TITLE: The Fault Of The Black Goblin Who Lived In The Snuff-Box
AUTHOR: Erin Giles
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: "There were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers, who were all brothers, for they had been made out of the same old tin spoon. The soldiers were all exactly alike, excepting one, who had only one leg." That one soldier was Wesley's favourite, which caused him to be very remarkable.
A/N: Italics detonate exerts from the fairytale "The Brae Tin Soldier" by Hans Christian Anderson.
Giles slipped out of his land rover into the crisp, cool spring morning as the rain beat down on the grass verge, turning the moist soil into mud beneath his freshly polished shoes. He pulled his black trench coat further round him, checking his valuable cargo still remained inside as he locked the car and started off across the expanse of cemetery towards the small group huddle a distance away.
The same story played over in his head as he listened to the squelch beneath his feet, drops of rain slipping down his nose to fall gently on his new tie, bought especially for the occasion. It wasn't a heavy price to pay for the world to keep turning, one person for an entire world, yet it was amazing that one person could make such a difference. Never in his lifetime would Rupert Giles have imagined that this person could have played a part in saving the world, not from the roots he had come from. Then, he supposed, he could say the same thing about himself.
Wesley Wyndam-Pryce's roots stood at the bottom of the hill, quite separate from each other, his father stiff and emotionless it seemed beneath the sea of umbrellas that hung around his grave like crows. His posture was different though, as was his demeanour. There was something about Wyndam-Pryce Senior that spoke of grief and the faintest hint of pride. Giles attempted to restrain himself from rolling his eyes to the heavens, Roger couldn't be proud of his son in life, but apparently in death it was a different matter.
Wesley's mother clung to the box of Wesley's toy soldier's, obviously sent over from the states by Angel, as if it was the only thing that understood her grief. Giles glanced about for the vampire in question, but there was no one left of Wesley's true family that could attend his funeral. The girl of his dreams had gone before him, by all accounts leaving Wesley a broken man, his sanity hidden in the dark somewhere and his best friend had not survived beyond the final battle. Two vampires were all that remained of his family, both nursing their wounds miles across the ocean.
As Giles exchanged pleasantries with a rather distant Pryce Senior, a black cab pulled up at the top of the hill next to his land rover, the occupant meeting his eyes as she slid from the back door in one graceful movement, her black hair hung lose in gentle waves, her face a picture of remorsefully composure.
He supposed Faith owed it to Wesley, after everything they had been through. He didn't know the intimate details of their relationship but as the ceremony started, Giles could detect tears pricking at the corner of the Slayer's eyes.
He could remember all the way back to when he had first laid eyes on Wesley Wyndam-Pryce and his young impressionable sense of false leadership. He smiled at the memory it conjured up seeing the young Slayer again, bounding into the library.
"New Watcher?"
"New Watcher."
"Screw that!"
He realised he didn't know the Wesley Wyndam-Pryce whose funeral he was attending on this Tuesday in the middle of May. He didn't know that man anymore, didn't know the great man he had undoubtedly become, but that didn't mean he didn't share something with the deceased. He rested a hand against the burden in his pocket that he had found a long time ago yet had never returned to its rightful owner. It has almost seemed chance, or maybe even fate that he had come across the book again when looking for something he did not remember now, because it was far less important than the book he held before Wesley's mother, placing it into her shaking hands as she seemed to weep harder, recounting the story that Giles had only ever heard by chance before. Wesley, after his part in the fight with the mayor, had been too full of drugs to even realise that he was spilling his secrets into a mans lap he barely knew. The book he now returned, reflecting the tragic story so well.
"Wesley always did love fairytales as a child." His mother whispered softly as he looked at the leather bound book, tracing the name of "Hans Christian Anderson" embedded in gold leaf, as Wesley's father turned away and headed back up the hill at a brisk pace. Roger undoubtedly did not want to hear this, "But I think this was his favourite." She turned, offering her arm to Giles, which he took like any gentleman would as they set off down the hill into the rest of the cemetery.
"Wesley used to spend hours in his room as a child, playing with his tin soldiers. Roger didn't think it right for a boy of his age to be in the house all the time so he would send him outside to play with Mr. Hetherington's boys, but Wesley wouldn't take his soldiers with him. He wouldn't let anyone else play with them." Wesley's mother seemed quite composed now as she regressed back to when her little boy was still alive and safe within her reach.
"He used to dream he was like the little tin soldier with one leg." She paused, swallowing painfully as different memories flared up and Giles allowed her a moment. It was seen a woman's duty to stand by her husband, but protect her child, yet what was a mother to do if they were in conflict with one another?
"He used to dream he would go off on an adventure somewhere, and that he would meet lots of people, both bad and good and he would come so close to death but he would make it home again, and... he would be... he would be alright..." Wesley's mother's façade was falling again as both her and Giles sank onto the nearest bench, realising the truth behind Wesley's fairytale dream.
If he had called out, "Here I am," it would have been all right, but he was too proud to cry out for help while he wore a uniform.
Giles sighed, looking up into the falling rain as he peaked out from under the black umbrella he was still carrying, "Wesley," he paused not sure what to say, "Wesley was a brave man, and even though he lived a thousand miles from his home I believe that he made it home again and he's alright now." Wesley's mother blinked looking up at Giles.
"The letter said the same thing." Wesley's mother expanded when she received a puzzled look from Giles, not wishing to prod when it wasn't his right to do so, "Last week Roger and I, we received an anonymous letter and package a few days after we found out about Wesley. It was Wesley's tin soldiers, with a note that said," she paused for a moment, not trying to remember the letter because it was obvious that it meant so much to her she had already memorised it by heart, but taking a moment to compose herself again, to feel the words and picture her little boy. "It said, 'I thought that Wesley would have wanted these returned to their rightful home. The only piece of history I ever knew about your son was the tale of his tin soldiers and how one came to have only one leg. I believe that Wesley was like his tin soldier with only one leg, brave and stalwart to the last, never giving up. I know that you have not seen your son recently, and no parents should ever have to bury their child and I'm fed up of burying friends so apologise that I won't be able to attend the funeral. But I've spoken to the person who with was Wesley when he passed on and I believe that even though he never made it back to England he made it home again, and I believe he's finally alright.'" She paused again, tears running down her face, no longer dabbing at her eyelashes to try and counter the effect of her running mascara, "Roger and I never really showed affection towards Wesley, but I believe that he got all he needed in the family he made in America." Giles smiled forlornly,
"I believe so too."
"Tin soldier," said the goblin, "don't wish for what does not belong to you."
Wesley has wished so hard to be loved though, to be held with loving arms and not be mocked ridiculed and put down at every failing, every mistake me made. He had wished for Fred but he had be no more than a brother at first, but when he finally got his wish that moment of happiness was plucked from his grasp, taken away from him like he didn't deserve it.
The tin soldier melted down into a lump, and the next morning, when the maidservant took the ashes out of the stove, she found him in the shape of a little tin heart. But of the little dancer nothing remained but the tinsel rose, which was burnt black as a cinder.
Giles helped Wesley's mother to her feet and they headed back up the hill towards Giles' lone land rover. No doubt everyone would be at the Wyndham-Pryce's by now, tucking into finger sandwiches and discussing the 'bloody awful weather that we're having'. Giles exhaled, shaking his head as beads of water ran down his glasses, removing them as he peered back down the hill to the fresh grave that was now being filled in. How heroes are so easily forgotten.
"Farewell, warrior! Ever brave, drifting onward to thy grave."