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. Or not.

NOTES: Chap 9 of 9. Thank you all so much for your kind reviews. Here we are at last, the final chapter; hope the wait hasn't been too long.

Lots of influences in this part – inspiration from the wondrous Joss - 'Becoming', 'Amends' and 'The Gift'. The man should get an Emmy.

Chapter title and quote from 'When I survey the wondrous cross' by Isaac Watts. Epilogue title and quote from Richard II, act ii sc.1. (Shakespeare). Lines quoted from the Prayer of St. Francis.

'See! from his head, his hands, his feet.;

Sorrow and love flow mingled down;

Did e'er such love and sorrow meet,

Or thorns compose so rich a crown?'

Chapter 9: Where Love and Sorrow Meet

Time slowed.

Over by the truck, Lorne and Fred huddled around Gunn, who was pushing ineffectually at their hands, protesting feebly that he was fine, he should help. Holtz had gathered Justine in his arms, and carried her over to his car. Was now holding her tight against the warmth of his body, stroking her tangled hair distractedly.

The justice demon had moved to stand beside Norman, who was watching events unfold with an expression of anguished resignation. Wesley's father, and he still had no idea what the council were doing here, stood ramrod straight, undaunted in the face of his subordinates fiery demise. His lack of emotion chilled Angel to his core.  He had more knowledge than he truly wished on the treatment Wesley had received as a child, but it was still a shock to see the cold ruthlessness of the man.

Wesley himself was now on his knees, his hand pressed to the side of his head, watching Sahjahn with an intensity which was frankly quite unsettling. The demon raised his index finger, and the mercurial bead of Connor's blood trickled to his palm, upraised as if in blessing, then dripped onto the dark earth below. Sahjhan muttered another incantation, this time under his breath, and closed his eyes in satisfaction.

At first Angel thought the spell must have failed. There was no sound, no movement in the air. Even the wind had dropped. Then, from somewhere below, there was a deep bass rumbling, growing in pitch and volume until it was an unbearably shrill whine. Finally there was an earth-shattering roar, and the fabric of the night sky was rent open, revealing a gaping fissure, a swirling, boiling mass of red orange fire.

Angel knew that he was looking into the mouth of hell.

'I'm guessing I don't need to explain what we're looking at here.' Sahjhan looked incredibly smug, as he wafted a careless hand towards the hole in the sky. 'Your basic end of the world scenario, brought about by the blood of the vampire's child. The architect of the apocalypse.' At this point he looked over at Wesley's father, and grinned. 'Just as the prophecy foretold.'

The older Englishman frowned slightly. 'You're aware of that prophecy?'

'Aware of it? Hell, I wrote it! Had so much fun with that one, all those intricate puzzles and subtle hints; had to convince the council that it was the real thing. And it worked.' He winked conspiratorially. 'Don't you just love it when a plan comes together?'

'It was false?' The cold fury in Pryce Senior's voice made Angel wonder if this was actually the first time the man had ever been played.

'See, here's the thing about prophecies. They have a tendency to come true. Even the false ones. It was just a matter of heading back to the past and rewriting it to suit my… needs. I want the boy gone. And for some reason known only to the Powers that Be, I can't do it myself. That's why I brought you into the future.' Sahjhan looked over at Holtz, disgust evident in his curling lip. 'Should have known you weren't up to the job, though. All that nauseating human emotion; all that love and pity. You reek of it.'

He looked again at Wesley's father. 'Knew I could rely on the council. Never ones to let emotion get in the way of doing what must be done. Which is, of course, killing the boy.'

'No!' Angel launched himself towards the demon, only to find himself slammed against a tree, almost impaling himself on a stray broken branch.

'Oops. Got to be more careful, vampire. Wouldn't want you to miss the big finish. Now, as you can see, we've got ourselves an open hellmouth, which is fairly unstable state of affairs. And the only way to close it, and prevent, well, the end of the world, is a blood sacrifice. Three guesses, anyone?'

Angel looked over at his son, who was still kneeling at Sahjhan's feet. But he was not cowed, not afraid; he saw the boy's hands curl into loose fists, his lips moving silently. A few yards away, Wesley knelt in a similar position, whispering softly, his words matching those formed by Connor's lips. As if to give him strength.

And suddenly the boy was upright, and moving. He spun on the balls of his feet, and launched himself at the demon, his foot aimed at the disfigured face. Sahjhan roared as Connor's heel made contact with cartilage, and blood spewed from the demon's nose. He seized the heel and flipped the boy upwards. Connor controlled the force and somersaulted backwards, landing lightly with knees bent; a cat poised to spring.

There was a hot tightness in his throat as Angel watched his son fight. He was perfect; moving with an easy grace and confidence; performing a fluid ballet of dizzying leaps and turns that was breathtaking in its beauty. And he was barely out of breath, as if the world was spinning about him, and he was its axis. And all the while, Wesley watched, his lips moving as if in silent prayer.

And then there was a flash of silver, spinning through the air, and Connor caught the short sword that Wesley threw to him. He raised it above his head and closed his eyes, chanting an incantation.

'That's it, Con, you can do it…' Wesley's whisper carried over to him.

And the boy twisted the bright blade in his skilled hands as he finished the incantation, then plunged it deep into the demon's chest. Sahjhan stared down at the hilt that now protruded from his body in shocked disbelief.

'Son of a bitch,' he breathed hoarsely, and Angel could hear the labour of blood-corrupted lungs, as Sahjhan fought to draw breath.

'Funny thing about prophecies.' Wesley was on his feet and moving towards Connor and the fatally wounded demon. He stopped in front of Sahjhan as his hand closed around the hilt of the sword. 'They are inclined to come true, despite our best efforts to the contrary.'  Wesley spoke quietly, without particular malice. 'The child sired by the vampire with a soul will grow to manhood and kill Sahjhan – that's the one, right? And you tried so hard to hide it.'

He tightened his grip on the sword and pulled it back, slowly, an inch at a time. The demon dropped to his knees, a thin trickle of blood rupturing at the corner of his twisted mouth.

'Gotta say, I – I'm impressed.' Sahjhan spat a mouthful of dark blood onto the grass and grimaced. 'I win, though.'

Wesley was casually wiping the sword on a patch of longer grass.

'Oh? How so?'

Sahjhan's eyes flicked to the hellmouth that lay open beyond the edge of the hillside. His breathing was now very laboured, the beat of his heart almost visible through the sucking wound in his chest.

'I'm headed to hell – know that,' he half groaned, a wry smile twisting his lips. 'Looks like I'm gonna have company, unless you make the sacrifice.' He looked over at Connor, who now stood at Wesley's side, still breathless with exertion and adrenaline.Then turned his gaze to Angel. 'You choose, vampire. Save your son, and condemn the world to hell.'

Then let it go to hell.

He would not do this, would not lose his son again. Angel moved forward, pressed his hand to the demon's flesh, felt the sweet warmth of arterial blood seep through his cold fingers. Managed to suppress the urge to bring his fingers to his lip and taste. He pushed hard, and Sahjhan fell lifeless to the ground, tumbling over the edge of the precipice into the burning rift in the night sky. He was sucked down, his body spinning chaotically, arms and legs now deadweight. And he was gone.

The hole in the world now appeared to have widened slightly.

'Uncle Wes?' Connor's voice was tentative, a soft question.

Wesley drew the boy into a brief embrace. 'You did it, Con. I knew you would.' Connor rested his head against the Englishman's shoulder and Angel felt a sudden flash of pure hatred for the man who had taken his place. In all but name, Wesley was indeed Connor's father.

'Angel.' Now those brilliant blue eyes were focused on him, and he read uncertainty there, as if Wesley were unsure of his reaction.

'I won't do it! I won't fulfil your damn prophecy, Pryce! There's another way, there's got to be…'

'I'm afraid there is no alternative.'

It was surprising how two men could sound so similar, yet so incredibly different. Wesley's father was standing barely ten feet away, his gun levelled at Connor's chest.

'You must see that it is necessary. Regrettable, but necessary.'

Connor's death regrettable? He would tear the man's still-beating heart from his chest. He snarled in fury, then launched himself at Wesley's father, ready to rip his throat out. Met a solid invisible wall, and recognized the protective enchantment that Wesley whispered.

Slowly became aware that Wesley had stepped away from Connor, allowing his father a clearer shot.

'Ah, Wesley. I see you've finally grasped the concept of sacrifice.' His father sounded almost proud.

'I understand, Father. There are things that must be done, for the greater good.'

Beside him, Connor sagged visibly, the realization of what was about to happen hitting him hard. 'Uncle Wes, no,' he breathed shakily, backing away from Wesley, eyes wild with fear. Angel tried to move towards his son, but his limbs were heavy, paralyzed by the protection spell Wesley had cast.

'I underestimated you, my boy. Always thought you were too soft for your own good.' There was definite wistful admiration in the man's voice.

'Gunn! Fred – Lorne! Stop him!' Desperation roughening his tone, Angel pleaded with the huddled figures by the truck. Lorne and Fred began to haul Gunn to his feet. Wesley raised his index finger and they were fixed in place, watching in impotent horror as events unfolded inexorably around them.

'Wesley! Don't do this.' Fred was pleading, a tear frozen halfway between cheek and chin. 'There must be another way…'

'This is the only way.' Wesley sounded numb, detaching himself from the emotion of the situation. 'I spent fifteen years trying to solve the prophecy, and it always comes back to this.'

He looked over at Angel, and he read intense aching sorrow in the Englishman's eyes. 'I'm sorry, Angel.'

'No! You don't apologize to me, you bastard! The minute, the very second this spell wears off, I'm killing you. You are a dead man.'

Wesley nodded. 'I understand.'

He turned to Connor, who was also immobilized at the edge of the cliff, clearly completely stunned by his uncle's betrayal. 'Connor. You trust me, don't you?'

Torn between love and terror, Connor's answer was a half sob of anguished confusion. 'I – I don't know.'

'It will be alright, Con. I promise you.' He smiled then, a sad, knowing smile; and turned to his father. 'It's time.'

'Halfrek, Norman – you must stop this... ' Angel begged, but the two stood back, watching. Norman looked at him, his dark eyes sparkling with heartfelt sympathy.

'It can not be stopped.' The justice demon spoke quietly. 'Wesley is right. The prophecies must be fulfilled.'

'Indeed.' The older Englishman slipped the safety, and aimed the gun at Connor's heart. Then fired.

Time slowed.

Angel watched the bullet leave the barrel, the superheated air about it shimmering as it travelled towards his son. Saw Wesley move, faster then any vampire, shoving Connor fiercely to the ground, to safety. Saw the bullet enter Wesley's body, just below the heart, a neat hole cauterized by the heat of the bullet. Saw the bullet exit his body, leaving a messy gaping hole in the man's back. Saw the blood-coated bullet travel into the hellmouth, the rip in reality abruptly closing as the sacrifice was received. Saw Wesley fall to the ground, the grass around him quickly darkening with his blood.

And the spell was gone.

Angel was at his side instantly, aware of Connor there also, kneeling in the damp grass. Wesley looked up at Angel, and he swore the man was doing the Eureka smile.

'The father will kill the son…'

There was a quiet click of a safety catch being applied, and Angel looked up to see Pryce Senior lowering the weapon, his face ashen, all the stiffness gone from him. 'What did you do, boy?' His voice rising on the last word, almost disappearing into a sob.

Halfrek stepped forward, and cleared her throat. 'Perhaps I should explain, Mr Wyndam-Pryce.' Her voice was ice. 'Wesley knew that there were prophecies to be fulfilled here tonight. Only the blood sacrifice of a son killed by a father could close the hellmouth. The prophecy did not specify the name of the father or son.' She glared at him then, the jewel around her neck glowing faintly. 'And of course, the prophecy had to be fulfilled. Regrettable, but necessary.'

There was a muffled thud, and the older Englishman fell to his knees, the echo of his words breaking him completely, the enormity of his actions finally overwhelming him. Angel almost pitied him.

Beside him, Connor began to sob.

'Uncle Wes, why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you trust me?' Angel thought his own heart would crack at the desperation in his son's voice. Wesley shifted his arm with difficulty, and managed to grasp Connor's hand with weak fingers.

'I'm so sorry. Knew – you'd never let me… h-hated lying…'

And Connor was weeping, fiercely, his head buried in the crook of Wesley's neck. Wesley looked at Angel, and he understood; gently lifted his son from the dying man and folded him in his arms. Felt the warmth of tears against his own neck, the shuddering of breath as the boy fought to gain some control.

'Connor.' Wesley's voice was soft now, but his son acknowledged it immediately, wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand. 'Always know that I love you.' A pause, and Angel saw fresh tears. 'I couldn't have loved you more if you were my own son.' He reached up and placed his hand on Connor's cheek tenderly, then looked over at Halfrek. 'It's almost time.'

Halfrek was looking over the edge of the precipice, and Angel followed her gaze to the line of the horizon, where the sun would soon appear.

'Captain Holtz?' Halfrek called over to where Holtz sat, cradling Justine in his arms. He looked dazed. 'This is important.' She sounded gently exasperated.

The man raised his head. 'What?'

'The last prophecy, it depends on you. On your capacity to forgive.'

Am I a thing worth saving? Am I a righteous man…?

'No.'

At first Angel thought it was Holtz who answered. Of course he could not forgive. He had taken the man's family from him. A sin too great to be absolved. And then he realized that it was Wesley who had spoken.

'It's not him. Redemption through forgiveness …' Suddenly his broken voice took on a desperate edge. 'Angel, do you forgive me?'

A sin too great to be absolved. He looked down at the teenager curled in his arms, weeping for the man who had stolen him away.

'Wesley, I – you took my son…' He wanted to forgive, truly he did, but it was just too hard. He dropped his own head, and felt the chill of tears on his cheeks.

Wesley reached over and grasped his hand, and Angel felt the dying heartbeat shudder through his own frame.

'My friend. Please. Forgive me.'

Time stopped.

Above them, the first blood-red rays of dawn were climbing to the edge of the horizon. Angel looked into the beautiful blue eyes of his friend, and saw there love and sorrow. Felt the heart rate quicken in the man's thin wrist, as he clasped his own fingers tightly around Wesley's.

'I forgive you, my friend.'

Wesley gave a small smile, almost shy, and closed his eyes. His heart ceased to beat, just as the sun rose over the horizon, and Angel's heart began.

Epilogue: The Setting Sun

'More are men's' ends mark'd than their lives before

The setting sun, and music at the close;
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
Writ in remembrance more than things long past.'

It is late afternoon, the warm haze of early summer hanging over the garden. Above, a sky as blue as the ocean, soft billowing clouds float there, the passage of time marked only by their gentle shift, and the almost imperceptible movement of the sun to the west.

Below, the garden is peaceful, as was intended, the more delicate shrubs and flowers protected by the shade of cypress trees. The soft lazy sunshine trickles through the dappling leaves like liquid light, marking the grass, lengthening shadows on stone.

Con stands, fists shoved deep into his jeans pockets, head bent, as if in prayer. Dark hair flops over his eyes, his fringe in need of a trim, as usual. He is still small for his now seventeen years, a thin delicate form that has always belied an inner strength. He slips his hands out of his pockets, smoothes them down the worn denim nervously. The bulky leather strap of his watch seems too large for his thin wrist, and he wonders idly if Connor is eating enough.

He closes his eyes briefly, long lashes flickering against cheekbones so high as to seem almost feminine. But his frame is all boy, all elbows and knees; awkward angles and sharp corners. His shoulder blades are visible under the soft blue cotton of his shirt, the sleeves rolled casually to expose his forearms.

Connor shifts, drops to his knees carefully, leaning forward to brush his fingertips over the smooth stone. Tracing the letters there, as if they were Braille, as if he were blind, and needed to touch to comprehend. He closes his eyes again, and his shoulders droop a little, but his eyes remain dry.

Behind him, the older man stands, watching. The setting sun sparks the silver strands in his dark hair, lights fine lines at his eyes, the curve at the edge of his mouth, where time has cut a groove into his cheek. This is the Shanshu, carving itself into newly human flesh, creating lines that owe to time. And the sun casts his shadow across the boy's back. Angel moves forward, kneeling next to him; places his hand tenderly on the boy's shoulder.

The boy lifts his fingers from the stone, again smoothes his palm along the fabric of his jeans, pausing to pick at a non-existent thread.

His father waits, now familiar with this ritual, his hand gentle upon the slender shoulder. Neither demanding attention, nor denying it. If Connor needs him, he is there.

'It's okay, Connor. Take all the time you need.'

And Wesley watches them, as they kneel in the quiet garden before his grave. He loves the verse they picked out, often wonders if it was Angel or Connor who chose it.

They're standing now, Angel drawing his son into a tender embrace, his hand soft upon Connor's back. And Wesley thinks that Connor might be weeping. He looks at the grave stone, and stretches out his hand, forgetting for the moment that he is not really there, that he is in what he guesses is heaven. And the thought makes him laugh, as always. Wesley the angel, and Angel the human. The Powers that Be have an interesting sense of humour.

So he draws his hand back from the stone, contents himself with watching his best friend and beloved child. For he already knows these words.

'For it is in giving that we receive;

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;

And it's in dying that we are born to eternal life.'