TITLE: The Caged Birds Sing
AUTHOR: Eloise
RATING: PG13
DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with him. I promise not to hurt him. Well, not too much.
NOTES: Chapter 4 of 5. You know, now that I've finally got here, I'm absolutely terrified. I have wanted to write this story for so long, and I've been looking for a reason to do it. The back-stories for Soul Cages gave the perfect excuse. All the time I was writing Connor, Lilah and Faith; Wes was in my head, whispering his story to me. And now it's his turn. Hope you guys like it…
This chapter is slightly different from the others; it raises some questions about Wes's childhood, which will hopefully be answered in the final chap. Not that I like cliff-hangers or anything…
Chapter Title and quote come from Soul Cages Chp.7
Chapter 4: Little Dark Places
'You know I can break you, Wesley. I know your weaknesses. All those little dark places…'
('Teuer' – 'The Ninth World')
The world outside the window was grey and leaden, typical end of summer term weather. For the previous three weeks, as he had sat his first year exams, the sun had baked the cricket pitches, turned the school gym into a sweltering approximation of hell on earth. But the day, almost the moment the academy had broken up for the holidays, the sky had darkened, clouds gathering ominously overhead. It had been threatening rain all day, but so far the weather had held, the clouds growing ever more swollen and grey.
He watched as the fields passed by lazily, a dull patchwork of green and bleached out yellow. Some of them contained large rolls of hay, already encased in black plastic tarpaulins, in readiness for the imminent storm. The train lurched gently, swaying to and fro, one of the more ancient examples of British Rail rolling stock. He guessed that these carriages were probably pre-war, each one a separate compartment, connected only by a long passageway on one side. And this was a branch line, not used by commuters, and thus not considered worthy of modernization.
Indeed, he was the only traveller in his particular compartment, and he doubted there were more than a dozen passengers on the entire train. Certainly none of his schoolmates were on board. Most of them had been retrieved by their parents, who had attended prize day, and then removed their offspring for a celebratory tea in the village cake shop.
He had known, of course, what to expect, after the letter containing details of his travel arrangements had been delivered to his housemaster the week before the end of term. Had guessed even before it arrived. He should really have been grateful they had remembered at all.
He stared out of the window, the overhead light in his compartment flickering slightly as the train juddered into a tunnel. The world outside was plunged into sudden darkness, and he studied the reflection in the window with distaste. His thin frame, too small for his eleven years, looked even smaller, due to the huge school blazer that still hung past his wrists. His mother had bought it a size too big, insisting that he would grow into it, would probably outgrow it by the end of the year. He was still waiting for that growth spurt.
His hair was short and dark, and despite frequent applications of comb and water, still quite unruly. It was currently standing up at the back in little spikes, its darkness emphasizing his pale face. His too blue eyes were framed by penny-shaped lenses; the glasses that he had to wear pretty much all the time. He hated his glasses. They were just another reason why he was not good enough, and never would be.
The lights sputtered again, and this time failed, plunging the compartment into total blackness. The reflection of the little boy vanished, and Wesley was back in the dark.
*~*~*~*
The train pulled into the village station just after three, and Wesley gathered his bags, slinging them over his thin shoulders wearily. He opened the carriage door and stepped down onto the platform, then trailed his way to the luggage compartment.
The guard eyed him with irritation, breathing out a stream of cigarette smoke.
'What do you want, sonny?'
Wesley shifted his feet uncomfortably.
'My trunk, sir. It's there, behind those sacks.'
The man sighed theatrically, and ground his cigarette under his foot deliberately.
'How do I know it's yours?'
'Um, it's got my initials on it – WWP. W-Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.' He managed to stammer.
Almost immediately the man's demeanour changed, he got that look in his eyes that Wesley had got used to seeing when he told anyone his name.
'Sorry, son. Didn't realize who you were. You just home from boarding school?' The man asked, as he hauled the heavy metal trunk onto the platform
He nodded, knew that any discussion of the true nature of his 'boarding school' was unnecessary, and also expressly forbidden.
'Your Mum and Dad coming to pick you up, then? That trunk's far too heavy for the likes of you to be carrying home.'
He felt his face flame, hated the hot rush of tears that suddenly flooded his eyes, threatening to spill onto his cheeks. He removed his glasses, brushed his hand across his eyes roughly, replacing the spectacles firmly.
'Um, I don't know.'
He looked up and down the platform, beyond the station and into the small car park nearby. It was empty.
The man was now looking at him with a hateful mixture of pity and compassion.
'Never you mind, sonny. They probably got the times mixed up. Tell you what, why don't I arrange to have the post van deliver your trunk up to the house. Then you can walk home, and give your parents a surprise.'
Wesley nodded, thanking the guard politely, as he had been taught. He set off through the station, thinking that it really wasn't that far to the house, and his other bags weren't really that heavy. He had just made it out of the village when the storm that had been gathering all day broke, and the heavens finally opened.
He trudged doggedly along the side of the road, his brown leather oxfords gradually becoming saturated. His socks were soaking wet, and rain dripped off the peak of his school cap, splashing onto his glasses.
'Bugger.' He whispered, using the worst word he knew, confident that there was no one else fool enough to be out in this weather to overhear him. He said it over and over, rhythmically, a mantra as he plodded along the verge, revelling in the sheer recklessness of the word.
He made it to the entrance gates of his house, the long gravel driveway extending before him.
'Bugger.' He said it one more time, knew he would not risk using such language within those gates.
The rain was now easing off slightly, which made him think that the gods, if they actually existed, really didn't like him very much. He wondered what it was he had done to piss them off so badly. Then remembered.
The solid oak double doors to the entrance porch were already pushed open, and he stepped onto the tiled floor, dropping his bags beside the brass umbrella stand. He wiped his feet diligently on the mat, and removed his cap, running wet fingers through his untidy hair. He hung his cap on the tall ebony hat stand, and placed his hand gently on the handle of the porch door. It opened easily, and Wesley stepped into the main hall of his home.
It was cool and dark; the heavy oak panelling that covered the walls absorbed any light that managed to find its way into the hall. Currently the only illumination was from the pale insipid rays of post rainstorm sunshine, refracted by the leaded lights in the porch door. They bounced off the intricately tiled floor and sparked the brass stair rods delicately.
He stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs, blinking furiously.
Remembering.
A childhood game, a favourite pastime, sledging down the stairs on one of his mother's tin tea trays. You had to swerve hard before you reached the second stair from the bottom, or you would hit the console table next to the entrance porch. One time he had turned too late, had gone crashing into the table, knocking the antique Tiffany lamp onto the tiled floor, shattering it into hundreds of tiny fragments.
Mum had been furious, and had sent him to his room to await judgement, which had been duly delivered by his father's firm hand. There had been no great weight of anger behind his father's reprimand; just the tiniest hint of surprise that he, Wesley, would do such a reckless thing. But that was before.
He took a step back from the staircase, and looked around him. On his right, a door opened onto the sitting room, a room full of antique furniture and expensive objets d'art. Not a room Wesley liked to spend much time in; his natural clumsiness seemed to escalate when he entered rooms such as this one.
On his left was his father's study. He wasn't sure how he felt about this room. It was rather dark and oppressive, the walls lined with deep oak shelves, heavy with leather bound volumes. Some antique texts, source books, grammars and dictionaries, a collection that was rare and unique. He loved his father's books, had discovered that he had a talent for memorizing facts, for learning and translating other languages, and he was truly fascinated by these books.
But the study wasn't just about books. This was where his father spent a great deal of his time when he wasn't at the Council, and he demanded absolute quiet in the house when he was working. Wesley had learned to move around the house silently, avoiding the room as much as possible.
He moved down the hall, past the double doors that led into the formal dining room on his left, towards the long panelled wall at the end of the passage way. On his right was another door, set into the intricately carved wood of the staircase. It was not immediately obvious, seemed to be simply one of a long expanse of panels that started at the foot of the stairs, and reached almost to the end wall. He knew it was there, though, its presence identified by a brass key set into the lock.
On the opposite wall, between the kitchen and breakfast room doors, was another long table, this one decorated by a large vase of flowers. His mother liked to have fresh flowers in the hall, even though they never seemed to survive very long in the semi gloom. The current arrangement was mainly huge white lilies, with a few stems of greenery mixed among them. The smell from them was incredibly powerful, and Wesley found himself suddenly and inexplicably tearful.
He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his blazer.
'Wesley!'
A stern voice split the silence, full of exasperated irritation. Wesley shoved his glasses back onto his nose and turned immediately, straightening his spine, squaring his shoulders, hands stiff by his sides.
His father was not happy. He was standing at the porch door, raincoat in one hand, car keys in the other.
'I have been waiting at the station since a quarter to four.'
Wesley looked at the grandfather clock at the end of the hall. Almost four fifteen.
'I called there for you on the way home from my Council meeting. Would you mind telling me where you were?'
His voice was very quiet, but Wesley knew that was not always a good sign. God, he hadn't been home ten minutes, and he was already in trouble.
'Um, the train got in at three, Father. I – I thought that…'
What had he thought? That they had forgotten him, were too preoccupied to remember to pick him up. He wasn't about to tell his father that.
'Thought what, boy? Come on, speak up.'
'I – I don't know, sir.' It was a lie, but it was the safest answer by far.
'So you decided to walk home by yourself. What about your trunk?'
This was just getting worse.
'Um, the guard at the station said he would have it sent up to the house with the post van.'
His father set the keys down on the lamp table, dropped his raincoat on a chair.
'Come here, Wesley.'
All good sense should have made him turn and run, but the instinct to obey that voice was deeply ingrained in him. Before he knew it, he was standing before the man, trying to control the trembling in his knees.
His father dropped his hand onto Wesley's shoulder, and his face creased into a frown, as his fingers felt the dampness of the grey serge blazer. Wesley swallowed silently.
'You're soaked through, boy!'
This wasn't what he had been expecting, and he raised his head at the unexpected concern in his father's voice.
'I'm sorry I walked home by myself, Father.'
The hand at this shoulder retained its firm hold, and he was turned to face the stairs. So he was in trouble after all. His father stilled him with one hand, his long fingers biting into soft muscle. Wesley tensed, waiting.
But the blow he was expecting did not fall. Instead, his father shoved him gently in the small of the back.
'Go on upstairs, boy, and get out of those wet things. When you've changed, come downstairs for tea. Your mother will be wondering where you are.'
His voice was gruff, and Wesley did as he was bid, so surprised by this unaccustomed solicitude that he almost believed his father.
Almost.
*~*~*~*
He crept downstairs as quietly as possible; aware that his father was already at work in his study, and that any unnecessary noise would have unpleasant consequences for him. His father had made that very clear during dinner the previous evening.
His mother had greeted him, rather absently, as he had known she would. He had gone to her, and kissed her lightly, and she had started, then reached up to her cheek.
'Wesley, dear, you're home. You met your father at the station, then?'
And then his father had started in on the reprimand he had clearly been itching to give. There had been a long lecture on his foolishness, and a solemn warning that such behaviour would not be tolerated. Wesley knew his father well enough to take him at his word.
He tiptoed past the study, hoping to make it into breakfast without being noticed, but his luck was out.
'Wesley, my boy. A word, if you please.'
His father sat at his desk, examining the morning post. With some degree of trepidation, he edged into the room, and with growing wariness approached the desk. He recognized the crest on the pristine white envelope that lay open on the top of the pile. His father was reading the contents of the envelope.
'I assume you know what this is?'
He felt his stomach lurch; his heart seemed to skip a beat.
'My school report, sir.'
He knew that he had done well in all his academic subjects, had gained A grades in all of them, and scored top marks in Latin and Ancient Greek. That wasn't the cause of the horrible dizzying nausea in the pit of his empty stomach. It was the results of the practical tests in his tactical fighting skills that were the source of his terror. He had fared abysmally. No matter how hard he trained, how often he practised, he did not seem to be able to improve.
'I am pleased to see that you are maintaining your studies diligently, my boy. However, I am very disappointed with your battle and tracking skills. You failed your fencing practical, and barely passed in the other disciplines.'
He paused, steepling his fingers together precisely.
'It will not do, Wesley. Wyndam-Pryce's do not fail. You know that.'
As if it was his choice to fail.
'I know, sir. I'm sorry.' He really didn't know what else to say.
The older man stood up from his desk, folded his hands behind his back, deliberately.
'I suppose I must take a share of the blame. I admit that I have not pushed you in these areas, as much as I should have. Perhaps I have allowed myself to become preoccupied.'
He now walked over to the antique ebony cabinet where the weapons were stored, took a key from his pocket, and unlocked the doors.
'That will change. We will begin a regime of training this summer, and you will improve your techniques with all these weapons.'
He indicated to the cabinet, and Wesley felt his heart sink.
'You will improve, Wesley, is that clear?'
He nodded, could not speak without betraying the tremor in his voice.
'Very well. We will begin this afternoon, with fencing practice.'
He lifted the smaller epee from the cabinet, and for a moment he said nothing, simply held the thin blade in his hand, gazing at it, lost in thought. Then he snapped back to reality.
'It's time you fulfilled your destiny, my boy.'
*~*~*~*
It had been an unmitigated disaster. The almost desperate desire to please and the fear of disappointing his father were a fateful combination. By the end of the session, every muscle in his body was aching, and his father was rapidly losing patience with him.
'Honestly, boy, you would think you had never held a sword before today. I don't know what's to be done with you.'
He had sent him to his room, and Wesley had fled gratefully, glad to be released from his father's presence. He had spent the rest of the afternoon reading the text that he had been set for that day, and had lost himself in the beauty of the Greek myths. He was to report to his father after tea, to be tested on what he had read. He didn't really mind that, knew the text as well as his father.
He carried the book downstairs; saw the reading lamp glowing on his father's desk.
'Father, I've finished the work you set for me.'
The older man set down his pen, and took a sip from the coffee cup on his desk.
'Hm. Let's hope you make a better job of your studies than you did of your fencing.'
Wesley felt his face redden.
'Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Give it here.'
Perhaps it was his eagerness to prove to his father that he could do something right. Perhaps it was the growing stiffness of his aching joints. Perhaps it was just his innate clumsiness. He moved to the desk to give his father the book, and stumbled. The book fell from his hand, and collided with the coffee cup.
Time seemed to slow. Wesley watched in fascinated horror as a dark pool of coffee bled across his father's manuscript. He raised his eyes to meet his father's. The man's face was thunderous, his eyes storm cloud grey, but his voice was calm, terrifyingly so.
Wesley, with a wisdom borne of recent bitter experience, knew enough not to cry.
Waited for the lecture to be over, for judgement to be pronounced. His clumsiness, his stupidity. He whispered an apology, aware that it was an exercise in futility, that it would not change the outcome. Obeyed the orders, hoping to appease his father, make judgement less harsh. It never seemed to.
He was overcome by a feeling of helplessness; trying to prepare himself for what was coming, yet knowing that was not possible. No help, no protection; his memories of previous times provided no clues on how to survive it.
So he bent his head, listened as the lecture was given, and silently prayed that he would be able to keep the tears inside until it was over.
Of course he couldn't. Had never been able to. So the darkness under the stairs beckoned.
His father's hand, tight on his arm, pulled him to the carved door. And he couldn't help the words that came out in a tiny scared voice.
'Please, father. I'm sorry. I'll try harder, I'll do better, I promise.' Anything, anything. Begging to be forgiven.
But the hand at his arm gripped tighter.
'You must learn, Wesley. A watcher does not cry.'
And he was pushed into the blackness of the cupboard, the door closing firmly behind him. A quiet click as the key turned in the lock.
A moment later he heard his mother in the hall, her voice soft, pleading his case.
'He's only a little boy, Roger. Do you have to be so hard on him?'
'He will be a watcher. It's his destiny now. He has to be taught these lessons.'
His voice dropped a little, and Wesley pressed his head against the door, trying to hear the rest of his father's reply.
'I was too soft before. I won't make that mistake again.'
There was the sound of retreating footsteps, and the lamp in the hall was switched off, the thin line of light under the cupboard door extinguished.
And Wesley was back in the dark.