TITLE:  Things Past

AUTHOR:  Eloise

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise not to hurt them. Much.

NOTES: Chap 3 of 8. Thank you again for your lovely reviews. And for those of you expecting to head to Sunnydale this chapter I apologize. There are a few pieces that have to be moved into position before we get there.

Big hugs and thanks to Lonely Brit, 'superbeta girl'. Some modified quotes from 'Forgiving' in this chapter. Chapter title from Arabic proverb

'Better a thousand enemies outside the house, than one within.'

Chapter 3: A Thousand Enemies

Nigel ffoulkes nervously ran his fingers along the edge of the file, then adjusted his immaculate tie automatically. It would not do to appear in front of the upper echelons in a state of even the slightest disarray.

He had spent an inordinate amount of time preparing himself for this interview; not just on the translation, which he had painstakingly handwritten in copperplate, but on his appearance. Quite a substantial portion of last month's salary had gone on a new suit, and he had polished his glasses until they positively gleamed. This was his chance finally to be noticed, and he wasn't going to muck it up.

He tapped his fingertips absently on the file, and received a withering look from the steel-haired secretary. He mouthed an apology, and set the file on the chair next to him. She dropped her gaze, clearly uninterested in this lowly minion and his reasons for visiting the inner sanctum.

He experienced a vague feeling of self-disgust; God, what hope was there for him if he was intimidated by a bloody secretary? Granted, she had a reputation as bit of a dragon, but still, that was no excuse. He was going to have to show a bit of backbone if he wanted to impress these men.

'Mr. ffoulkes?'

The voice of the formidable dragon firmly interrupted his inner monologue, pronouncing his name distastefully, as if it held some unsavoury other meaning he was not aware of.

'They're ready for you now.'

He jumped up, as if jerked by invisible puppet strings. She viewed him with ill concealed disdain. He squared his shoulders resolutely, determined not to be bullied by this harridan, who was, after all, only an employee like himself. He moved towards the heavy oak door, raised his fist to knock purposefully.

'Mr. ffoulkes?'

He turned to her, rather annoyed at the interruption.

'You forgot your file.' She gave him a smug little smile, and returned to her typing.

He blushed furiously and hurried back over to the chair to collect his precious translation, almost tripping over his feet in haste. Then knocked the door.

'Enter.'

He did as he was bid, opening the door into the inner sanctum of the Watcher's Council.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn against the evening's chill. Illumination was provided by several brass desk lamps, their opaque glass shades casting a green glow on the richly grained cherry wood table. There was no light beyond these lamps, leaving the surrounding bookcases in shadow, and accentuating the table in the centre of the room.

Emphasizing also the men who were seated at the table. He knew some of them by sight, but more importantly by reputation. They were the men with the power. The power to direct, to choose, to intervene. He had understood that this meeting was important, but it suddenly occurred to him that this was a turning point in his life.

Twelve years he had slogged away in Prophecies and Translations, passed over again and again for promotions, applications for fieldwork constantly turned down. And then out of the blue came this prophecy; the most linguistically intricate he'd come across to date, and he'd managed to translate it. Both morphologically and grammatically complex, he'd discovered that the syntactical deep-structure was intrinsically linked to word meaning. All those years studying dead languages and dry scholarly works had finally paid off. He had been able to decipher the more obscure references, and had come up with a very viable translation. Of a prophecy which was of great concern to the inner sanctum.

'Ah, ffoulkes. Do have a seat.'

The invitation was accompanied by an airy wave of the hand, the casual gesture belying the speaker's true intent. It was not a request. Nigel moved nervously to the indicated chair, and sat down, placing the open file on the highly polished table.

'Well, it seems you have been something of a dark horse, Mr ffoulkes.' It was Travers who spoke again.

'I – um – that is to say… it was…'

God, he sounded like a terrified schoolboy. Glancing around the room once again, he realized the source of his terror. This place reminded him dreadfully of the Academy, the gentlemen present, of the masters who had made his life miserable. Not just his, of course. They had all been desperately unhappy.

He had been plucked, at age eleven, from a wonderfully carefree existence with his widowed mother, and removed to the boarding school which his father had attended. He had been vaguely aware of his father's connections with the Council, and knew that he had been killed in the line of duty, but it came as a shock to find out that the monsters he'd dismissed as childish nightmares were all too real.

There had been others there who thrived on the challenges that the school presented, others still who had fared far worse than him, but his memories of his boarding school days could be summed up by the nausea that gathered in the pit of his stomach when he drove past the Academy on his way home from London at the weekends.

'Perhaps you'd like to share your findings with us?'

He did not immediately recognize the man who had spoken, his voice was soft, yet with an underlying quality of menace which was quite chilling.

'Of course. Do forgive me.'

He began to submit his evidence, passing the meticulously translated documents around the table as he spoke. As the men nodded their affirmation and approval, his confidence grew, and he presented his case with more conviction. He finished his lecture self-assuredly, and removed his glasses with a flourish, polishing them with his handkerchief.

'A most thorough translation, my dear boy.' Travers set his papers down, and turned to the others. 'Don't you agree, gentlemen?'

There was a murmur of consent, and he allowed himself a small satisfied smile.

'You realize, Mr. ffoulkes, that there are several prophecies concerning this child?'

Again that cool soft voice floated up from the end of the table. He replaced his spectacles, and looked at the man who had spoken. The older man sat very straight in his chair, tapping a silver fountain pen gently against his copy of the translation. He seemed vaguely familiar, something about his eyes, but Nigel couldn't quite place him.

'Yes, sir. As you can see, I've cross-referenced the appropriate passages in those prophecies with this latest one.'

The man looked down, ran his pen down the margin of his copy, and then nodded thoughtfully.

'Ah. Yes. Forgive my oversight.' He did not sound particularly apologetic.

'Come now, Roger, I'm sure Mr. ffoulkes is unaware of your personal stake in these matters.' Travers again, his voice tinged with smugness.

'My personal stake?'

Nigel swore that the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees at the other man's  reply.

'You misunderstand me, Quentin,' he continued, with a pointed look at Travers. 'I merely wanted to confirm that all the relevant information had been taken into account. My son's involvement in this…' he paused, his lip curling slightly. '…scenario does not affect my views on the prophecy.'

Somehow Nigel managed not to gasp. Of course. It was obvious now, where he had seen those eyes before. Wesley's father. They had been in the same year at the Academy; friends, though not close. Wesley spent too much time studying to allow time for close friends. But he had been kind to Nigel, helping him in the curriculum areas he had been baffled by. Wesley was one of those boys who had thrived at the Academy; never seeming to pine for the holidays, or suffer from bouts of homesickness as he often had. Looking now at the father, he suddenly understood why Wesley had preferred school.

He had been ambitious, certainly, striving to excel in all disciplines, and Nigel remembered that during Wesley's tenure as Head Boy, his friend had been almost insufferably smug. But sometimes, when they were working together in their study dorm late at night, Wesley would relax, and ask Nigel to tell him about his home, his Mum and sister. And he would get a wistful faraway look in his eye, as if trying to recall some long forgotten memory of a happy childhood.

He had been so pleased for his friend when Wesley was appointed as Watcher to the Slayers in Sunnydale, and equally upset when he heard of the Council summarily firing him for events which had been beyond his control. And he'd been in disgrace ever since.

He'd lost track of Wesley after that, he did hear reports of him working with the souled vampire, but Nigel had imagined that was just a spiteful rumour. The Wesley he knew would never have betrayed his principles thus.

'We are agreed then, gentlemen.' Travers looked around the room. 'A team will be despatched to California to deal with the prophecy, and…' he coughed discreetly, 'those concerned.'

Nigel stared down at the document on the desk, his heart beat quickening. Clearly Wesley had changed. Wyndam-Pryce Senior had just admitted his son's involvement with the vampire's child, which disturbed him deeply, knowing what the prophecy foretold.

There was no way that this could end well.

*~*~*~*

Holtz sat at the table quietly, careful not to show evidence of the white hot anger that threatened to consume him. The few that had made it out of the hotel were huddled in dark corners, as far from him as possible, aware now that his plan had not succeeded.

She had not been there, at their agreed meeting place, and he was surprised at the jolt of emotional pain that accompanied this thought. Had thought himself free of attachments, tied only to his slaughtered family by twin threads of rage and revenge. He had devoted years of his life to hunting down Angelus, determined to bring him to justice, to punish him for the murder of his beloved wife and dear children. The realization that he might actually care for another shocked him deeply.

His fist closed around a cup of lukewarm tea, the skin cracking and opening along the barely healed abrasions. He had made it look real, had not held back as he had used his fists to batter that pale glowing face. Part of him was sickened by his ability to treat a woman thus, but another darker part of him knew it was necessary; deserved, even. She had gone to the man behind his back, and although in hindsight this had provided him with the perfect plan, he had been angry at her betrayal. She knew it too, knew she meant something more to him than the others, and had been perfectly willing to take the beating.

Her devotion to their cause was absolute, yet recently he had seen something else in her, something new. In the way she moved when he was present, focused on the task completely, but aware of his scrutiny. A subtle flicker in her eyes, an almost imperceptible sway in her hips, a spark of challenge when he gave orders. A delicate shift in the dynamics of their relationship, from blind hero worship to something more complex.  His acquaintance with the classics was profound, having had the subject beaten into him at school, and he was not unaware of the nature of her infatuation.

His pale Electra.

He knew her absence was not by her choice; understood too late the strength of resolve hidden within the quiet Englishman. Underestimated his determination to save the child. Not that one could censure such tenacity; Holtz had to admit a sneaking admiration for the man, despite his misguided loyalty to that creature.

The air shimmered next to him, and the tiresomely familiar apparition materialized, looking somewhat more smug than of late.

'See you're hot on the heels of the British guy.'

There was a time, an admittedly rather short time, when he had been in slight awe of this individual. It hadn't taken much familiarity to breed his contempt.

'Gave your little go-to girl a bit of a beating.' Sahjhan paused, a derisive smile marring his already disfigured features. 'Then again, you're not exactly averse to that yourself.'

For a brief moment, Holtz wished the demon corporeal, just to be able to hit him. But he was not a fool; he was not willing to risk unleashing this ungodly monster on the world, just for the simple pleasure of feeling his fist impact with its flesh. He knew of other, more permanent ways of dealing with Sahjhan.

'Anyways, your little revenge scenario for Angelus seems to have hit a snag. And I've given up waiting.' Again the creepy little smile.

Holtz couldn't prevent his eyes from rising in enquiry.

'See, Captain Holtz, haven't been completely honest with you about my sworn enemy. It was never about the dumb vampire. Just that kid of his.'

This time his head jerked up. Sahjhan laughed, a hollow mirthless sound that filled Holtz with dread.

'Guess you can't imagine what it's like to see your name up there written in blood on an official prophecy. The one sired by the vampire with a soul will grow to manhood and kill Sahjhan. Kinda freaks you out. So, I've been busy. Tweaking a little grammar here, adding an extra word there, throwing in a few obscure references for authenticity… oh, and making sure the prophecy fell into the right hands.'

'The right hands?' Holtz spoke for the first time.

'Oh, yeah. These guys have spent centuries studying prophecies. Hell, I think their ancestors wrote some of them. Pryce used to work for them, before they fired him and he ran off to play understudy hero to the souled idiot.'

'The Watcher's Council.'

Sahjhan nodded with mock sagacity. 'Bunch of uptight misogynists. And not much with the pity, either. Wasn't remotely difficult to persuade them that Connor was to be the architect of the next apocalypse; that lot will believe anything they're foretold. And they don't mess around; I believe a team is on its way to California as we speak.'

Holtz stretched his fingers out across the worn surface of the wooden table, his fingertip sliding into a tiny gouge made by his knife, weeks earlier. Hurting her.

'I think this is where ours paths diverge, then. My intention was to punish Angelus, not to harm an innocent child.'

Sahjhan shrugged lightly.

'No skin off my nose. And, yes, I'm aware of the irony.' He curled his lip. 'Revenge is such a pathetic motive. I've nothing against the little nipper; it's just a matter of survival. Kill or be killed.'

He began to shimmer again, and lifted his hand in a mocking salute.

'I'd like to say it's been fun, Holtz, but you're one joyless son of a bitch. Maybe you should loosen up, play some more games with that fiery little redhead. If she survives, of course…'

With that parting shot, the demon disappeared.

*~*~*~*

He was in deep trouble. Last time, Nick had sat behind his desk, coldly formal. He had really hauled him over the coals, lecturing him on his sentimentality, his general stupidity, and for meddling in affairs that did not concern him.

Now the older man led him through the outer office, past the wide impersonal expanse of desk, to another inner room, a small sanctuary where a cosy fire cast soft flickering shadows on the walls. The older man slumped in a worn leather club chair beside the fire and waved his hand at its match opposite.

'Sit, Norman.' His voice held no anger.

He reached over to a decanter, poured two glasses of the pale amber liquid into antique Waterford crystal tumblers. The twenty-five year old Glenfiddich, Norman guessed. He was doomed.

Nick silently handed him the glass, then took a small sip of his own, breathing out a tiny sigh.

'It's out of my hands.' He did not meet Norman's eyes, swirled the whisky around the heavy base of the tumbler, sending little sparks of reflected firelight across the polished wooden floorboards.

'Nick, I'm sorry.'

The other man shook his head slowly, suddenly looking every century of his extreme age.

'I know. I read the prophecies myself, after your initial interference. And I understand why you felt you had to intervene. But you know as well as I, that the Powers were never going to allow it.'

Even as he spoke, he was reaching over to a small lamp table, lifting a thin file and handing it to him. As he did so, Nick brought his finger to his lips and looked very seriously at him.

Norman took the file and frowned at his boss. The older man shook his head as Norman opened his mouth.

'No. Just read.'

Norman obeyed.

Before he had finished, the glass had slipped from his grasp, meeting an untimely end on the hardwood floor. Nick winced slightly.

'S-Sorry. Just read that part, you know, the bit where…'

Again Nick fixed him with daggered eyes, his finger pressed firmly against his lips. It now dawned on him that Nick was blatantly contravening the Powers' orders, risking a hell of a lot to show him this prophecy.

When he had finished, he set the papers down on the arm of the chair, looked up to meet the kindly blue eyes of St.Nicholas.

'You understand now, Norman?'

He managed to nod, still reeling a little from the details contained in the document.

'And you understand your part in this?'

He nodded again, and sat a little straighter in the armchair.

'Will it hurt?'

Nick looked down at his glass, and Norman knew the answer.

'I wish there was some other way.' Nick's voice trembled a little. 'But the Powers want to make an example of you. Can't have the lower beings overstepping the boundaries.' He grimaced sympathetically. 'I managed to persuade them that mortality was a fitting punishment. You'll be on your own, Norman. No invisibility, no flying, and no wish magic. You know what must be done.'

The elf nodded, suddenly resolute.

'Yes, sir.'

He stood up then, raised himself to his full five feet.

'I'm ready.'

Nick went to him, placed a firm hand on his shoulder. 'Good luck, old friend.'

Norman smiled gently. 'Goodbye, Nick.'

It began with a faint hum, so low-pitched that he wasn't sure he'd heard it. Then the air around him moved, slowly at first, a lazy centrifugal force. He experienced the odd sensation of being simultaneously pulled apart and squashed together.

By now the room had vanished, he was trapped in a vortex of spinning lights and colour, and yes, it did hurt. Incredible excruciating pain, as if someone had forced a knife into the flesh between his shoulder blades, and was working it deeper into his body. With shock he realized that this was the removal of his wings; they were growing into his back, disappearing. His scream seemed to echo around him, then was cut off abruptly as he landed on his back on a hard floor.

He rolled onto his side, so winded that he could scarcely draw breath. The transformation itself had been painful enough, without the added agony of landing on this already tender area. He wanted to yell obscenities at the stupid bloody Powers that Be, but was only able to manage a feeble 'ow.'

A shift in the air nearby encouraged him to open his eyes. She was kneeling at his side, watching him expectantly. She smiled in welcome, the sapphire in her locket glittering in the fading evening light.

'Norman. It's about time.'