TITLE: A Cold World's Ruth
AUTHOR: Eloise
RATING: PG13
DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, Giles and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I won't hurt them any more than Joss does. Which isn't much of a comfort really.
SPOILERS: Through ep 5.22 - "Not Fade Away"
NOTES: This is a short standalone piece which was inspired by a drabble I wrote a while back. I owe a debt of gratitude to my betas on this fic, Jane Davitt and Lonely Brit, who really had their work cut out for them. LB, especially, has the patience of a saint.
The title and quote are from the poem "Bring Them Not Back" by James Benjamin Kenyon. The word 'ruth' in the title comes from Middle English and means 'comfort' or 'sympathy'.
A Cold World's Ruth
"Let the pale stars keep vigil all night long.
O death, call not the holy dead to rise,
Again to feel the cold world's ruth and wrong."
('Bring Them Not Back' – James Benjamin Kenyon)
He slammed the receiver down hard, hoping that somewhere across an ocean the force of his displeasure was fully understood. Displeasure didn't actually begin to describe his current emotional state. Anger and bitterness and just the merest hint of something he didn't want to admit was sympathy seemed better descriptors for his mood.
"Stupid bloody vampire."
He whispered it softly, recalling the crack in Angel's voice as he had answered his terse questions about the plan, and Wesley's part in it. He had needed to know; the short letter that Angel had sent with Wesley's journals told him nothing more than the fact of his death. And then the vampire had the gall to ask this favour.
"You know him better than I do, Giles." Plaintively manipulating.
"I was given to understand you had been introduced recently." Icily formal.
"That's… you know it's not the same thing." Purposely wounded.
"An extremely good copy, by all accounts." Intentionally bitter.
"Giles, I… I can't. It shouldn't be me. Wes deserves better than that." Quietly pleading.
And he was right. It wasn't just about passing the buck, although Angel hadn't made much of an effort to hide the relief in his voice when Giles had finally agreed. The man should not hear it from a creature he despised, whose opinion counted for nothing. He would not appreciate the heroic nature of Wesley's sacrifice as testified by a souled vampire.
No, as much as he disliked the idea, it was better that the news come from him. Although the old guard disapproved of his methods, they showed him a certain grudging respect. The details of Wesley's last battle should be conveyed by a fellow Watcher, one who understood and respected his sacrifice, even if he didn't condone it.
He folded the letter and placed it in his diary. He did not need it; had read every word scrawled on that sheet until he could recite it by rote. As if on each new reading he would discover some hidden meaning, a secret message that belied the stark truths therein. He had known from the first that such a quest was an exercise in futility. Wesley was dead. And no amount of foolish searching was going to change that.
He ran his thumb down the impressive stack of papers in his in-tray, and mused on the importance of field reports from Rome, Cleveland and whatever other godforsaken hellmouths they had operatives in. These could not wait, he was sure of it, he needed to read them straight away… and suddenly realized he had almost convinced himself that rubber stamping stationery requisitions qualified as top priority and absolutely crucial. The words avoidance strategy floated into his mind.
There was no point in postponing it. The man had to be told, and it wasn't going to get any easier. He reached over and lifted the 'phone.
"Cecilia? Would you get me Mr Wyndam-Pryce's office? Thanks."
He took the stairs.
The lifts in this place were almost identical to those in the previous Council Headquarters; horribly antiquated and terrifyingly rickety. You could hear every groan and wheeze of the gears as they struggled to transport their cargo to the various upper floors. There was never any guarantee you would arrive at the floor of your choice; the device seemed to possess a will of its own, functioning independently of its occupant.
In fact, the whole building seemed in possession of that same autonomy. He had noticed it as soon as he came to work at Headquarters. He should have realized the Council would not choose a modern building as their new offices. The importance of tradition and ritual were reflected in the very architecture of the structure, a restored early eighteenth century library that oozed history from every hand-carved oak panel and positively hummed with erudition. He pushed the double doors that led onto the third floor. The only source of natural light was a small stained glass window at the far end of the corridor, and the intricate leading, combined with the jewel-coloured glass, did nothing to improve the already oppressive interior.
He remembered his father bringing him to Council Headquarters as a child, and feeling rather intimidated as he was led through a succession of gloomy halls and corridors. It had been intentional, he understood later, with some degree of resentment. His father had wanted to impress upon him the importance of his calling, the gravitas of his situation. His main memory was of the gargoyles that lurked at every corner, spying on his surreptitious illicit games, ready to take to the air in pursuit of an unruly ten year old. They had provided him with some memorably vivid nightmares.
There was no evidence of gargoyles in this building thus far, although some of the carved panels were impressively gruesome. He wondered if Wesley had been brought to his father's office as a boy; been steered through dark halls and warned to keep silent. Somehow he couldn't imagine Wesley disobeying his father and sneaking off to play marbles in the cloisters.
He was already at Roger Wyndam-Pryce's door. The man had provided much of the capital needed to purchase the new building after the bombing, and consequently possessed one of the most impressive office suites. He knew that the Wyndam-Pryces were old money, but he was sure that most of it was tied up in the family estate in Hampshire. He wondered how Pryce had managed to find enough surplus cash to finance the purchase and refurbishment of such a prestigious property.
He knocked firmly on the solid double doors and pushed them open. Pryce's secretary glanced at him over her spectacles in a brief acknowledgment of his arrival, and then returned to her typing. She was clearly a traditionalist; a steel-haired iron matron who performed her job exceptionally well, with just a hint of condescension. The sort of secretary who was described as a treasure by her boss and as a battle-axe by the rest of the world.
"Mr Giles." Her tone was faultlessly polite. "Mr Wyndam-Pryce will see you now."
"Thank you so much," he replied pleasantly, then gave the connecting door a brief courteous tap and entered the inner office.
"Ah, Giles. " Pryce leaned back in his chair and removed a watch from his waistcoat pocket. "A little early, but that's infinitely preferable to tardiness." He smiled graciously, and slipped the silver casing back into his pocket. "You'll have to forgive me; punctuality is a little foible of mine."
He waved his hand vaguely at the chair positioned in front of the desk. "Please, have a seat."
Giles purposely ignored the indicated chair, and sat down instead in one of the leather armchairs in front of the fireplace. Just so things were clear.
"Roger. Thank you for seeing me at such short notice." He could feel the temperature in the room drop a degree at the casual use of his first name.
Pryce stood up. "Tea, Rupert?" Leaning intentionally on his own name.
"Thank you, yes. Tea sounds fine." A stiff double Scotch would sound even better, but there was no likelihood of such an offer here. Pryce pressed a button on his desk, then moved to sit in the chair opposite. "Now what was it you wanted to see me about? That couldn't wait until tomorrow's staff meeting?" There was a hint of reproach in his tone.
"It's actually on a matter of a personal nature." Inwardly he cursed Angel for forcing him into this detestable situation.
"Indeed?" he said calmly. "Please continue."
The arrival of tea had never been more welcome. It was presented in delicate fine bone china, and tasted wonderful. He was depressingly familiar with the stewed tar they laughingly called tea in the staff canteen, and was unable to repress a sigh of pleasure as he took a sip.
"Wonderful." He gestured helplessly to his cup.
Pryce nodded smugly. "I insist upon proper preparation; can't abide those dreadful little paper bags with strings and such nonsense."
Perhaps they could just sit here and talk about tea all day. That, at least, was common ground.
"Now, this personal matter. Perhaps you could enlighten me?"
He set his cup down carefully and looked up at the row of photographs that were displayed along the mantelpiece. One of a much younger Roger, taken at his graduation, flanked by proud parents. A wedding picture, Wesley's mother in an expensively understated gown, Roger in full morning dress. Older Wyndam-Pryces; two generations of watchers in stiff formal poses. Wesley was conspicuous by his absence. As if he did not exist. A failure that could not be acknowledged.
"It concerns your son."
His reaction was barely discernible. He took another sip of tea, then placed the cup on a low table. Reached down to brush an imaginary speck of dirt from his immaculate trousers.
"I see." His voice was impassive, revealing no emotion.
And Giles told him. Of the Circle of the Black Thorn, of Angel's infiltration and the plan to destroy the Circle, to bring down Wolfram and Hart from the inside. Of Wesley's part in the plan, his final confrontation with Vail, and the sorcerer's defeat. He translated Angel's desperately impassioned account into cool detached detail. It was important that Pryce be made to understand what his son had done; what he had achieved.
There was no interruption from the older man. He remained very still, one hand resting lightly on his thigh, the other on the arm of his chair. When he had finished, Pryce reached over to the table, lifted his teacup, and sipped from it.
"This wizard, Vail, I think you said? He was not actually defeated until after his death, is that correct?"
Giles managed a brief nod; and his heart broke for a child who would be a failure in his father's eyes even unto death.
"Thank you for letting me know. I assume his…" his lip curled in an effort to control his disapproval "…associates have made the proper arrangements. For the transportation of the body."
"I…I'm not quite sure. I'll have to contact them for the details." The body. He couldn't quite process that phrase just yet.
"If you wouldn't mind. I'll make sure my secretary sends you the relevant details on our side." As if this was a business arrangement; and he was the liaison between two companies. Pryce stood now, making it clear that their meeting was at an end.
Giles got to his feet, and controlled the shaking in his knees quite successfully. He looked at the other's face, searching for something. Some sign that his words had been understood; some hint of shock, pain, even anger. Pryce met his gaze levelly, his eyes betraying nothing. Giles held out his hand in a gesture that was ridiculously formal, but somehow appropriate for this situation.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
Pryce accepted his hand graciously, his palm cool and dry.
"Thank you. I appreciate the sentiment."
"I… would you…" He swallowed hard, determined to finish this properly, despite the fury that he felt rising in his throat. "Would you convey my condolences to your wife?"
"Of course." And Pryce was walking back to his desk.
Giles took a step towards the door of the office; then swung round sharply, unable to contain his anger. Fully intending to make his utter disgust apparent. He strode across the room and then stopped as he neared the desk.
He saw the man remove glasses that were so pristine they positively sparkled. He reached into his pocket, produced a square of white linen, and polished the already spotless lenses thoroughly.
Perhaps it was the familiarity of the gesture that stopped him. Remembering the same blue eyes; the same pointlessly precise attention to detail. But it was something more than that. He watched as Pryce replaced the glasses and folded the handkerchief meticulously, his long fingers smoothing the fabric repeatedly; almost unconsciously. A displacement activity, Giles realized.
Pryce looked up, suddenly aware of Giles' presence.
"I'm sorry, was - was there something else?" His request was infinitely polite, just that tiny stumble over the words. An almost imperceptible tremble in his hand as he pocketed the tiny fabric square.
"No. That – that was all."
He moved to the door and left the room, suddenly understanding. He wanted more than this man could give. He felt his chest constrict again, but this time it was for the father. He leaned against the door, and when he closed his eyes, he could still see the photograph of Wesley on his father's desk.