TITLE: Soul Cages
AUTHOR: Eloise
RATING: PG13
DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise to put them away carefully when I'm finished.
NOTES: Chapter 1 of 8 (I hope). Set post Season 3 – story starts as canon, going AU. (Not terribly AU, you know, just enough…) The story will be told through multiple POVs: I'm hoping it will be obvious who's talking.
This chap. features some dialogue from "Loyalty" and "Tomorrow". Title of the fic, chapter titles and quotes all come from the song "The Soul Cages" by Sting (1990).
PROLOGUE: In the Chaos of Cages
The boy child is locked in the fisherman's yard
There's a bloodless moon where the oceans die
A shoal of nightstars hang fire in the nets
And the chaos of cages where the crayfish lie
Darkness falling.
The door closed behind her, her heavy scent lingering, wafted into the bedroom by the breeze from the open window. He sighed as the obviously expensive dark rose musk clouded around him, then dropped bare feet onto the wooden floor.
His clothes lay puddled next to the bed, where she had thrown them. He nudged the pile with the edge of his foot, noted with a rather wistful displeasure that his charcoal grey shirt was now completely devoid of buttons. He sighed again, sifted through the heap and retrieved his shorts and pulled them on.
He padded barefoot across the floorboards to the window, in time to see her slip out of the apartment building, bra tucked somewhat indiscreetly into her coat pocket. She paused at the car door, swung her head up towards his window, peering through tousled curls. She tucked the curtain of hair behind her ear, a sleek feline movement, grooming herself. She knew he was watching; this show carefully rehearsed. His heart stuttered then, not for her, not for now. Another lifetime, another world. A place he could not go now. Ever. He folded his arms across his chest and turned away deliberately from the window, making sure she would see him.
The irony of the situation was truly not lost on him. 'New all over' she had sneered, her cheeks flushed, slightly reddened by his grazing stubble. It had been almost a year ago. Angel had used Darla in much the same way. He had reached the literal end of his road to hell, and had been seeking to lose his soul. Had woken up to find it intact. And the result of that desperate coupling was what had landed him in this hopeless bloody situation.
God, what a mess. What an utter mess he had made of all their lives. You would think by now he would have learned. Something. About. Prophecies. To live and die and devour and… He mashed his fist against his forehead. He was always failing. He never meant to. But good intentions counted for nothing. Failure was the one constant in his life. He had that particular lesson drummed into him at an early age.
('Love can be a terrible thing'
'Used to think it would swallow you whole')
Oh, he didn't want to think these things. Didn't want to feel his hands sticky with blood, see a nightmare's distortion of his friend's features as he drained his child. He didn't want to see himself crouched in terror on the floor, the little blue bundle wrapped in his father's embrace, black blood dripping slow as oil onto the waffle weave. He closed his eyes, couldn't help it, and his fingers moved unconsciously to his throat, the jagged line still raw and new. It had flowed freely; she had cut expertly, snatched the baby before his blood had time to darken the tiny blanket.
He had dropped to his knees, praying this was a dream, a nightmare, where your feet are in clay, but you find them at last. At long, long last begin to run, hands outstretched, catch up and retrieve the baby and go somewhere you know is safe.
It had not been a dream. The baby, his best friend's son, ripped from the safety of this world and cast into a hell dimension. Dear God, what had he done. Delivered the child into the hands of his mortal enemy, without even a handful of silver to show for his betrayal.
And for that he was damned.
*~*~*~*
Darkness falling.
She felt it, in him, recognized it as an old friend, now come to fill up his heart.
('Like a little death')
She turned the key in the ignition, and fluttered a perfectly manicured nail up to touch her raw cheek. She knew it had not been her he had wanted, but still, it had been fun, pushing his buttons to see where she could get him to go. To be honest, she couldn't quite believe where he had gone.
She glanced again out of the side window. He was standing immobile, in the shadow of the curtain, his face dark. As she watched, he turned from the window and moved away.
('I wasn't thinking about you while you were here.')
She had known that, was well aware of where his thoughts lay, but it had stung. You know, maybe she had underestimated his ruthlessness, his capacity for cruelty. Definitely something to work on.
She shifted the car into gear, and patted a stray lock behind her ear. She had been serious when she had asked him how it had felt when she had cut him. Truly, she wanted to know what had gone though his mind at the moment he realized he had betrayed his friends for nothing. He had reacted swiftly, his rough hand tight about her own throat. For one gloriously terrifying moment she had actually thought he would do it.
('You terribly anxious to find out?')
His storm blue eyes had finally rested on her, and that was when she had succumbed. She desperately wanted to see this tightly repressed man out of control. Well, she had got that all right.
('Certainly know how to channel your rage, frustration and hate. So much more attractive than love.')
She had tried not to notice the self-disgust in his voice as he ordered her out of his apartment. The fact that she mattered so little to him, that his loathing was not even directed at her. Still, it was something to work on.
There had to be a hook, something to draw him in. For some it was greed, the desperate desire to crawl out of the despair of poverty. For others it was about the power. To have it all, to be the best. For her it had been a far more personal motive. Holland had seen it in her, the rage she thought she had carefully hidden. Under layers of the right clothes, the perfect face, the smart college choice, the safe, dull boyfriend. He had been undeniably adept at drawing out the darkness in her, ever so gently.
But Wesley, now his hook was simple. Written all over his tortured face. She could practically feel the guilt washing over him, his self-loathing plainly evident in the amount of alcohol he had been consuming recently. A good man, doing the wrong thing, for all the right reasons. Her only problem would be to catch him before his nihilistic slide into complete despair.
Perhaps he would see her offer as some kind of twisted penance. A kind of evil Foreign Legion. Oh, yes, that was Wesley, alright. Beau bloody Geste. Keeping that stiff upper lip, while they took his devoted loyalty and shoved it in his face. Preferably while under a pillow.
She smiled to herself in the rear view mirror, almost managing to forget those storm cloud eyes. Those little deaths – you'd think she'd be used to them by now.
*~*~*~*
Darkness falling.
For him it had fallen with his father. The man who had cherished him, protected him from the horrors, which Quortoth had provided in full measure. Trained him to fight, forced him to be strong when he had wanted to give in, give up. His father had been constant and true, the one certainty in a world of almost unbearable horror.
When he had found her weeping by his father's lifeless body, he had known there would be vengeance. The wound on his neck simply confirmed the demon's guilt. He remembered his father's lessons; the vampire was nothing more than a monster, an abomination before the sight of God. And all the more dangerous, for this was a monster with the face of an angel. And he, Connor, had almost been taken in. There was a softness to him that belied his true nature. Those awkward, tentative offers of food, shelter, warmth and comfort had made it all too easy to forget what this creature had done.
To his father's first family. The violation and torture of Caroline, his beloved, and the murder of his first little boy. He remembered how his father's eyes would always grow wet when he spoke of his baby boy, and his little girl, Sarah. He had been forced to kill her as an act of mercy.
There would be no mercy for him.
His father had tought him well. Trained him in the art of self-defence. He had explained that a vampire must be killed by a blow directly to the heart with a wooden stake, or by separating the head from the body. As he had stared at the ruby-dark puncture wounds he had known that would not do. Would not be enough.
The vampire should suffer. He needed to pay for his sins. But even as he was exacting justice, chaining the vampire into his metal prison, the creature had spoken to him, its voice so soft and forgiving, he had almost believed it. Fallen for the lies. He wanted so much to be loved, and here was this… creature offering it unconditionally. He felt his own eyes prickle, as they had done in his youth when he had been physically hurt.
('You're the prince of lies.')
And still it had whispered…
('I love you. Never forget that. Connor, never forget that I'm your father and I love you.')
He shoved his fists into his jeans pockets, gripped his knife tightly. He walked carefully along the brightly lit city street. He hated this place, with its noise and its lights, the people who lied and cheated and spent their lives in the vain pursuit of possessions, wealth and power. He almost wished he were back in Quortoth, in the shelter of their cave, his father's strong arms supporting him, telling stories of a land far away. He had been safe there; Father made sure no harm came to him. Here he was lost, spinning in a world of chaos and despair.
Here he was in hell.
*~*~*~*
Darkness falling.
She was sitting on a dark blue and white picnic rug, dressed in a pale blue sprigged cotton summer frock, ankle socks and white sandals. Now, that was scary. He sat next to her, unpacking an old-fashioned wicker hamper.
A blue and white gingham cloth was laid out on the rug, with matching napkins placed next to the basket. He poured milk into a tall, clear plastic tumbler and handed it to her.
'Now, drink up, Faith, we want to keep those strong slayer bones of yours nice and healthy. If you're a good girl and drink up all your milk, perhaps we could find an oatmeal raisin cookie for you.'
'Yes, boss.' She decided to play along, didn't seem to be much point in fighting it. She drained the milk in one long gulp, then ran the tip of her tongue across her upper lip, tasting the telltale signs of milk moustache.
'Here you go.' He smiled, and she accepted the proffered blue-chequered napkin. 'Now I think somebody deserves a cookie.'
It was a perfectly nice oatmeal raisin cookie; the only slightly unusual thing was the phrase 'Eat Me' emblazoned across it in pale blue sugar icing. She looked at him, eyebrows arched.
'Try it.'
She bit into the soft chewy spiciness, and was shocked to discover that the leftover cookie, rather than becoming smaller, now seemed to have grown in size, while she had most definitely shrunk. She wiggled her newly tiny toes inside her too-big shoes.
'Okay boss, you wanna tell me what the hell's going on?'
He did not reply, flashed her a full-toothed grin, his eyes briefly flickering to gold and back.
'What's she doing here?'
The whine in the voice, accompanied by a petulant foot stamp, made her look up. She had to tip her head right back, squinting into the rapidly setting sun. She stood, hands on hips, clad in a deep blue dress, white knee socks and black patent shoes. Her thick blonde hair was pulled away from her face by a wide blue ribbon, pouting lips and rosy cheeks daubed in matching sugary pink.
'Now, now Buffy. Play nicely with your sister.' The mayor admonished, hissing somewhat over the sibilants. Another stamp of her foot.
'She's not my sister. And she's not supposed to be here. I'm the slayer, and she's a bad, bad girl.'
She felt herself shrinking smaller, Buffy suddenly looming over her.
'She shouldn't be here. She doesn't deserve this!'
She was right, of course.
'You don't deserve this.' She craned her neck to see a dark version of herself, replacing Buffy. Black leather clad legs and hips, a tight blood red top, and dead eyes. 'You shouldn't be here. This is my place. I own you.'
She tossed something sharp and glittering in the air, and refracted light from the sunset blinded her momentarily. 'You are nothing.'
She blinked hard, rubbing her eyes with a tiny fist. When she opened them the image of her darker self was gone. And he was there.
Tall, back ramrod straight, dressed in best watchers' council uniform. Dark suit, blue dress shirt, old school tie. He even had a handkerchief in his breast pocket. Hair slicked back neatly, blue eyes almost hidden behind wire framed spectacles.
'Now, come along Faith. You really shouldn't be here.' Pompous watcher voice, every letter sounded out carefully, as if the non-pronunciation of a final 't' might just lead to the next apocalypse. She sneaked a glance at her boss. He was watching them, eyes flicking between them with impossible speed. Wesley reached into his jacket and pulled out a pocket watch, tutted in frustration.
'You can't lounge about here all day, there's work to be done.'
He took off his spectacles, polishing a non-existent speck of dirt from the lenses. He replaced them, and then clicked his tongue again. The glass was now coated with a thin film of blood. She recoiled in horror as he removed them calmly, folded them and popped them into his jacket pocket. He shook out his handkerchief, noticing for the first time the crimson stain in its centre.
'Really, this is most inconvenient.'
She scrabbled back from his accusatory glare. He unbuttoned his jacket and revealed the source of the stain. A rose of blood bloomed from a wound below his blue shirt, somewhere below his collarbone. Something sparkled next to her, and she slid her hand along the rug, fingers meeting a jagged edge.
'You never will.' He said it casually, folding his hands behind his back and gazing at her impassively.
(Shirt open, glasses gone, eyes bruised and dark. Handkerchief knotted deep in his throat. He makes no sound.)
'What did you say?' Her voice sounded small and terrified, like a little girl version of herself.
'You heard me, Faith.' Another watcherly look, stern disapproval tinged with exasperation at her slow uptake.
(Hands and feet bound tight, blood running freely from the mass of cuts she has inflicted.)
She was shrinking rapidly now, couldn't stop herself from getting smaller and smaller, until she was gone.
She woke; stared at the ceiling, her breathing becoming more regular now. Every time. Every damn dream she had, he was there. Always there, always watching. She rolled on to her side, looked out into the black sky and dreamt of a dream without him.
*~*~*~*
Darkness falling.
He reached out to switch on the antique reading lamp at the edge of his desk. A quiet click, and the room was suffused with a soft lambency from the opaque green glass shade. The gentle glow illuminated a richly panelled wall, lined with ornately carved bookshelves. He replaced the lid of his silver fountain pen, before setting it down beside his leather-bound notebook.
These things were important, when working with documents of this antiquity, this rarity. He closed the commentary carefully, and glanced down at his notes, a meticulously precise page of copper plate script. He sighed, almost inaudibly, then lifted the commentary and approached the bookcase to the left of his desk.
Long fingers trailed delicately along the spines of the volumes until he reached the books he was seeking. He removed three, revealing a small safe, which he opened with three deft twists of the combination key. Within the interior of the safe lay a scroll and another evidently ancient text, its cover lettering worn away with centuries of handling. He placed the commentary next to the other documents and then closed the safe. He whispered something under his breath, in a language that predated Latin, and the small door was no longer visible. The three books were repositioned in the shelf, and he returned to his desk. Picked up the telephone.
'Yes, Travers, it's me, … I've completed the translation. It's as we feared. I'd hoped we would have more time… No, I understand. These things are necessary.' He tapped the green leather desktop with each finger in sequence, slowly. 'Allow me a few weeks to gather my team, authenticate the information…. Very well. I will speak to you tomorrow afternoon. Goodbye.'
He slipped the receiver back into its cradle and glanced at his discreetly expensive watch. In Los Angeles it would almost be morning. Oh, how he hated that despicable country which had so corrupted them all. With its lazy debasement of the language, its neglect of anything approaching manners or discipline. It was hard to believe that its early settlers had been actually been Puritans. He detested the mere idea of having to go there.
Travers had been adamant, though. The seer had been removed, the vampire was missing, his child was out of control, and the ex-watcher was lost and falling into darkness. An apocalyptic recipe indeed.
His job, and he was good at it, he knew, was to restore the balance. There would always be evil; it was too strong a force to be eradicated. But the forces for good, they were an altogether more complicated proposition. It was easy to stand by, allow evil to work insidiously, become complicit by default. Opposing it was a difficult, painful business. It required sacrifices, and he had already made many of those. He lifted a buff coloured folder from the drawer of his desk, opened it, and began to read.
Outside, the darkness fell.
