Chapter 4: The Cause of Death
The first smash of Illyria's fist against her silver shield nearly sent Adele reeling, and the following rain of blows almost dropped her to her knees. She tipped her head back and the shining glow of Valhalla filled her eyes, knowing as she did that very soon she would be walking its halls. In Illyria's iced eyes she expected to see the fury of her own death, and she pulled her gaze downward to look.
It was not there. Realization struck her as heavily as the kicks and punches she warded off.
Illyria was not trying to kill her.
Had she been, Adele would have been dead by now, even with the mystically-strong shield that protected her. She would be like Vail, the most powerful of sorcerers, who now lay shattered on the floor of his own chambers from the Old One's wrath. The former goddess was only overwhelmed, striking out from her own helplessness. She attacked as one whose last option has been cancelled out—desperately.
Even as she battered away at the heavy shield, Illyria felt the heat of murder slip away from her. The Valkyrie maiden was not fighting back, only defending herself. Not now, nor had she ever, killed any creature who would not attack in kind, or who had not done something, in her eyes, to deserve such punishment. By the standards of her world she had been honorable in that way at least, though not moral. Unlike many of the Old Ones, she had accepted bloodless surrender. She would kill to punish, to discipline, to mete out vengeance. She would destroy those who resisted her, or who dared to challenge her glory. It could take the slightest of offences to warrant death, if her mood so dictated, but never by her own judgment did she kill for nothing. By human standards her actions were evil, but it was not, in her time.
But slaughtering those who let themselves be slaughtered, who had done nothing at all against her… that was a wrongful act to her even then. There was a reason she was beloved above all the others. Now, as much as she tried to pour blame on the Valkyrie for all her losses, to use it like fuel on a fire, she found she could not. The maidens chose death because it was what they had been born to do, as she in her day had been born to rule all. She'd known of a time when they were forced to choose one of their own sisters to die—it was not a task they took pleasure in, or could avoid. But even had Adele been cleared in all cause of Wesley's demise, she had still slighted Illyria's presence, and that had once been enough cause for a death-punishment. Why she could not go through with it now, Illyria couldn't understand—only that it was so.
She hit the shield three more times, but that was all, and, as she had the day she found the ruins of her kingdom, she sank to her knees. Her frustration was spent, like an angered child who has cried and stormed all she can but then knows it can do no good. She was still helpless, powerless, and she raged against the feeling. Wesley was gone, and the one hope she'd had for restoring him—beating the Valkyrie into submission—could not work, for even with her death the decision could not be taken back. If there was any other way she didn't know it, and if she could not find it, she would fail. Hated human emotions were stealing in again, grief making her feel weak. Her spirit felt broken and her hands were broken, too. Her knuckles had been crushed against the shield, and she felt blood seep and pool beneath the thick, rubbery leather of her gloves. The smashed joints shrieked out with pain, but it was nothing to the hurt of her defeat.
Adele approached with the greatest of caution, touching the goddess' battered hands with the flat of her spear. At once they mended, leaving Illyria wondering at the draining away of the pain. She flexed her fingers experimentally, and then dropped them again.
"A token of peace," she stated, hollow. The Valkyrie inclined her head once in agreement, but the gesture went unseen. Illyria had turned her nearly unblinking gaze to Wesley now, staring for what seemed like minutes. She wanted to go to him, to hold him again as she had when he died, but it was impossible. Though she could not control these emotions that washed over her, she would not put them on display for the death-maiden to see. Thinking on that, she leapt to her feet again, though her heart was not in it.
When she spoke, her words were soft, difficult to hear. Desolate. "Why did you choose him?" she asked, still careful that her phrase did not sound like the question it was. Wesley had been the only one she would openly seek knowledge from. Questions admitted that her knowledge was not infinite, that she needed something of someone. The thought was unbearable. "Why not the half-breeds, why not Charles?"
It took some moments before Adele could answer, puzzling as she was over the startling change that had settled over her recent opponent. Was this simply the calm before another storm? Illyria was clearly aching with sorrow despite her proud restraint, and for the first time Adele could sense the spark of humanity that had managed to light itself in her. She'd seen this kind of sorrow before, in women whose loved ones had been lost. She remembered widows and lovers, their men slain in battle, who could not bear the grief and so followed their beloveds into death, leaping onto their funeral pyres. Though they couldn't agree with it, the sisters had taken pity on them, carrying them to Valhalla as well so that they would be reunited with their loves. Adele felt the same pity stealing over her now. Her heart ached, too. If this were all some trick of Illyria's, if she had been badly taken in, she would pay for such soft feelings. But they came nonetheless.
"It was not their time to die," she answered at last, gently. "Wesley's soul cried out for rest, and he was meant to leave the world heroically."
"He told me that he did not intend to die," Illyria countered. Her tone was guttural, harsh but pained. Fro the first time in several minutes her gaze left Wesley's slain form and turned to the Valkyrie once again. "You made a mistake."
"It's in the nature of all heroes to keep going no matter what– it's in the nature of most humans, too. For him to give up on his own life, to refuse to fight any longer, would go against everything he was and all that he stood for. It would go even against his own humanity. It would be wrong for him to seek his own death. One has to go on, for that is the nature of life."
Illyria nodded, understanding-- understanding far more than anyone could know. This world was so small and suffocatingly bleak to her, and she was trapped in it, less than a shadow of her former glory. No matter how much she allowed herself to adapt she would always struggle, and struggle alone. Wesley had become the one ray of light in her existence, but even that was snatched away. There was no escape but death and the endless sleep of the Well, and yet she continued to walk on.
"I am bound by laws, Old One," Adele continued. "I cannot choose death at my own whim, for my own reasons. Even at the height of our power, the Valkyries could not do this. Such power corrupts. You know that well." The demoness seemed to acknowledge this. She had indeed seen it happen to many rulers, and many times. "I can only do what is just, what is fitting for each soul. Wesley's soul was dying."
"Because of Fred." The statement was flat, unflinching.
"Yes, though it was more than that. His life had so much pain, one devastation after another. Winifred was the one bright, good thing he had, his hope for everything. When he lost her, he didn't lose only his beloved. She was all of what was good in the world to him- the good that he fought for, lived for."
Is there anything in this world but grief?
There's love. There's hope... for some.
"He deserved such deliverance from pain and so I gave him what he could not rightly take for himself. I had to give it to him. How is it that I can restore him, only for more suffering, when he could be in paradise?"
Illyria blinked, once. The Valkyrie had spoken truly and she knew it. She knew it with the core of herself, more than she could let herself think on. She should leave this place now and take Wesley's knife-torn body with her as she had intended. She should honor his memory but let his soul rest, and think no longer on bringing him back. Her mind was already working through her drained defeat, thinking of other ways that it might be done, but she should put a stop to it and leave him in peace.
But then she would still grieve.
"I'm watching human grief. It's like offal in my mouth."
"... you'll taste it every day, every second."
Once again her face hardened. No. She would not have this grief with her any longer, smothering her like a shroud, tearing at her insides. It had been useful in their battle but had no place in her now. Who knew how long it might last... perhaps even forever. Wesley had never stopped mourning Fred. In time he was able to stand, and walk, and pretend to be alive again, but his loss of her had never lifted. Had he lived he would have gone on, perhaps even learned to laugh again, but Illyria knew that he would never be happy. The Valkyrie had said it well-- he'd had too much of pain in his life. Fred had been the light in his existence as Wesley had been in Illyria's own, and when that light was snuffed out the last of his hope was gone. Even the strongest man was fragile, and could only take so many beatings before his spirit broke into pieces.
We are so weak.
Yes, we are.
If she brought him back he would grieve still. She would be trading her anguish for his.
It wasn't right. The deepest human part of Illyria knew it was not right.
But then the oldest part of her screamed that she did not care.
Wesley was hers, as armies and palaces and temples and lives once had been. In her day, she had never lost what belonged to her, and if any creature had dared to try, she marched against him and destroyed him. Destroying the Valkyrie would do no good, and that knowledge had temporarily tricked her into a sense of defeat. Even so, she would get what she wanted. What she required was a new plan, a new weapon. Destruction was all she had known, but she would have to think more deeply now. She'd resort to human cunning—sneakiness—if she had to.
The only way to reverse the death-decision was to reverse the cause.
Fred's death. Impossible.
Or was it?
You may not think you're as powerful as you were, Highness. But looking like Fred-- for some of us-- is the most devastating power you have...
Spike's words. She'd known she liked him.
Now she knew all at once what she would do, and it was difficult to keep a knowing smile from curving her mouth. How different she felt now, the heaviness of that pathetic grief flying before her like wind-blown rain.
Her head tipped oddly, making her look, as she had been to Wesley, disarmingly inquisitive. "I lied to him of this paradise," she said, circling the Valkyrie slowly, testing her reactions. "I told him he would be with Fred."
Adele's eyes followed her, never breaking contact. She'd noticed the new initiative in the demoness' actions, and knew with weariness that their battle was not over. "He won't," she replied, sadness showing itself clearly despite her effort to keep even.
Illyria's voice dropped, intense. "Then will it be paradise to him?"
She couldn't stop a smile then, noticing how the death-chooser tried to hide a startled reaction.
"It will be the best paradise—the only one—that can be offered," Adele replied as steadily as she could.
"No," Illyria answered, her voice thick and low. She stopped her circling and strode now to Wesley, standing beside him with a barely-hidden look of triumph. "I can offer better."
The change took only seconds.
"I can give him Fred."