TITLE: The Caged Birds Sing
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: This is a five chapter prequel to my fic 'Soul Cages', examining the motivations behind certain characters and their actions in that story. The title, of course, comes from a verse in the song 'Soul Cages' by Sting (you know, it really is a wonderful inspiration for this fic series!) Lines of dialogue and scenes here are from Loyalty and Sleep Tight.
Each of these chapters can be read as a standalone fic – I will be writing one for each of my five main characters, and they will be set pre-Buffy and pre-Angel Seasons 1 – in some cases, very pre! A slight warning here: read 'Soul Cages' first, as this will effectively contain spoilers for that storyline. And now onwards, to the fic!
The Caged Birds Sing
'And what's in it for me, my pretty young thing?
Why should I whistle, when the caged birds sing?
If you lose a wager with the king of the sea
You'll spend the rest of forever in the cage with me.'
Chapter 1: Love can be a Terrible Thing - Connor
'Love can be a terrible thing'
(Wesley – 'Loyalty')
'Stephen! Watch your back!'
He heard his father shout over the howl of the ever-present wind, and spun on the balls of his feet, trying to maintain his balance. The beast took advantage of his distraction, and swung its oversized arm, catching him squarely on the shoulder, its spines digging deep into his flesh.
He fell heavily to one side, saw his father hurry forward, something metallic glinting in his hand.
'No, Father! It's too strong'
He knew his father was not capable of defeating this creature on his own. He was brave and fearless, but age was beginning to take its toll on the man, and he had not the strength to fight the beast by himself. He gritted his teeth against the burning in his shoulder, and swung his own weapon around his body, using the momentum to slam the axe into the beast's shoulder. An eye for an eye, just as his father had taught him.
The creature roared in pain, and his father pressed home their advantage, shoving his dagger deep into the beast's belly, twisting it savagely. It fell to its knees, and then toppled face first onto the jagged rocks, impaling itself on a particularly sharp spike. For a moment there was no sound but the wailing wind. Then his father wiped his gore-reddened hands on his animal skins, and came over to where he lay, panting heavily.
'Are you alright, my boy?' he enquired anxiously, dropping to his knees beside him. His gentle hands began to lift the skins that covered his wounded shoulder, and Stephen pulled away.
'No. I'm… fine. I was foolish. I let my guard down.'
His father would not be deterred.
'You're hurt, Stephen. Please let me look.' His voice contained some degree of command, and he knew better than to disobey his father. He sat up stiffly, allowed him to examine his wound.
'Father, please. It's fine. You know it will heal quickly. I always do.'
The older man covered his shoulder with one of his own animal skins.
'I'm not so sure. This doesn't look so good. Do you feel hot, or light-headed?
As the other spoke, he felt a tiny shift in realities, and quite suddenly he was in his father's arms, drenched with cooling sweat.
'What happened?' His voice sounded weak.
'You passed out. I think there may have been poison in the creature's spines.'
He was hefted up carefully, and he curled against his father's chest, ashamed of his weakness.
'I think we need to get you back to the cave, my boy.' He heard his father whisper.
Then he heard no more.
*~*~*~*
He opened his eyes and blinked at the brightness of the fire next to him. His father did not usually light the fire until nightfall, and he wondered at this lapse in judgement. The man sat hunched over the fire, his smallest blade playing over the flames, until it seemed to glow as amber as the burning wood.
'Father…?' he questioned softly, his voice feeling hoarse and painful.
There was a soft sigh from the man, and he turned towards him, his dark eyes bright with liquid.
'What's wrong, Father?'
'You're badly hurt, Stephen. The creature's spines contained a poison, which is making you sick. I need to get the spines out of your shoulder, and flush the poison from your system.'
He moved towards him, carrying the knife, a wooden bowl, and a piece of broken root.
'I don't want to hurt you, boy, but I must get those spines out.'
He wasn't sure, but he thought his father might be crying.
He rolled over carefully onto his chest, exposing the wounded area.
'I am ready, Father.' He prayed that he would be able to take the pain without making a sound, making his father more upset than he already was.
He felt his father's hand on the back of his neck, a gentle pressure which he had often used to comfort him when he was younger, and had woken in the throes of a nightmare. He relaxed under the familiar touch, and prepared himself.
His shoulder was suddenly was on fire, and he was unable to prevent the childish scream which escaped him as the blade dug into his wounded flesh. His father did not hush him, held him down firmly with his other hand, as he worked the blade deeper into his shoulder.
'Please, stop! Papa, please!' A name he had not used since babyhood, it came unbidden to his lips, and he heard the older man draw a ragged breath.
'Close your eyes, my child. It will be over soon.' He whispered brokenly.
After an eternity of agony, the blade was removed, and his father poured a milky liquid onto the damaged flesh. He gasped at the coldness of the liquid after the searing heat of the knife, but almost immediately the roaring pain in his shoulder subsided to a dull ache. He felt his father's hands, gentle now, as he bound the wound with healing leaves.
His father turned him carefully onto his back, balancing his weight against his chest.
'There now, child. Drink this.'
The wooden bowl was placed against his mouth, and he sipped obediently. It tasted foul, but he was in no state to refuse it. When he had finished the mixture, his father removed the bowl, and laid him face down on his animal skins, carefully avoiding any further contact with the wound.
After this he did not speak for a while; and this time Stephen was sure he was crying.
'Father?'
'Yes, my boy?' His voice sounded strangely muffled.
'I'm sleepy. Is it time for sleep yet?'
'Yes, Stephen. It is time for you to sleep.' This time he sounded as if he were smiling a little.
'Would you tell me about your home, before you came here?'
It was a ritual they were both familiar with. As a small boy, Stephen had found it difficult to get to sleep, and his father had begun a simple ritual of a story before sleep to help him to relax. Often he told him stories from the Bible, his favourite being David and Goliath, but Stephen much preferred the stories his father told of his homeland, of the towns and people and the history surrounding them. His father cleared his throat, and Stephen opened an eye, saw that he had relaxed against the rock behind them.
'Let's see…'
He reached out with his good arm, and was rewarded with his father's hand over his own, warm and comforting. He listened drowsily to the story, drifting into sleep.
*~*~*~*
He bounced a little in his cradle, feeling rather impatient at his father's lack of concern for his hunger. He opened his mouth and made a few sucking noises, but that didn't seem to have the desired effect. His father continued folding his clean clothes. He didn't need clean clothes. He needed milk.
Oh, well. There was one sure way to guarantee results. He opened his mouth a little wider, and tested his lung capacity. Was mightily pleased with the results. Daddy came over to him immediately, and picked him up out of the cradle. He did not snuggle however. He was not in a snuggling mood. He was hungry.
His father finally seemed to be getting the message. He was plonked down in the cradle again, and with pleasure he saw a bottle of milk being set into a pan of water. Mmm, warm milk. He almost cooed with pleasure, then remembered that he was trying to get Daddy to work as quickly as possible. He gave a couple more wails for good measure, and stuffed his tiny fist into into his mouth.
What now? His father moved away from the stove and went to the door. That was not working quickly. He sobbed unhappily at this lack of attention. Another adult had entered the room. He recognized his voice, different from all the others, soft and growly, with all sorts of sounds that the other adults didn't have in their voices. He liked Uncle Wes's voice.
However, at this moment in time, he liked milk more. He wailed again softly. But the two men were deep in conversation, his father busy folding his clothes, his Uncle Wes, watching intently. For a moment he forgot to cry, so engrossed was he in trying to understand what they were saying. He recognized only his own name, and his father had said that to Uncle Wes lots of times.
Suddenly, without any warning, Uncle Wes began to laugh. It was a strange sad sound, and he wasn't sure he liked it very much. He didn't think Uncle Wes was looking very well, and he didn't see anything funny to laugh about. He was hungry, and his bottle wasn't getting any closer.
There was a rumble, deeper than he had ever heard before, and his cradle began to shake violently. This was not fun. He howled loudly in protest, and was relieved when Daddy scooped him up inside his blanket and jumped across the room with him. He snuggled tight against his chest, and wailed harder, as the sky began to fall on him. And Uncle Wes was just standing there, doing nothing. His father shoved him hard, and they all tumbled into the hallway, the door crashing shut behind them.
His father held him very tight, tiny beads of dark red liquid dripping from his head onto his blanket. It was suddenly very quiet in the hallway. He could see Uncle Wes whispering something desperately, and he wished his father would notice, because Uncle Wes looked so upset, and maybe Daddy could make him feel better. But his father's eyes never left his face.
*~*~*~*
'And it was there, in Clifford's Tower, on the eve of the 16th of March 1190, that the Jews of York chose to die at one another's hands rather than recant their faith.'
Stephen stirred in his sleep, and mumbled something under his breath.
'Fire, earthquake, blood…'
Holtz tightened his grip on the boy's hand, and rubbed his thumb over his fingers. He was delirious from the poison, he guessed, placing his other hand against his forehead, which was surprisingly cool.
'Stephen, wake up.'
As always, the child obeyed him. His eyelids fluttered open, and he looked somewhat guilty.
'What were you dreaming of?'
Stephen did not meet his eyes, dropped his gaze to his hands.
'Your story, Father. The one about the Jews and the tower. How they died – fire, earthquake and blood.'
He looked up, to see if this would satisfy. Holtz knew the boy well enough to know when he was lying, but now was not the time to admonish him for it. He reached over and patted his head gently.
'There was fire and blood certainly, Stephen, but there was no mention of any earthquake. Perhaps I should choose a less violent story, considering your suggestive state.'
He closed his eyes again, and after a few minutes his breathing became deeper and slower. Holtz kept his hand on the back of his neck, reassuring the sleeping child with his presence.
*~*~*~*
He stretched and kicked both legs out together when he heard him coming. Time for milk. His hands reached up to grab a hand. Not the cool palm of his father. Not the green of Uncle Lorne. He was lifted up and cuddled against a chest, felt the beat of the man's heart through his little frame. He fussed a little, wriggling to find a more comfortable position against Uncle Wes's chest.
That soft voice, so different from the others, began to soothe him, and he stopped fussing to hear the hum of a lullaby, the voice fuzzy and comforting. It stopped abruptly, the heart rate next to him quickened, the hands holding him stiffened, and he was set down again, ever so gently, into his crib.
More noise, not voices this time, but thumps and banging. He didn't like that at all. He was about to set up a new wail of disapproval, when he was picked up, so he settled again.
And now a familiar voice. He was placed in his father's embrace, cool hands holding him tenderly. The thrum of his deep voice was the only sound in his broad chest. His father sounded… so sad. It made him want to cheer him up, so he blew spit bubbles, and chewed his fist. But his father still looked sad.
He was lifted close to his father's face, and he stared in fascination at his mouth, wondering if he would do that funny thing with his teeth and forehead that always made him giggle. He tried an experimental gurgle, but his father did not respond.
There were others there now. His father handed him back to Uncle Wes, who held him very tightly against his body. Uncle Wes was trembling. Did Daddy know why Uncle Wes was so scared? If his father knew, maybe he could help Uncle Wes. But they were moving quickly to the door, and his father was saying goodbye.
Goodnight, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite, see you in the morning light…'Stephen.'
He could hear his father's voice calling him from the depths of sleep. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. It had been a strange dream, more like a memory, an echo of things past.
'Ah, there we are.'
He opened his eyes, and his father was cradling his head gently.
'You need to drink some more medicine.' His father brought the wooden bowl to his mouth and he swallowed a few mouthfuls, then pushed it away.
'Come on, Stephen. All of it.'
He did as he was bid. As always.
'Father?'
'What is it, my boy?'
He swallowed a few deep breaths and summoned his courage.
'May I ask a question?'
He felt his father sigh heavily.
'It's very late, Stephen. You should get some more rest.'
'Please, father?'
'Very well.'
'What was he like? The man who gave me to you?'
'God gave you to me, Stephen.' He heard a warning note in his father's voice, and thought he had better not push this too far.
'Yes, father. But the man God used, what was he like?'
For a moment there was silence, and he wondered if his father would cuff him around his ear for his insolence. But the blow did not fall.
'Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. He was a good man. He truly believed that he was doing the best thing for you. He could not leave you with that… murderer.'
He heard the pain in his father's voice as he spoke of the vampire, his biological father. The beast that would have killed him had Holtz not taken Stephen away. He thought again of his dream, of the sad eyes that belonged to a man he believed was his father. He wasn't sure that man was really a monster.
Such thoughts were heresy. His father had told him what the vampire Angelus had done to his first family, and had wept silent tears afterwards. No creature capable of such cruelty could be trusted, his father had insisted. He dropped his head low, cheeks red with shame.
'Stephen, is there something you want to tell me?'
'I… I had a dream. About him.'
He paused, and an eternity seemed to pass.
'Ah. Your father.'
He nodded dumbly, afraid to speak.
'It's alright, Stephen.' His father's tone was gentle, forgiving. 'He was kind in this dream, yes?'
Again he nodded, eyes fixed on his father's face.
'It's as I've always told you, Stephen. He is very clever. The devil is very clever. He comes to you, offering you all the things your heart desires. This is a terrible place for a child to grow up; I've never lied to you about that. And he offers you comfort, food, warmth, ease for your pain, isn't that right?'
He hid his face in his arm, felt hot tears of shame trace down his cheeks.
'I'm sorry, Father. Please forgive me.'
He felt strong arms encircle him, supporting him gently.
'Nothing to forgive, my child. You wouldn't be human if you didn't have these feelings.'
He sobbed harder.
'There will come a time when you will find a way back home. It's what we've spent all these years preparing for. When that time comes, you must remember that underneath all the kindness, the seeming goodness, he is a monster. And a very dangerous one, for he is the devil with the face of an angel. Never let yourself be taken in by him. Never, do you understand me?'
He nodded and wiped his eyes roughly. 'Yes, Father.'
His father drew him closer into his embrace.
'Good boy. Now you must sleep, and get well.'
He closed his eyes again and weariness overtook him. As he drifted into a dreamless slumber he thought he heard his father whisper.
'Sleep tight, little one.'
'Sleep tight, big guy. Daddy'll see you real soon…' The voice from his dream echoed back.