last night, but for the moment I'm fully awake and not looking forward to what I'm here to do.
Why am I even here? I don't really know. Yes, Cordelia has said a lot of things I should be worried about. Events in my past that, even I have to admit, don't make too much sense. I don't remember where or when I learned to sword fight. I don't know why I barely managed to get a spell together to defeat Amy's mom when I had been doing these things for years. I don't know why I have a hard time remembering any specific event from my past preceding the night we summoned Eyghon for the first time.
Is that reason enough to visit a man whose death can't come one minute too soon? I don't think so, really, but for some reason I can't quite grasp I am here, a continent away from where I really need to be.
Finding the hospital Ethan is in was not that hard. The Angel Foundation has lots of contacts in law enforcement and the government. Actually entering the building is a lot harder. I find myself filled with dread at the mere thought of going in there. Am I afraid of Ethan? No, not really. He is dangerous, I have few illusions about that one, but we have beaten him once too often for me to really be afraid of him.
What is it I'm afraid of then?
The nurse leads me to a separate room in the wing reserved for the rather well off patients. Looks like Ethan invested a sizeable chunk of his ill- gotten gains into a full health insurance package. Did he know he was suffering from a neurological disease? Or maybe it's something magical, a spell that misfired, mistaken for an illness by the doctors here. Not too likely, Ethan was always very careful when it came to magic. We both know a little too well how bad things can get when you are not careful with magic.
It all goes back to that one night, does it not? The night we all grew up in a hurry. God, were we young. So full of it, so certain that we had it all figured out. We had been doing minor spells for years by then and considered ourselves the next coming of Merlin because we could make a whiskey bottle float (after we emptied it, of course).
The wake-up call cost most of us their lives. Randall died that very night and everyone else except Ethan and me followed when Eyghon returned to hunt us down. If not for Angel Ethan and I would be dead as well and to this day a part of me can't help but think that we would have deserved it all. We summoned this creature into the world. God alone knows how many people it killed before Angel stopped it.
I shake off the memories and finally enter Ethan's room. It's empty except for a small table, a single chair, and the bed. A slight body is huddled beneath the covers and for a moment I believe the nurse has brought me to the wrong room. This cannot be Ethan, can it?
He has no hair left. His whole body seems to have shriveled in on itself, making him look much shorter than I remember him being. He looks malnourished, little more than skin and bone. There is an IV drip and the needle going into the back of his hand seems thicker than any of his fingers.
I have hated this man for the longest part of my life, but looking at him now ... maybe this is exactly what he deserves. To waste away, to die so much more slowly than most of the people he has on his conscience. Still, looking at him now, I can't find any hatred in my heart. Only a small amount of pity and a strange feeling of closure.
"I guess this is it, Ethan, old mate," I mumble to myself, not sitting down. I don't intend to stay long. "I doubt you have a very nice afterlife to look forward to."
He doesn't react to my presence, which is just as well. What could he possibly say that I want to hear? Something about my past? I doubt it. The most probably reason for my memory problems is Eyghon. Maybe he muddled things all these years ago when I let him possess me, maybe that is why I can't remember some things. Whatever it is, Ethan certainly is not in any position to help me with it, even assuming he would want to.
This trip was a waste of time. I should go.
"Ripper?"
The voice barely qualifies as a whisper and for a moment I think I imagined it. It makes me pause, though, and I can't quite bring myself to continue walking out the door. I turn around and see Ethan looking at me. His eyes are dim, unfocused, but he is looking at me.
"Hello, Ethan."
I find myself walking back towards the bed without conscious effort. I really should be going. Cordelia thinks Ethan has something to say to me, wants to apologize to me, but I really don't see what he can possibly say that I would want to hear. Or how I could possibly accept any apology he might come up with. I remember once telling Buffy that forgiveness is an act of compassion, given to people because they need it, not because they deserve it.
Maybe the fact that I am not capable of any forgiveness towards this man is a sign of weakness, but I don't really care.
"You are here," Ethan whispers, a small smile on his lips. "Isn't that strange, you being here."
I finally take the chair and sit down next to his bed, carefully out of reach of his withered hands. Ethan is never to be trusted and one does not need strength of muscle to put a spell on someone. During the flight here I prepared several wards of my own. Not magic in the strictest sense, more of an all-purpose defense mechanism to fend off any tricks Ethan might have up his sleeve. Ever since he once transformed me into a demon by spiking my drink I have been very careful.
"A friend said you might have something to tell me."
Ethan looks confused for a moment, his eyes sliding off me as if he's seeing something else, something no one but him can see. He stays silent for a long minute and I wonder whether he might have forgotten I am here.
"I think I know what happened," he finally continues, coughing between words. "I ... there was so much power in the air that night. And I wanted it so ... so badly."
"What are you talking about, Ethan?" Did he do some kind of ritual? Is that why he is here, barely clinging to sanity and wasting away before my eyes?
"I forgot," Ethan goes on, apparently oblivious to my words. "We all forgot. Or suppressed, I guess. We couldn't handle what we had done. God, what have we done?"
"We?"
He drifts off again, staring at nothing. There is a sinking feeling in my stomach, some kind of instinct that tells me his words are incredibly important. What did he do? Who is we? Did Ethan set something in motion? Is that why Cordelia got a vision of him? I still don't understand what all that has got to do with my past, my muddled memories.
"I'm sorry, Rupert," Ethan whispers, focusing on me once again. "I'm so sorry."
I feel a spark of anger and much prefer it to that earlier feeling of dread.
"What are you sorry for, Ethan?" I growl at him. "For doing your best to make my life a living hell more than once? For threatening my children? For killing innocents? Tell me what you are sorry for, old friend!"
Ethan seems to shrink back from my words and for a moment I feel a bit guilty. Only for a moment, though.
"It was all that night," he murmurs, not looking at me. "Too much power. What we did ... Chaos was the only answer. No rules, no need to make sense of anything."
He certainly isn't making any sense right now. What night is he talking about? And Chaos? Ethan started worshipping Chaos only a short time after ... that night.
"Are you talking about the night we summoned Eyghon, Ethan?"
"It shouldn't have gone like that. We thought we could control it."
"I was there."
By now I am very much convinced that he is just talking crazy. Is he going to apologize for what happened that night? Ethan has many things to feel guilty for, but that night is probably the only one among them that I cannot condemn him for. We all messed up that night. We all got Randall killed. If that is the only thing he feels guilty for than he is certainly far beyond redemption.
"Yes," Ethan says, looking at me like he sees me for the first time. "You were there. I remember. You ... oh God, I remember. It shouldn't have happened that way. I never meant to..."
There is so much anguish and pain in his eyes now that I can't help but flinch back.
"Ethan, I don't understand. Yes, a lot of terrible things happened that night, but..."
Something causes me to fall quiet. A look in his eyes such as I have never before seen on a human being. A look of such complete and utter horror and self-loathing that I think my heart skips a beat. Ethan opens his mouth and...
A moment later he falls back onto the sheets and the life sign monitor beside him shrills in alarm. Half a second later two nurses are inside, shoving me away from the bedside and working frantically to save a life that is far beyond saving. I can hear them yell at each other. A doctor comes in and says something about adrenalin or such. I don't pay any attention.
Ten minutes later they pronounce Ethan dead. Heart failure, it seems. Probably related to his disease. The brain just stopped sending the right signals to the heart and everything stopped. One of the nurses gives me her condolences. Yes, I did say he was an old friend, didn't I? I nod, not really hearing her words.
I have no clear memory of leaving the hospital or walking back to my hotel room. I probably should make preparations to head back to Los Angeles with the first flight tomorrow morning. There is much work to be done. People depend on me.
I sit down on my bed and just stare at the wall in front of me, my thoughts whirling around in circles. Ethan is dead. A small part of me can't help but be sorry for that. He was, at one time, my best friend and more. All that is no longer important, though. No, what haunts me is those final words he said. The last words he uttered before his heart failed.
The doctors can say what they want, but I know that he died because of that memory he seemed to regain at that moment. That look in his eyes... I imagine that it must have been very much like the look Angel had when he first regained his soul. When the human being he was remembered everything he had done in his 150 years as a cruel demon.
Ethan remembered something and he told me. Only it cannot be true. Just another trick? One last cruel joke to play on me before he died? Or maybe just ramblings of a madman, nonsense made up by a diseased brain in its death throes. Does it matter? It isn't true, that much is for certain. Me sitting here is all the proof I need for that, isn't it?
Ethan's last words were nothing but nonsense.
"I'm sorry, Rupert," he said. "I'm so sorry I killed you."
TO BE CONTINUED
