ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
~~~~~
A roar of thunder awakens Wesley with a start. He feels around his desk for his glasses, pushing away the piles of books he had fallen asleep over. The glasses are near the clock on the desk, which reads 11:55 PM. Pulling his chair away from the table, he manages to disturb his piles, and a piece of paper flutters to the ground, drenched by the overturned glass of scotch. He bends down to pick up the paper and carefully study it.
It is not just any paper; it is a letter. An unopened letter addressed in a refined, feminine hand, sealed with a kiss. Wesley received this letter many weeks (it seems like years) ago, before everything had started and finished in chaos. He knows the handwriting well; the script of elegance that had belonged to a lady of elegance, Lilah. Lilah had probably left the letter in his apartment before he had left their relationship; he had only found it after she had left this world.
He has not been able to open it. Opening the letter would open too many fresh wounds that had been attempting to close. Her death had made certain truths painfully clear. He did not want the now free Fred, only the late Lilah. Wesley would never be happy with Fred. He wishes he had not thrown Lilah away over Fred; if Lilah had not died, he would be able to accept her the way she is, loving her in spite of her faults (many die too soon, few die too late).
So here Wesley is on the ten-week anniversary of her death, drinking scotch and trying to distract himself with his demonic books. He thinks of the life that they could have had together if he had been able to accept her...
The rain pitter-patters at the window, the clock tick-tocks at the witching hour and there is a gentle rat-a-tat at the door. Wesley walks over to the door and opens it.
There is no one there, just an endless hall of black whispers.
~~~~ Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" – This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.
~~~~
He stands there staring into the emptiness and feels a breath of cold air, smells a whiff of perfume, imagines the caress of a hand. There is still no one there, but Wesley feels presence brush by him. The scent of perfume becomes stronger and he can identify it as Chanel, the same type Lilah wore.
The thunder roars in the distance.
"Lilah?" he calls out. A crackle of lightning answers him. "Lilah?"
Wesley remembers the way he would sense Lilah waiting for him in his apartment. Before he would open the front door he would try to envision her outfit, scantily clad in only black lace panties, or fully dressed, waiting for him to find and strip her. He senses that she was somehow here now as well, waiting for him to find her again.
It is quite possible that Lilah is paying him a visit from the great beyond. In his line of work, seeing dead people is not uncommon.
"Wesley."
The whispered word reverberates in his head. He almost sees a slight movement from the corner of his eye, the flicker of a skirt.
His breath catches in his throat. He feels a pain rising in his gut, tears forming in his eyes.
"You're-
"Back for a short visit, yes. Miss me?"
He cannot see her, only hear her. Wesley tries to keep his voice clear.
"Where- "
"Down under with the fiery coals and devils with pitchforks, yadda yadda yadda? Nope, still working with Wolfram & Hart. Have a nice little office with a great view of the Acheron. It's not too bad, considering I have to share a secretary."
Lilah makes her situation sound better than it is. True, she is still working for Wolfram & Hart, with an office and shared secretary, but she does not mention the infinite stretches of boredom, the utter isolation, the knowledge that she is there forever without salvation, that she will never see Wesley again. The Senior Partners have given her this chance to speak with Wesley, she has decided, just to be able to torture her with the memories and the what-could-have-beens she might have forgotten during her stay in Hell.
She does not want Wesley to worry about her situation. He deserves to move on. (If you really believe that, why did you come visiting?)
Wesley does not believe the seemingly cheery tone in her voice. He wishes he could see her face.
"Really."
Lilah sighs.
"I really do have an office."
There is a moment of silence.
"Doesn't matter where they put me, the Hell's in my head," says Lilah. "All those stories about torture and mutilation? Hell is purely psychological."
"Yes, it is," says Wesley, feeling guilt. He understands it very well, being that he is going through his own personal Hell right now as well. He is the one who let her die.
Lilah hears his unspoken thoughts.
"Stop blaming yourself. It's not all about you, you know."
Wesley cannot help but smile a little at Lilah's declaration. He has missed her sharp edges, her sarcasm, and their arguments. He expresses this much in his next words.
"I've missed you."
"Missed me? Have you stopped missing me?"
"I miss you."
"I miss you."
There is silence for a moment, as both of them digest each other's words. Wesley cannot see the look on her face, but he imagines her softening and looking at him with almost loving eyes. He breaks the quiet reflection.
"I never thought I'd encounter you alive again," he says quietly.
"Me neither," says Lilah.
"I never understood why Jasmine had everyone from Wolfram and Hart killed." (Everyone, including you)
"She didn't want anyone undermining her plans" -Wesley almost sees her smirk- "Not like that mattered. Big bad ole law firm's back! -"
"With Wolfram and Hart, I can try to bring you back," says Wesley, interrupting her light-hearted rambling.
Lilah immediately becomes more serious.
"Don't, Wesley. It won't work."
"How are you so sure? Spike got to come back."
"The Powers like the ones who atone for all those bad, bad things they did. Me, I didn't apologize and try to do good for all. Also, Wolfram and Hart own my ass, and they want me to productively suffer in Hell for a few centuries. When I leave tonight, let me walk out of your life for good. It's better for you that way."
Wesley aches to hold Lilah, or at least see her.
"Jasmine couldn't make me forget you completely. You think telling me this will help?"
~~~~
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." ~~~~
"Try. There are a few potions out there that would help."
"I'm not just going to give up on you and leave you in Hell-"
"It was always about redeeming me, wasn't it?"
"No it wasn't! This isn't about redeeming you from your sins, this is about me! This is selfishness; I want you. I figured out the whole thing after it was too late-"
"Still too late."
"Not now, not tonight. I can try something, keep you grounded in this dimension."
He goes over to his bookshelf and hurriedly pulls out a book, then another. He imagines Lilah looking over his shoulder, her breath on his cheek.
"I have to leave." Lilah says quietly. "They're pulling me back."
"No! Damn it, I'll find something!"
"I have to leave," Lilah sharply repeats.
"Lilah!" Wesley pleads with her. "Don't go."
"Talk to the almighty god damned powers that be. I love you. "
Almost serenely she says, "I try to watch over you."
At that very moment, the window flies open, free of its fastenings and he knows she is gone. The purple curtains wave in the frigid wind and Wesley feels the icy rain on his face. Wesley finds himself back at his desk halfway across the room, where he woke up before Lilah came.
He goes over to the bookshelf, sees the books are still in their places. The door is bolted shut. He does not remember closing it.
He goes to the open window and stands there, letting droplets drip down his face, trying to judge the very thin line between sanity and delusions.
~~~~ And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore! -Edgar Allan Poe, "The Raven"
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
~~~~~
A roar of thunder awakens Wesley with a start. He feels around his desk for his glasses, pushing away the piles of books he had fallen asleep over. The glasses are near the clock on the desk, which reads 11:55 PM. Pulling his chair away from the table, he manages to disturb his piles, and a piece of paper flutters to the ground, drenched by the overturned glass of scotch. He bends down to pick up the paper and carefully study it.
It is not just any paper; it is a letter. An unopened letter addressed in a refined, feminine hand, sealed with a kiss. Wesley received this letter many weeks (it seems like years) ago, before everything had started and finished in chaos. He knows the handwriting well; the script of elegance that had belonged to a lady of elegance, Lilah. Lilah had probably left the letter in his apartment before he had left their relationship; he had only found it after she had left this world.
He has not been able to open it. Opening the letter would open too many fresh wounds that had been attempting to close. Her death had made certain truths painfully clear. He did not want the now free Fred, only the late Lilah. Wesley would never be happy with Fred. He wishes he had not thrown Lilah away over Fred; if Lilah had not died, he would be able to accept her the way she is, loving her in spite of her faults (many die too soon, few die too late).
So here Wesley is on the ten-week anniversary of her death, drinking scotch and trying to distract himself with his demonic books. He thinks of the life that they could have had together if he had been able to accept her...
The rain pitter-patters at the window, the clock tick-tocks at the witching hour and there is a gentle rat-a-tat at the door. Wesley walks over to the door and opens it.
There is no one there, just an endless hall of black whispers.
~~~~ Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" – This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.
~~~~
He stands there staring into the emptiness and feels a breath of cold air, smells a whiff of perfume, imagines the caress of a hand. There is still no one there, but Wesley feels presence brush by him. The scent of perfume becomes stronger and he can identify it as Chanel, the same type Lilah wore.
The thunder roars in the distance.
"Lilah?" he calls out. A crackle of lightning answers him. "Lilah?"
Wesley remembers the way he would sense Lilah waiting for him in his apartment. Before he would open the front door he would try to envision her outfit, scantily clad in only black lace panties, or fully dressed, waiting for him to find and strip her. He senses that she was somehow here now as well, waiting for him to find her again.
It is quite possible that Lilah is paying him a visit from the great beyond. In his line of work, seeing dead people is not uncommon.
"Wesley."
The whispered word reverberates in his head. He almost sees a slight movement from the corner of his eye, the flicker of a skirt.
His breath catches in his throat. He feels a pain rising in his gut, tears forming in his eyes.
"You're-
"Back for a short visit, yes. Miss me?"
He cannot see her, only hear her. Wesley tries to keep his voice clear.
"Where- "
"Down under with the fiery coals and devils with pitchforks, yadda yadda yadda? Nope, still working with Wolfram & Hart. Have a nice little office with a great view of the Acheron. It's not too bad, considering I have to share a secretary."
Lilah makes her situation sound better than it is. True, she is still working for Wolfram & Hart, with an office and shared secretary, but she does not mention the infinite stretches of boredom, the utter isolation, the knowledge that she is there forever without salvation, that she will never see Wesley again. The Senior Partners have given her this chance to speak with Wesley, she has decided, just to be able to torture her with the memories and the what-could-have-beens she might have forgotten during her stay in Hell.
She does not want Wesley to worry about her situation. He deserves to move on. (If you really believe that, why did you come visiting?)
Wesley does not believe the seemingly cheery tone in her voice. He wishes he could see her face.
"Really."
Lilah sighs.
"I really do have an office."
There is a moment of silence.
"Doesn't matter where they put me, the Hell's in my head," says Lilah. "All those stories about torture and mutilation? Hell is purely psychological."
"Yes, it is," says Wesley, feeling guilt. He understands it very well, being that he is going through his own personal Hell right now as well. He is the one who let her die.
Lilah hears his unspoken thoughts.
"Stop blaming yourself. It's not all about you, you know."
Wesley cannot help but smile a little at Lilah's declaration. He has missed her sharp edges, her sarcasm, and their arguments. He expresses this much in his next words.
"I've missed you."
"Missed me? Have you stopped missing me?"
"I miss you."
"I miss you."
There is silence for a moment, as both of them digest each other's words. Wesley cannot see the look on her face, but he imagines her softening and looking at him with almost loving eyes. He breaks the quiet reflection.
"I never thought I'd encounter you alive again," he says quietly.
"Me neither," says Lilah.
"I never understood why Jasmine had everyone from Wolfram and Hart killed." (Everyone, including you)
"She didn't want anyone undermining her plans" -Wesley almost sees her smirk- "Not like that mattered. Big bad ole law firm's back! -"
"With Wolfram and Hart, I can try to bring you back," says Wesley, interrupting her light-hearted rambling.
Lilah immediately becomes more serious.
"Don't, Wesley. It won't work."
"How are you so sure? Spike got to come back."
"The Powers like the ones who atone for all those bad, bad things they did. Me, I didn't apologize and try to do good for all. Also, Wolfram and Hart own my ass, and they want me to productively suffer in Hell for a few centuries. When I leave tonight, let me walk out of your life for good. It's better for you that way."
Wesley aches to hold Lilah, or at least see her.
"Jasmine couldn't make me forget you completely. You think telling me this will help?"
~~~~
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." ~~~~
"Try. There are a few potions out there that would help."
"I'm not just going to give up on you and leave you in Hell-"
"It was always about redeeming me, wasn't it?"
"No it wasn't! This isn't about redeeming you from your sins, this is about me! This is selfishness; I want you. I figured out the whole thing after it was too late-"
"Still too late."
"Not now, not tonight. I can try something, keep you grounded in this dimension."
He goes over to his bookshelf and hurriedly pulls out a book, then another. He imagines Lilah looking over his shoulder, her breath on his cheek.
"I have to leave." Lilah says quietly. "They're pulling me back."
"No! Damn it, I'll find something!"
"I have to leave," Lilah sharply repeats.
"Lilah!" Wesley pleads with her. "Don't go."
"Talk to the almighty god damned powers that be. I love you. "
Almost serenely she says, "I try to watch over you."
At that very moment, the window flies open, free of its fastenings and he knows she is gone. The purple curtains wave in the frigid wind and Wesley feels the icy rain on his face. Wesley finds himself back at his desk halfway across the room, where he woke up before Lilah came.
He goes over to the bookshelf, sees the books are still in their places. The door is bolted shut. He does not remember closing it.
He goes to the open window and stands there, letting droplets drip down his face, trying to judge the very thin line between sanity and delusions.
~~~~ And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore! -Edgar Allan Poe, "The Raven"