Disclaimer: Adele is mine, the rest are not. I have not yet figured out how to do accent marks, so let me mention that the name is supposed to be the Old German version. (You'd say it "Ah-Day-Luh" to put it non-phonetically.)
Author's Notes: This, like the first chapter, is sort of a setting-up for the later action, hence the description of the Valkyries. They are adapted from Norse mythology (and the Wagner operas) and changed somewhat to fit into the world of Angel. I've tried to keep them mostly 'mythologically correct,' as it were. (: They seemed a good fit because of their connection with the death of heroes, and also because Norse mythology on the whole has a similar message as the show— you fight the good fight though defeat is certain.
Chapter 2: The Chooser of the Slain
Illyria was not the first person to come to Wesley after he died, to see his body lying in the house of his killer. Another had come, and, like the former goddess, was weary and exhausted from the battle. Her fight had not been with fists or sword, but a very real fight nonetheless.
Now she had other work to do.
She'd had a name once—Adele, the Nobel One—but it no longer mattered, for she was the last of her kind. Her sisters were long gone. They'd been hundreds once, charging out onto the battlefields on their flaming white steeds. They'd been full of song-- songs of victory that cheered the warriors even as they died.
They were the Valkyries, the Choosers of the Slain.
Now she solemn and quiet and alone, and no one had believed in her in a long, long time. She was a myth now, recorded only the stories of the old Norsemen, who had loved her, and in song. She appeared as they believed she appeared: fair-skinned and blonde-haired, glorious in silver armor and holding a shield and spear that she hadn't used in millennia. In this dim and dank room they barely shone at all, not like they had on the open battlefields of the North, where it had hurt the eyes to look on her approaching. Even so, the heroes had greeted her with eyes wide open. They'd looked to her eagerly, calling out with arms outstretched, for she offered the most glorious of prizes to them—a hero's death. Only she and her sisters were able to bring the souls of the worthy dead to Valhalla, a paradise dimension that rewarded only the most valiant of men and women.
In those days—and in the years preceding them-- she'd done more than act as a ferryman to the dead. Once, she had truly been a Chooser of the Slain. With her many sisters, she selected who in every battle should win... and who must die. Together, their will shaped the destiny of worlds by the living and dying of men in war. Now all the Valkyries had been slain themselves but her, many weakening first. Men, as the years passed, no longer respected them as they once had, calling them Wish Maidens that one could force to do one's will by capturing them.
Adele had never allowed this to happen to her. No one could change her will, and she did only what was right in her eyes.
Still, alone, she was so much weaker, her influence a mere sliver of what it had been. She could watch over only a select few heroes now-- those on whose shoulders rested the fate of good-- and she intervened directly more than her sisters had ever done. Even today she had aided the warriors of Angel, giving strength and also helping to preserve the life of the one called Gunn. It had exhausted her, but the battle had been won. Still, despite her power.... there were so many failures, beyond her control. Slayers perished who should have lived on. Courageous warriors fell who should have lived to fight another day. Winifred, the loved one of this man who now lay before her, had been consumed despite all her efforts to stop it—to stop the rise of Illyria. She'd poured wave upon wave of strength and healing on the brave Fred as she fought for her life-- and she'd fought so hard. The young woman's spirit was as strong as any she had seen, at any time. And yet Illyria had risen despite them both.
That had not turned out a failure. Not quite. But it was a tragedy.
The death of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce had not been a failure, either, or out of her control. His death she had chosen. He'd been doomed to die and she'd let him die, but not before knowing that the evil that was Vail would be stricken from the world. (In that, at least, Illyria had been predictable.) More than anything, Wes' death was a mercy. Since Fred had gone, his soul had been dying, despite how determinedly he fought at the end. That had been sustaining human nature, admirable and nearly instinctual. Now she'd come to bring him to peace and rest, in the halls of Valhalla with those of his comrades who'd gone before. Cordelia would be there to greet him, and Doyle. Someday Angel and Spike would join him as well. He'd be happier there than he could be in his life-- with his love gone and a demon walking in her stolen body.
She approached him now, kneeling over his fallen form. He was laid out on the floor, his hands folded over the ugly wound that had killed him. His eyes were closed, and he looked as peaceful as such a troubled man could, though no final smile appeared on his lips. Strangely enough, he had a pillow under his head, as if the demoness who had arranged him there was tucking him in for a night's sleep. She'd taken care with him, great care.
Adele hadn't suspected that Illyria was capable of such tender consideration. She'd known her (and she had always been a 'her,' despite all of the 'god-king' ranting)—only during the end of her reign across the dimensions, for while the Old Ones ruled with their armies there was no need for the Valkyries. Their soldiers fought at the whims of their masters: for conquest, for power, and for nothing else. Heroism did not exist until the first creature took up his weapon on the side of good, no matter that death would surely come. A hero was never defeated, not even by death, because he never stopped resisting. Angel had understood that when he led his comrades in battle. The Old Ones, and the many rulers like them who followed—demon and human alike-- had never understood this. They were probably not even able.
It had been they who killed many of the Valkyries, furious when their soldiers died and the sisters refused to reverse their decisions, bringing the fallen back to life. They would fly into rages when a war was lost, spending their fury on murder. Valkyries, who lived agelessly until they were killed, were formidable defenders, but one by one they had fallen. Illyria, at least, had been less trouble than most—not because she was any less terrible or unreasonable—but simply because she had never cared enough about any of her slaughtered soldiers or even priests to demand their return.
Obviously she had cared now, about this Wesley. It had been caused by stirrings of her new human form, perhaps, but nonetheless remarkable. The mighty Illyria, who had ruled worlds once, had been laid low. The one who had never had a heart had found her heart captured.... by a human. It wasn't unheard of for an Immortal to love a human. Two of Adele's sisters, Gudrun and Brynhild, had, and it had only ended in death. Brynhild had given up her own life, burning on the funeral pyre of her lover. Sacrifice.
But Illyria... it was nearly impossible to think of.
Though it was making for some interesting talk around the inter-dimensional water cooler, that was for sure.
Adele knelt over the body, lying one hand over the solar plexus as she began to sing softly. Her ear was turned to catch the whispering of his soul's response. This song she sang now was meant not to lift the soul—not yet—but only to read it, seek its readiness. She expected no struggle from this one. Indeed, the first message she received was one seeking peace and comfort. There was no horror at his own death, but a wizened acceptance. Rest. Please—rest. Adele showed no surprise that her instincts had been right. She showed no surprise either when another, louder message came, but her face fell in expected sadness.
Fred. I'm going where she is. We'll be together. Fred.
His soul was seeking its mate, and Adele grieved at the thought. Wesley had believed the sweet lie Illyria told him, for he'd wanted to believe it more than anything.
But Fred was the one thing the Valkyrie couldn't give him. When he walked into the halls of Valhalla, he would not be reunited with his beloved, but not because her soul was destroyed, as those villains who arranged her death had said. A soul was the strongest thing in the world, and indestructible.
He would not see her there... because she still lived.