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 5 of 5. This has been a lovely set of vignettes to write, and I want to thank all you kind reviewers of this fic, and of 'Soul Cages', who urged me to do a sequel. Still not sure I could manage that, but I did get the idea of doing this prequel. Actually, you can blame DoReMi4, who wrote in a lovely review of Soul Cages Chp.7:
'One of these days you must write a fic on the motivations behind Wesley's father's actions.'
That got me thinking, and this chapter is the result. Once again it's a little different to previous chaps - it has two POVs, and sheds some light on the events of Chap 4.
Chapter Title and Quote from Soul Cages Chap. 1
Chapter 5: Sacrifices
'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.'
('Teuer' - 'In the Chaos of Cages')
Time was distorted in the darkness below the stairs. It did not appear to obey the laws of physics, as if this small space was exempt from reality. That didn't seem such a far-fetched notion to him. Sometimes it felt like hours, time dilating wildly, the tick of grandfather clock stretching unnaturally outside his prison.
And no one came; no one acknowledged his presence in this enclosed space. And then he wondered if he actually existed in here, or if he was just a figment of his own imagination.
Out of sight, out of mind. The invisible boy.
It had been this way for over two years. He shifted against what he guessed must be the wall, and shivered. It was always cold in here. He reached up and pulled a heavy raincoat from the pegs above him, spread it around his shoulders and hunched his knees under it. It provided a little warmth, and he closed his eyes, relaxing a fraction.
The blind darkness of the cupboard served to heighten his other senses, the feel of the waxed cotton Barbour rough against his chin, the smell of it reminding him faintly of his father. Mingling with another scent, the strong pepper spiced sweetness of the lilies in the hall. It was a perfume he hated, couldn't smell without his throat constricting, his eyes flooding with tears.
He wasn't going to think about it. Not a place to go. Not when he was already so far into the dark. If he went there, he might never come back again. Might truly become invisible. Then again, considering this evening's events, perhaps invisibility might not be such a terrible thing.
As if he had a choice in that.
It was always the words that hurt most. The words stung more than his father's hand, which admittedly was fairly painful. Before, he had been strict, but always fair, and he had never spoken purposely to injure. Now, there seemed to be a calculated cruelty to his reprimands, leaving raw wounds, which could not heal.
And simply confirmed what Wesley already knew.
He was to blame.
*~*~*~*
He shifted the gears into neutral, and pulled on the handbrake, and allowed the engine to idle at the traffic lights.
'Well, boys. Which of you wants to tell me the history of the building on our right?'
There was silence from the back seat for the first few moments, and he glanced in his rear view mirror. His older boy was rolling his eyes theatrically, obviously considering himself far too old for such games. But the other little boy was looking towards the front seat nervously, clearly trying to work up the courage to speak
'Um, it's Clifford's Tower, Father.'
Another exaggerated eye roll from his older brother.
'The present stone tower was built in the thirteenth century, but the original castle keep was made of wood.'
He turned his head a little to address his younger son.
'That's quite correct, Wesley. Go on.'
The child swallowed nervously, and continued in a quiet voice.
'During the eleventh century, many of the b-barons borrowed money from the wealthy Jews of the area to fund their crusades. The, um, burgesses of the town were jealous of them and spread rumours about them.'
The child had obviously studied the subject diligently.
'And who led the attack on the Jewish community in York?'
He was thinking hard, his blue eyes screwed up in concentration.
'Um, R - Richard Malebys, Sheriff of the county. He owed the Jews lots of money. The mob began burning the Jews out of their homes, so they took refuge in the king's Castle.'
'Dates, Wesley?'
'S-sixteenth of March, um, 1190?' There was a questioning note in his response.
He nodded, quietly impressed by his son's recall of the facts.
'And the events of that night?'
'They began to burn the wooden keep on the motte beside the castle. The Jews were trapped inside. They had t-two choices. They could surrender themselves and face torture at the hands of the raging mob.
'Or?'
The little boy's voice grew softer.
'Or kill themselves.'
'And they chose the latter.'
He paused, turned the car into the car park by the River Ouse.
'A rather shameful chapter in our country's history. Certainly not our finest hour.'
He turned the engine off, and undid his seat belt, turned to look at his younger son.
'Is that what I caught you reading last night?'
Wesley shifted uncomfortably in his seat, evidently remembering the previous evening's events.
'Yes, sir.'
Perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick to chastise the boy... but rules were rules. Wesley knew better than to disobey him. He got out of the car, both boys following suit. He reached out a hand, rested it on Wesley's shoulder briefly. The eight year old trembled slightly, then became very still. Beside them, Will was already bouncing with impatience.
'Father, can we go to the Dungeons first? Please?'
He lifted his hand, and sighed.
'Very well. We can take the river path.'
'Come on, Wes!'
The twelve year old shoved his brother in the small of his back, and Wesley stumbled, almost tripping on an errant shoelace.
He sighed again, almost inaudibly, watched his sons head off along the path, the younger struggling to keep pace with his older brother.
Sometimes it was hard to believe they were brothers. Will was tall and moved with a natural ease and confidence; his blond head held high, shoulders squared. Wesley was small for his age, and was forever tripping over his feet, and bumping into things. He had hoped the situation would improve when the glasses had been prescribed, but the boy seemed as clumsy as ever.
Then there was the difference in their temperaments. Will was bold almost to the point of recklessness, living his life on the principle of act first, think later. He was forever getting into scrapes, and no amount of stern rebukes seemed to discourage him. He smiled in spite of himself. An irrepressible recidivist, with the heart of a lion.
Wesley, on the other hand, seemed to possess all the natural caution that his brother lacked. He was nervous of everything, lacked confidence in his own abilities. True, he wasn't particularly skilled in physical activities, but he was a quick study, and had a great intellectual curiosity. He would make an excellent researcher or translator for the Council. He'd never be a watcher, of course, but then that wasn't his destiny. That was Will's calling.
'William, slow down.' He called out sharply.
Wesley stopped and turned to face him obediently, but Will carried on. He sighed in exasperation and picked up his pace.
*~*~*~*
'Wes!'
He did not respond, remained perfectly still under the bedclothes.
'Wesley, you awake?' His brother hissed again.
He kept his eyes closed tight, knowing that he would not be fooled.
'Come on, Wes, I know you're awake.'
He finally gave in; sat up in the small bed and blinked at the fuzzy image of his older brother, who appeared to be kneeling on the bed beside him. He reached out to the bedside table, feeling for his glasses, and pushed them on. Will was no longer clad in pyjamas; he had changed into a shirt, trousers, and a heavy pullover, and was positively bouncing with energy. Wesley felt his heart sink.
'Come on, get dressed!'
Will thumped him lightly on the arm, and indicated a pile of clothes on the chair by the door.
'I'm sleepy, Will. What time is it?'
'Just after eleven. Hurry up and get dressed.'
He got out of bed and padded over to the chair, resignedly stripping off his own pyjamas and replacing them with his outdoor clothes.
'Where are we going?' He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from adding 'this time'.
'You heard them at dinner? Father and Uncle Henry, talking about the gathering at Whitby.'
He couldn't deny that. They had both been listening avidly to the conversation, which was one of the reasons their father had come to York to visit Uncle Henry. The council had been informed that there was to be a large gathering of vampires at Whitby, apparently in some sort of twisted homage to Bram Stoker. Dracula fanatics, their uncle had called them. It was their father's job to collect as much information as possible about these vampires, and plan an attack strategy for the council.
'Mm.' He dreaded to think what Will was planning.
'We should go. And track them, you know.'
He looked at his brother in sheer horror.
'You must be mad! It's the middle of the night, and you know we're not supposed to go out after dark. And what if Father or Uncle Henry catches us? We'd get killed! That's if the vampires don't get us first!'
What made him most angry was the smile on his brother's face. That self-assured, relaxed, mocking grin, displaying a confidence that he would never possess.
'God, Wes, who are you more scared of? Father or the vamps?' The little note of scorn in his brother's voice made him feel even more pathetic.
'It's not that. I just don't think... ' He didn't know what he wanted to say.
'Come on, Wes,' he wheedled. 'We'll be fine. I just want to practise my tracking skills. They'll never know we were gone.'
'Will, no.'
'Aw, come on! Don't be such a baby. Wes, I need you to be my back-up.'
Wesley looked up into his older brother's shining eyes, wanting desperately to be as brave and bold as Will, and not quite so afraid of the consequences if they were caught. He wavered as Will pushed up the sash window, eyeing him with something nearing contempt.
'Fine. Stay here. Be a baby.' He spat.
'No, wait! I'm coming.'
As usual, when faced with a choice between Will's disgust and his own terror, he chose the latter. It was easier to live with fear than his brother's contempt.
He pushed his glasses up nervously and followed his older brother out the bedroom window.
The night air was damp, but not too cold. Warm enough, in fact, for them to be out without their coats. Not that they would have worn them anyway. It would have been too risky to creep downstairs to collect them from the cloakroom.
They moved quietly, the younger following older, straining to keep up with the twelve year old's longer legs. The leader and the follower. As it always had been and ever would be.
'Will.' His voice so soft, barely heard above the rustle of the wind in the trees.
'What?' Exasperation evident in his brother's tone, as he stopped and turned to Wesley.
'What are we going to do if we find them?' His fear betrayed by the tremble in his voice.
'Invite them back to Uncle Henry's for tea.'
Will looked at him, and cracked a grin at the expression of horror he couldn't keep off his face.
'I'm joking, Wes. God, you are so easy to wind up!
He reached into his pocket, and brought out two freshly sharpened stakes, handing one to Wesley.
'You know what to do, right?
He stared at the weapon; the wave of terror currently sweeping over him had little to do with the actual object.
'Where did you get these?' He whispered.
'Swiped them from Uncle Henry's study. Father left them in the desk drawer.'
Wesley dropped the stake as if it were red hot. His brother picked it up and handed it back.
'Come on. Take it. We're already in trouble.'
What had happened to 'They'll never know we were gone'.
'Might as well be properly armed if we come across the vamps.'
Will turned again, and followed, more terrified than ever.
Wesley rarely disobeyed his father, lived in awe of the man, but Will never seemed to be intimidated by him. His father took pride in his elder son's abilities, his prowess in battle skills and tracking. Wesley would watch them shyly sometimes when they sparred together. His father giving instructions and directions as they fought, Will following them easily, as if his body had been designed for that purpose alone. Not for the first time, Wesley wondered for what purpose he had been designed. He swallowed and ran a little to catch up with his brother.
He should have been more forceful, should have stood up to his brother back in their bedroom. But he had been weak, cowardly, and now they were in this nightmare scenario.
It was just so dark. Will had been out in front, moving quickly across the moors, and then suddenly he had disappeared. He had frozen, rooted to the ground in terror.
'Will!' His voice suddenly sounded appallingly loud in the darkness.
There was the sound of whimpering up ahead, and he forced his feet to move towards the noise. He came to the edge of a narrow gully, and peered down into it. He could just make out a huddled shape at the bottom of the ditch.
'Will, a - are you okay?'
'Wes, I can't move.' He sounded as if he was in pain. 'I think I've broken my leg.'
Wesley knelt at the top of the gully, and looked into the dried up streambed, where his brother had fallen. He could see his leg bent awkwardly under him, and his face was deathly pale. Wesley began to make his way down the grassy slope.
'No!' His older brother hissed.
'But I can help you.'
'You're too small, Wes.' But he said it apologetically, without any malice. 'We'd never make it home. You've got to go and get help. Get Father.'
It was bad, then.
'But I can't leave you here! The vampires...'
'I'll be fine. I've got stakes; I've got my cross. Anyway, they don't even know I'm here.'
He hesitated, unwilling to leave his brother.
'Oh, for God's sake, just go! Don't be such a baby!'
At the frustration in Will's tone, Wesley obeyed.
'I'll be back soon, I promise.'
He ran then, as fast as he had ever run, twigs snapping, branches tearing at his arms as his heart thudded in his chest. He did not slow even when the lights of his uncle's house came into view. Headed straight for the front door of the house, then skidded to a halt.
Small fists hammered against solid oak, pounding as hard as he could, until the bolts were drawn back, and the heavy wooden door swung open.
His father stood in the doorway, staring at him.
For one long terrible moment, Wesley could not speak.
'What in God's name are you doing out there, boy?'
He thought involuntarily of the previous evening, when he had been caught reading under the bedcovers, after his mother had put his light out. His father had given him a solemn lecture on disobedience, followed by a more physical expression of his displeasure. He swallowed at the thought of the punishment that awaited him for this transgression.
'Father, p - please, its Will. He fell; he's in trouble. He said to get you... we were out, tracking those vampires...'
His father seized his arm, in a grip tight enough to leave bruises, and he yelped in pain.
'Where, boy?' he dragged him into the hall, into the study, his uncle standing up in surprise.
'I can show you. Please, sir, we have to hurry.'
The two men grabbed weapons from the cabinet, and they took off at speed, Wesley leading the way.
It hadn't seemed so far before. Wesley ran ahead, trying to remember exactly which fields they had passed through. Both his father and uncle carried powerful torches, which provided illumination for the immediate vicinity, but only served to make the unlit areas even more sinister.
After what felt like an age to Wesley, they reached the top of the gully. His father shone his torch downwards. The light reflected off his brother's face, but his eyes were closed now.
(He's only sleeping, he's okay, he's going to be fine)
'Will, are you all right?'
His father's voice, full of anxious concern. He was already halfway down the grassy slope.
'William, you answer me now, boy, or you won't sit for a week!'
The pale figure made no response.
(He's okay, he's just resting, please don't be cross with him)
He followed his father down into the gully, feet slithering wildly on the muddy grass. His heart beating so loud he could hear it in his ears. By now, the older man was at his brother's side.
'Will, wake up.' His father's voice was soft now, much more scary than the stern tone he had used earlier.
He slid his hand against his neck, checking for a pulse. Wesley landed by his brother as his father drew his hand back slowly. The torch by him on the ground illuminated the viscous red liquid, which now coated his fingers.
'No.' Barely a whisper, then the torch was seized, shone onto the boy's neck. Deep puncture wounds clearly visible under its harsh glare, the holes already crusting, turning ruby dark.
'No, Will, no. My boy, no.'
Beside him, his father's voice cracked, his bloodied hand flung the torch down so hard it shattered the bulb.
And they were in darkness.
*~*~*~
That was where he belonged.
He had left his brother out there in the dark, helpless and alone. Let him be killed.
And they had been in the dark ever since. His mother spent her days mourning the loss of her perfect child, reliving his funeral in the scent of lilies in the hall. It wasn't that she didn't love Wesley; it was just that she had loved Will so much more. Wesley was an afterthought. She loved him when she remembered about him.
He pulled his knees tighter to his chest, and shivered a little. His father had become harsher, would no longer tolerate weakness or disobedience. And he was so weak. Always trying to be more like him, but always failing. Making stupid, clumsy mistakes. Making Father angry. Because he would never be good enough. No matter how hard he tried, he would never be Will.
There was a distant click, and a faint golden line of light suddenly appeared at the foot of the door. The study lamp had been turned on. He held his breath, listened to the footsteps on the tiled floor outside his prison. The key was turned in the lock, and he shoved the coat off to one side, his stomach light with nerves.
His father opened the door wide.
'Out, please, Wesley.'
He obeyed, his legs stiff with cramp, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Then stood before his father, head bowed, clasping his hands behind his back.
'It's late, boy. Time you were in bed.'
A voice he can barely remember, full of gruff concern.
'Yes, sir.' He answered meekly, starting towards the stairs.
'Wait.'
He stopped, wondering if this was a trick, if he was going to be put back into the cupboard, a new twist to his punishment. He raised his eyes to his father's, and was shocked to see him in the grip of some powerful emotion.
'Wesley, these things have to be done. You understand that, don't you.'
Not really sure what his answer was supposed to be.
'Yes, Father.'
The man placed his hand on his shoulder, and he could not stop the automatic reflex that made him flinch at the contact.
'Go to bed, boy.'
He obeyed, moved towards the stairs slowly. And for one moment he imagined he could feel his father's fingers flicker onto his head in a brief tender caress. He bit his lip hard, controlling the tremble there, and headed upstairs.
The ghost of his father's touch still upon him.
FIN
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 5 of 5. This has been a lovely set of vignettes to write, and I want to thank all you kind reviewers of this fic, and of 'Soul Cages', who urged me to do a sequel. Still not sure I could manage that, but I did get the idea of doing this prequel. Actually, you can blame DoReMi4, who wrote in a lovely review of Soul Cages Chp.7:
'One of these days you must write a fic on the motivations behind Wesley's father's actions.'
That got me thinking, and this chapter is the result. Once again it's a little different to previous chaps - it has two POVs, and sheds some light on the events of Chap 4.
Chapter Title and Quote from Soul Cages Chap. 1
Chapter 5: Sacrifices
'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.'
('Teuer' - 'In the Chaos of Cages')
Time was distorted in the darkness below the stairs. It did not appear to obey the laws of physics, as if this small space was exempt from reality. That didn't seem such a far-fetched notion to him. Sometimes it felt like hours, time dilating wildly, the tick of grandfather clock stretching unnaturally outside his prison.
And no one came; no one acknowledged his presence in this enclosed space. And then he wondered if he actually existed in here, or if he was just a figment of his own imagination.
Out of sight, out of mind. The invisible boy.
It had been this way for over two years. He shifted against what he guessed must be the wall, and shivered. It was always cold in here. He reached up and pulled a heavy raincoat from the pegs above him, spread it around his shoulders and hunched his knees under it. It provided a little warmth, and he closed his eyes, relaxing a fraction.
The blind darkness of the cupboard served to heighten his other senses, the feel of the waxed cotton Barbour rough against his chin, the smell of it reminding him faintly of his father. Mingling with another scent, the strong pepper spiced sweetness of the lilies in the hall. It was a perfume he hated, couldn't smell without his throat constricting, his eyes flooding with tears.
He wasn't going to think about it. Not a place to go. Not when he was already so far into the dark. If he went there, he might never come back again. Might truly become invisible. Then again, considering this evening's events, perhaps invisibility might not be such a terrible thing.
As if he had a choice in that.
It was always the words that hurt most. The words stung more than his father's hand, which admittedly was fairly painful. Before, he had been strict, but always fair, and he had never spoken purposely to injure. Now, there seemed to be a calculated cruelty to his reprimands, leaving raw wounds, which could not heal.
And simply confirmed what Wesley already knew.
He was to blame.
*~*~*~*
He shifted the gears into neutral, and pulled on the handbrake, and allowed the engine to idle at the traffic lights.
'Well, boys. Which of you wants to tell me the history of the building on our right?'
There was silence from the back seat for the first few moments, and he glanced in his rear view mirror. His older boy was rolling his eyes theatrically, obviously considering himself far too old for such games. But the other little boy was looking towards the front seat nervously, clearly trying to work up the courage to speak
'Um, it's Clifford's Tower, Father.'
Another exaggerated eye roll from his older brother.
'The present stone tower was built in the thirteenth century, but the original castle keep was made of wood.'
He turned his head a little to address his younger son.
'That's quite correct, Wesley. Go on.'
The child swallowed nervously, and continued in a quiet voice.
'During the eleventh century, many of the b-barons borrowed money from the wealthy Jews of the area to fund their crusades. The, um, burgesses of the town were jealous of them and spread rumours about them.'
The child had obviously studied the subject diligently.
'And who led the attack on the Jewish community in York?'
He was thinking hard, his blue eyes screwed up in concentration.
'Um, R - Richard Malebys, Sheriff of the county. He owed the Jews lots of money. The mob began burning the Jews out of their homes, so they took refuge in the king's Castle.'
'Dates, Wesley?'
'S-sixteenth of March, um, 1190?' There was a questioning note in his response.
He nodded, quietly impressed by his son's recall of the facts.
'And the events of that night?'
'They began to burn the wooden keep on the motte beside the castle. The Jews were trapped inside. They had t-two choices. They could surrender themselves and face torture at the hands of the raging mob.
'Or?'
The little boy's voice grew softer.
'Or kill themselves.'
'And they chose the latter.'
He paused, turned the car into the car park by the River Ouse.
'A rather shameful chapter in our country's history. Certainly not our finest hour.'
He turned the engine off, and undid his seat belt, turned to look at his younger son.
'Is that what I caught you reading last night?'
Wesley shifted uncomfortably in his seat, evidently remembering the previous evening's events.
'Yes, sir.'
Perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick to chastise the boy... but rules were rules. Wesley knew better than to disobey him. He got out of the car, both boys following suit. He reached out a hand, rested it on Wesley's shoulder briefly. The eight year old trembled slightly, then became very still. Beside them, Will was already bouncing with impatience.
'Father, can we go to the Dungeons first? Please?'
He lifted his hand, and sighed.
'Very well. We can take the river path.'
'Come on, Wes!'
The twelve year old shoved his brother in the small of his back, and Wesley stumbled, almost tripping on an errant shoelace.
He sighed again, almost inaudibly, watched his sons head off along the path, the younger struggling to keep pace with his older brother.
Sometimes it was hard to believe they were brothers. Will was tall and moved with a natural ease and confidence; his blond head held high, shoulders squared. Wesley was small for his age, and was forever tripping over his feet, and bumping into things. He had hoped the situation would improve when the glasses had been prescribed, but the boy seemed as clumsy as ever.
Then there was the difference in their temperaments. Will was bold almost to the point of recklessness, living his life on the principle of act first, think later. He was forever getting into scrapes, and no amount of stern rebukes seemed to discourage him. He smiled in spite of himself. An irrepressible recidivist, with the heart of a lion.
Wesley, on the other hand, seemed to possess all the natural caution that his brother lacked. He was nervous of everything, lacked confidence in his own abilities. True, he wasn't particularly skilled in physical activities, but he was a quick study, and had a great intellectual curiosity. He would make an excellent researcher or translator for the Council. He'd never be a watcher, of course, but then that wasn't his destiny. That was Will's calling.
'William, slow down.' He called out sharply.
Wesley stopped and turned to face him obediently, but Will carried on. He sighed in exasperation and picked up his pace.
*~*~*~*
'Wes!'
He did not respond, remained perfectly still under the bedclothes.
'Wesley, you awake?' His brother hissed again.
He kept his eyes closed tight, knowing that he would not be fooled.
'Come on, Wes, I know you're awake.'
He finally gave in; sat up in the small bed and blinked at the fuzzy image of his older brother, who appeared to be kneeling on the bed beside him. He reached out to the bedside table, feeling for his glasses, and pushed them on. Will was no longer clad in pyjamas; he had changed into a shirt, trousers, and a heavy pullover, and was positively bouncing with energy. Wesley felt his heart sink.
'Come on, get dressed!'
Will thumped him lightly on the arm, and indicated a pile of clothes on the chair by the door.
'I'm sleepy, Will. What time is it?'
'Just after eleven. Hurry up and get dressed.'
He got out of bed and padded over to the chair, resignedly stripping off his own pyjamas and replacing them with his outdoor clothes.
'Where are we going?' He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from adding 'this time'.
'You heard them at dinner? Father and Uncle Henry, talking about the gathering at Whitby.'
He couldn't deny that. They had both been listening avidly to the conversation, which was one of the reasons their father had come to York to visit Uncle Henry. The council had been informed that there was to be a large gathering of vampires at Whitby, apparently in some sort of twisted homage to Bram Stoker. Dracula fanatics, their uncle had called them. It was their father's job to collect as much information as possible about these vampires, and plan an attack strategy for the council.
'Mm.' He dreaded to think what Will was planning.
'We should go. And track them, you know.'
He looked at his brother in sheer horror.
'You must be mad! It's the middle of the night, and you know we're not supposed to go out after dark. And what if Father or Uncle Henry catches us? We'd get killed! That's if the vampires don't get us first!'
What made him most angry was the smile on his brother's face. That self-assured, relaxed, mocking grin, displaying a confidence that he would never possess.
'God, Wes, who are you more scared of? Father or the vamps?' The little note of scorn in his brother's voice made him feel even more pathetic.
'It's not that. I just don't think... ' He didn't know what he wanted to say.
'Come on, Wes,' he wheedled. 'We'll be fine. I just want to practise my tracking skills. They'll never know we were gone.'
'Will, no.'
'Aw, come on! Don't be such a baby. Wes, I need you to be my back-up.'
Wesley looked up into his older brother's shining eyes, wanting desperately to be as brave and bold as Will, and not quite so afraid of the consequences if they were caught. He wavered as Will pushed up the sash window, eyeing him with something nearing contempt.
'Fine. Stay here. Be a baby.' He spat.
'No, wait! I'm coming.'
As usual, when faced with a choice between Will's disgust and his own terror, he chose the latter. It was easier to live with fear than his brother's contempt.
He pushed his glasses up nervously and followed his older brother out the bedroom window.
The night air was damp, but not too cold. Warm enough, in fact, for them to be out without their coats. Not that they would have worn them anyway. It would have been too risky to creep downstairs to collect them from the cloakroom.
They moved quietly, the younger following older, straining to keep up with the twelve year old's longer legs. The leader and the follower. As it always had been and ever would be.
'Will.' His voice so soft, barely heard above the rustle of the wind in the trees.
'What?' Exasperation evident in his brother's tone, as he stopped and turned to Wesley.
'What are we going to do if we find them?' His fear betrayed by the tremble in his voice.
'Invite them back to Uncle Henry's for tea.'
Will looked at him, and cracked a grin at the expression of horror he couldn't keep off his face.
'I'm joking, Wes. God, you are so easy to wind up!
He reached into his pocket, and brought out two freshly sharpened stakes, handing one to Wesley.
'You know what to do, right?
He stared at the weapon; the wave of terror currently sweeping over him had little to do with the actual object.
'Where did you get these?' He whispered.
'Swiped them from Uncle Henry's study. Father left them in the desk drawer.'
Wesley dropped the stake as if it were red hot. His brother picked it up and handed it back.
'Come on. Take it. We're already in trouble.'
What had happened to 'They'll never know we were gone'.
'Might as well be properly armed if we come across the vamps.'
Will turned again, and followed, more terrified than ever.
Wesley rarely disobeyed his father, lived in awe of the man, but Will never seemed to be intimidated by him. His father took pride in his elder son's abilities, his prowess in battle skills and tracking. Wesley would watch them shyly sometimes when they sparred together. His father giving instructions and directions as they fought, Will following them easily, as if his body had been designed for that purpose alone. Not for the first time, Wesley wondered for what purpose he had been designed. He swallowed and ran a little to catch up with his brother.
He should have been more forceful, should have stood up to his brother back in their bedroom. But he had been weak, cowardly, and now they were in this nightmare scenario.
It was just so dark. Will had been out in front, moving quickly across the moors, and then suddenly he had disappeared. He had frozen, rooted to the ground in terror.
'Will!' His voice suddenly sounded appallingly loud in the darkness.
There was the sound of whimpering up ahead, and he forced his feet to move towards the noise. He came to the edge of a narrow gully, and peered down into it. He could just make out a huddled shape at the bottom of the ditch.
'Will, a - are you okay?'
'Wes, I can't move.' He sounded as if he was in pain. 'I think I've broken my leg.'
Wesley knelt at the top of the gully, and looked into the dried up streambed, where his brother had fallen. He could see his leg bent awkwardly under him, and his face was deathly pale. Wesley began to make his way down the grassy slope.
'No!' His older brother hissed.
'But I can help you.'
'You're too small, Wes.' But he said it apologetically, without any malice. 'We'd never make it home. You've got to go and get help. Get Father.'
It was bad, then.
'But I can't leave you here! The vampires...'
'I'll be fine. I've got stakes; I've got my cross. Anyway, they don't even know I'm here.'
He hesitated, unwilling to leave his brother.
'Oh, for God's sake, just go! Don't be such a baby!'
At the frustration in Will's tone, Wesley obeyed.
'I'll be back soon, I promise.'
He ran then, as fast as he had ever run, twigs snapping, branches tearing at his arms as his heart thudded in his chest. He did not slow even when the lights of his uncle's house came into view. Headed straight for the front door of the house, then skidded to a halt.
Small fists hammered against solid oak, pounding as hard as he could, until the bolts were drawn back, and the heavy wooden door swung open.
His father stood in the doorway, staring at him.
For one long terrible moment, Wesley could not speak.
'What in God's name are you doing out there, boy?'
He thought involuntarily of the previous evening, when he had been caught reading under the bedcovers, after his mother had put his light out. His father had given him a solemn lecture on disobedience, followed by a more physical expression of his displeasure. He swallowed at the thought of the punishment that awaited him for this transgression.
'Father, p - please, its Will. He fell; he's in trouble. He said to get you... we were out, tracking those vampires...'
His father seized his arm, in a grip tight enough to leave bruises, and he yelped in pain.
'Where, boy?' he dragged him into the hall, into the study, his uncle standing up in surprise.
'I can show you. Please, sir, we have to hurry.'
The two men grabbed weapons from the cabinet, and they took off at speed, Wesley leading the way.
It hadn't seemed so far before. Wesley ran ahead, trying to remember exactly which fields they had passed through. Both his father and uncle carried powerful torches, which provided illumination for the immediate vicinity, but only served to make the unlit areas even more sinister.
After what felt like an age to Wesley, they reached the top of the gully. His father shone his torch downwards. The light reflected off his brother's face, but his eyes were closed now.
(He's only sleeping, he's okay, he's going to be fine)
'Will, are you all right?'
His father's voice, full of anxious concern. He was already halfway down the grassy slope.
'William, you answer me now, boy, or you won't sit for a week!'
The pale figure made no response.
(He's okay, he's just resting, please don't be cross with him)
He followed his father down into the gully, feet slithering wildly on the muddy grass. His heart beating so loud he could hear it in his ears. By now, the older man was at his brother's side.
'Will, wake up.' His father's voice was soft now, much more scary than the stern tone he had used earlier.
He slid his hand against his neck, checking for a pulse. Wesley landed by his brother as his father drew his hand back slowly. The torch by him on the ground illuminated the viscous red liquid, which now coated his fingers.
'No.' Barely a whisper, then the torch was seized, shone onto the boy's neck. Deep puncture wounds clearly visible under its harsh glare, the holes already crusting, turning ruby dark.
'No, Will, no. My boy, no.'
Beside him, his father's voice cracked, his bloodied hand flung the torch down so hard it shattered the bulb.
And they were in darkness.
*~*~*~
That was where he belonged.
He had left his brother out there in the dark, helpless and alone. Let him be killed.
And they had been in the dark ever since. His mother spent her days mourning the loss of her perfect child, reliving his funeral in the scent of lilies in the hall. It wasn't that she didn't love Wesley; it was just that she had loved Will so much more. Wesley was an afterthought. She loved him when she remembered about him.
He pulled his knees tighter to his chest, and shivered a little. His father had become harsher, would no longer tolerate weakness or disobedience. And he was so weak. Always trying to be more like him, but always failing. Making stupid, clumsy mistakes. Making Father angry. Because he would never be good enough. No matter how hard he tried, he would never be Will.
There was a distant click, and a faint golden line of light suddenly appeared at the foot of the door. The study lamp had been turned on. He held his breath, listened to the footsteps on the tiled floor outside his prison. The key was turned in the lock, and he shoved the coat off to one side, his stomach light with nerves.
His father opened the door wide.
'Out, please, Wesley.'
He obeyed, his legs stiff with cramp, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Then stood before his father, head bowed, clasping his hands behind his back.
'It's late, boy. Time you were in bed.'
A voice he can barely remember, full of gruff concern.
'Yes, sir.' He answered meekly, starting towards the stairs.
'Wait.'
He stopped, wondering if this was a trick, if he was going to be put back into the cupboard, a new twist to his punishment. He raised his eyes to his father's, and was shocked to see him in the grip of some powerful emotion.
'Wesley, these things have to be done. You understand that, don't you.'
Not really sure what his answer was supposed to be.
'Yes, Father.'
The man placed his hand on his shoulder, and he could not stop the automatic reflex that made him flinch at the contact.
'Go to bed, boy.'
He obeyed, moved towards the stairs slowly. And for one moment he imagined he could feel his father's fingers flicker onto his head in a brief tender caress. He bit his lip hard, controlling the tremble there, and headed upstairs.
The ghost of his father's touch still upon him.
FIN