It truly was amazing how significant were the restorative benefits of a good night's sleep upon the body, both in the physical and mental sense. Which was why I rather wish that I'd been able to sleep more than a few fragmented moments of uneasy slumber. My thoughts seemed determined to repeat the events of the past few days as if my living of them weren't sufficient. As if I had drawn some curse upon myself to relive these few moments in time in perpetuity. So I'd given up any pretense of slumber and taken to walking the passages as my thoughts continued their uneasy ruminations upon the recent events.

The uneasy discussion at the pub, learning of the first and most grievous sin I committed as a vampire. The intent of that act really mattered not, only the acting upon it. What excuse could my poor soul offer up in the presence of the divine? That I'd had good intentions? By damning her to hell? No, certainly not. Mother's soul was assuredly one of the gentlest and kindest. Only the demon controlling her would have been damned to hell.

The exquisite experience of joining with his love, their bodies becoming as one, and feeling the transcendent ecstasy they spent together, shutting out all thought except for how radiant and glorious she was, and how his heart had soared to the very heights of heaven itself before returning to him as he professed his love for her.

The cruel dagger of reality as she confirmed the nature of the crime which had driven her to wish him dead despite her love for him, and then in the same breath told of how she'd cruelly used him, and how her relationship with him now was one of obligation and guilt. It was an almost biblical penance, to take care of the one left behind by the one she'd killed, albeit unintentionally.

The dawning realization that it appeared both of our actions were manifestations of wounds upon our souls that, although not absolving us of our sins against the other, bore consideration and eventual forgiveness.

The unexpected appearance of the vampiress Drusilla, with her rather alarming messages spoken in a verse that only she fully understood. Her plans to return me to the demon I'd become. Her insistence that this Spike fellow was something akin to a manifested spirit, capable of thought and emotion, while Angel asserted it was nothing more than a specter of the imagination, its existence real only in the recesses of her mind.

His insistence that everything that made Spike who he was, the very being that both Drusilla and Buffy continued to seek so fervently, was still part of me if only somehow I could recognize and bring it forth.

Is it possible? I realize with sudden clarity that for a brief moment, standing over his larger form, watching as he bled, realizing that I'd done this, I felt an overwhelming swell of being the one who was taking control for once. Flexing my hand returns the feeling of mild pain to my hand and it suffuses me with a strange and yet almost comforting sensation. That sensation leads to another. The one the enshrouded me when I felt Connor slip the dagger and stake into my hands clasped behind me as I spoke to Drusilla. It was the feeling that I alone, at that moment, had the power to control my own fate.

Is this what it was like to be a vampire? To be the one in control? To choose to do what you will, when, and how? That you were no longer controlled by the strings of obligation and fate? Do I even want to regain that which has been lost to me? Something inside me says yes. And yet another something says that it is all but an illusion.

My foolish impulsive nature had initially thought that returning to the demon state would grant me the sense of belonging I'd apparently held as said demon. Yet, my instinct had eventually asserted its will upon me and brought the clarity with it that it would only return an illusion of belonging.

I assuredly can not go back to the time of my earthly origins, and given the wonders of this miraculous world, I don't think I would wish to return were it even possible. I also do not wish to obscure the vision of the world with the unholy visage of a demon, even if it did afford me some privileged with the woman I've come to love.

And yet… am I even certain that I wish to continue along the path of that love? Forgive her, I must. If she can forgive my own trespasses, how could I not return her generosity? But should I once again place myself in her mercy, when it is clear she doesn't return my feelings? Is it truly worth it?

"This love wounds my heart
with a sweet taste, so gently,
I die of grief a hundred times a day
and a hundred times revive with joy.
My pain seems beautiful,
this pain is worth more than any pleasure;
and since I find this bad so good,
how good will be the good when this suffering is done."

The words are once more bright upon my mind. If what I have encountered thus far with Buffy was the worst of her, and yet so bright in its joy and bliss, then how good indeed would be the good? I would imagine the true question would be when, or more importantly if, the suffering should be done?

How much more suffering would there be to encounter? If Drusilla's words were something to heed, there would be much more. If my own mind were to heed to its deliberations, surely then worst has already passed. But has it? Can I forge a new path in the looming shadow of my former self, or will the shadows consume any sense of self I could achieve?

Already the shadows of the day are beginning to grow longer. These acquaintances of my former self do keep such odd hours and quite a lot of them. And yet, judging by the sounds emanating from up ahead, he wasn't the only one who was up and about. The ringing sound of metal clashing, mixed with the more human sounds of effort at battle were gaining in volume and clarity as he neared a particular door.

He honestly had no idea where he was within the passages of the establishment. He'd traveled up and down corridor and staircase alike but felt certain he'd be able to find his way back to the grand entrance if he were so inclined. But the sounds emanating from the room seemed to compel him. The impropriety of listening at the door slammed into his consciousness, but he did his best to ignore it. So many things he'd been trained to do were falling away like that and he wondered, not for the first time if that was truly a good thing.

It sounded as if Angel was battling someone. No, more like instructing. In point of fact, it sounded as if he were giving fencing lessons.

"You can come in, William," Angel's voice called from within.

He chanced to open the door and slip inside, doing his best to suppress the flush he knew to be coloring his face.

"My apologies… I couldn't sleep," He explained.

"Not a problem," Angel offered. "Connor's pretty good with a sword, but we were working on some of the finer points of having an opponent who's also skilled."

It was impossible to miss the young man's response to his father's proclamation. His eyes rolling in agitation at what he felt to be either an adverse judgment or underestimation, of his abilities.

"Whatever," Connor answered his father. "Can we just get back to fighting so I can beat you?"

"You can try," Angel smiled at his son.

This promised to be an interesting interaction if the reactions of the occupants were any indication.

I make myself at ease as the two resume their training. The young man is certainly skilled, but as his father observed, he lacks finesse. But what he lacks in forethought and subtlety, he makes up for in enthusiasm. He is relentless in his pursuit. But surely this energy can not last forever. But perhaps that isn't an issue. If one could beat one's enemies in the first few minutes, then stamina is of no concern.

But I'd learned within a few days of my arrival in this time that stamina is a concern. The earthen golem's we'd fought in that grave were much like young Connor. Their relentless pursuit of our demise made them clumsy, but it quickly took a toll as they persisted in their attacks.

Angel continues his litany of couching of the young man. Telling him to not drop the point of his sword, to stop dropping his shoulder before he lunges. And he seems oblivious to the fact that with each observation, Connor's agitation grows. His movements become more bold and more forceful. And then something seems to shift in the young man. Relentless becomes driven to destruction. Even with his larger bulk and the obvious knowledge regarding proper form, his son gets him at a disadvantage. Only, it isn't a true disadvantage, it is one in which Angel could challenge his son if he chose, but likely at the expense of injuring the lad.

I see Angel's face as he seems to be at a loss as to how to address the frenzied young man. He's greatly restraining himself, but quickly growing agitated himself. I've not seen a young man in such a state before, and I can only assume these are the scars of his unfortunate rearing. And it compels me to action, as something inside me feels a kindred calling from many years ago. Of an, albeit, younger man who felt powerless and angry in the face of a father who never could understand or accept his son as he was.

"Connor!" I say, making the absurd move to grab the young man's wrist as he is once again on a chopping downswing. The contact seems to shake him from whatever place his mind had gone, as he freezes in place. I take no notice or care of Angel at this point. Connor continues to pant, his breathing rapid with the heat of a young man in battle, and his eyes wild as they continue seeing whatever his mind was attacking.

"Connor?" I soften my voice, and am rewarded with a much less wild-eyed look from him as the tension in his body begins to dissipate.

And then he's suddenly tossing the sword to the side with an animalistic growl and turning away in frustration. I see Angel begin to move toward him and raise my hand to stay him. I'm certain he has only good intentions, but for some reason, I seem to understand that this is a recurrent interaction for them that has never seen a resolution, and I doubt that whatever Angel had in mind will be what the young man needs to hear at that moment. I can deal with him later, it's the boy who concerns me most just then.

Angel gives me a questioning glance that I return with one that I hope he understands to mean that he should trust me. His confusion bleeds into anger, but then he himself offers a quick nod, tossing his own weapon upon the floor and walking toward a small armory on the opposing wall.

I place my hand on Connor's shoulder, hoping to gain his attention. He tenses sharply and begins to pull away as he turns to look at me. I see clearly that he had not expected that I was the one intervening.

"Let's take a walk, shall we?" I ask him, offering a small but genuine smile.

I can see the questions in his eyes as he searches out the room for his father, wondering why it wasn't he who was attempting to reconcile.

"I think, perhaps, I'm a bit lost in this rather large establishment. Could you assist me in finding the garden?" I ask him. Perhaps appealing to his better senses will help.

"Yeah, sure… I'll, uh, take you up." He finally agrees after only a few more moments of staring at his father's back and starts towards the room's exit.

"It's difficult, isn't it?" I ask him as we traverse the staircase to the ground floor.

"What's that?" He asks, determined in his duty to escort me to the place I've requested.

"Wanting to hate your father," I offer him quite innocently.

He stops and turns to stare at me. I ignore his look and simply move around him, trusting that he will follow. He doesn't disappoint.

"My own father couldn't seem to stand the sight of me," I explain as I open the door to the ground floor and begin walking the passage that I believe will take us the long way around to the grand entry. "Or so it seemed to a young man who wanting nothing more than his father's approval."

"I don't want anything from Angel," He responds defiantly.

"No," I offer. "I don't expect you do." I continue walking leisurely along the passage, hearing his easy footsteps following my own. "But you assuredly need something from him."

"Yeah? And what's that?" He asks with no small amount of petulance in his voice.

"You tell me?" I stop and turn to look at him.

"Nothing!" He answers and continues walking.

"I was almost fourteen years when my father died," I tell him as we walk. "He'd been to Africa recently and taken ill upon returning. Even upon his deathbed, he chastised me, saying that I would never become a proper young man unless I got my head out of my books. I hated the miserable old fellow and his constant criticism."

"Fathers," Connor scoffs with disdain.

"Indeed," I smile. "And yet, these last several years I've wished several times to be able to sit and speak with him."

"Why?" Connor seemed completely confused by the idea, as I knew he would be.

"Because… I don't think we ever really knew each other," I answered him.

"What do you mean?" He asked.

"Rather than make the effort to learn what the other was like, or who they truly were, we each clung to the ideas we had of what the other should be. Or what we wanted them to be. Neither of which was particularly insightful nor helpful."

"Yeah, well, I already know who Angel truly is… he's a vampire. One day, he'll lose that soul that's caging the real person he is, and when he does… I'll be there to make sure he's dust once and for all."

"And that will make you feel like a man, finally?" I ask him. I'd almost said gentleman, but my lessons regarding the American vernacular are becoming more second nature.

"I am a man!" He insists a bit more vehemently.

"But you think others don't see you as such?" I ask him, continuing my slow and steady pace. His answer is nothing more than a rather indelicate snickering.

"Don't care how they see me," He answers, sounding quite more like bravado than conviction.

"We all care how others see us," I answer. "Perhaps our parents more than anyone else."

"It's no secret how Angel sees me," His answer rings of deep wounds. Ones I know all too well.

"And that is?" I ask him.

"Like you don't know," He scoffs. "Pretty sure everyone knows. Hell, pretty sure everyone feels the same."

"Including me?"

"I don't…" He stops following, and I turn to study him as he deliberates how to answer that question. "I don't know… probably." He finally shrugs but maintains his face remains a mask of confusion as he starts walking again. "We're almost there," He points ahead to the entrance to the gardens.

"Just another moment of your time?" I ask as I move to open the door. "It won't take long," I offer.

"I guess," He shrugs again, still looking so very lost and confused.

He follows me out into the garden, and I take my time finding what seems a suitable spot. Although it's a perfect place for peaceful contemplation and to divine inspiration, there aren't an abundance of places to sit. For lack of a better option, I choose a low wall around a well-tended Cestrum nocturnum. How fitting the home of a creature of the night and his companions would feature it so prominently.

"Do you know what this is, Connor?" I ask him, as I pluck a closed bud from the vine.

"Uh… a flower?"

I can't help but smile at his answer.

"Cestrum nocturnum," I answer. "More commonly known as night-blooming jasmine. And that," I point to a small shrubbery in the next section, "Is Fremontodendron." I continue pointing out the various plants and their names. "Eschscholzia, Bellis perennis, Syringa vulgaris, Agastache, Artemisia, Salvia… My point is, I could tell you the names of everything around us. I can debate the classics of literature with the best of men, and no one would best me. I can name most any portion of the physical body, internal or external. I can write lines of verse until the tips of my fingers have lost all feeling. All because these are things that I have learned."

I pause to ensure I haven't lost the young man in my rather vain extolling of personal knowledge.

"Do you know what I haven't learned, Connor?" I offer what feels like an almost bitter smile.

"How to fight?" He helpfully offers, causing a short laugh to escape before I can stifle it.

"Undoubtedly correct," I'm still trying to stifle my amusement. "Nor have I ever learned how to graciously accept criticism, but that's not what I was going to say. I was about to say that I've never learned how to feel as if I belonged. I dare say, that were it not for my dearest mother, I felt quite like the least loved or accepted person in this world."

"But you have a girlfriend!" He retorts. "And she's pretty. You have Angel worrying about you. Heck, you've even got the same vampire who turned you once trying to do it again."

"And you feel like you have nothing?" I begin to perceive that my thoughts are correct. I feel inclined to tell him that at the moment, I'm not certain that I have any of those things. But I doubt that would be much of a salve to the boy's wounds.

He simply nods in the affirmative.

"Your life is obviously one I can not comprehend or compare. But I can tell you this… your father loves you with everything in him. He may not know how to say it, but he does."

"You can't know that. You don't even really know him," He protests.

"I don't need to know him to see his love for you. Everything you do, he watches with love and pride. His words seem harsh and condescending, but he says them because he wants to ensure you are safe and alive. He wants to make you an even stronger fighter and a better man. These are the acts of a father who dearly loves his son, not someone who is indifferent to him."

"Yeah… maybe…" He answers, unconvinced.

"There is no maybe, Connor. It is simply fact. Whatever it is that is barring you from accepting that your father loves you, let go of it and embrace him while you can. We don't often get a lot of second chances with those we love, or who love us."

I can see that he is considering my words. I've done all I can for now I think.

"Try not to think on it too ardently… I find it causes me to hesitate where I shouldn't and has cost me far more than I'd like to acknowledge. Don't wait too long, or you may find the opportunity is gone."

Good words of advice. Perhaps I should take them myself one of these days.