Illyria, Alone. (3/5)
All this business of posting fic every day is v. unusual for me - almost forgot this. Hope you continue to enjoy. :)
Previous chapters here.
Chapter 3
When Illyria had said goodbye to Trish Burkle, she stood still for a moment, contemplating what lay ahead. She knew what she had to do next - what she would have to suffer for her Qua’Ha-Xhan - but yet it rankled. Speaking to Roger Wyndham-Pryce would require her to flatter another’s ego, to placate and cajole and use everything she’d learnt about humans to make sure her dear Wesley would be remembered with honour.
“O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!” she thought - the words springing into her mind from whence she knew not. As she pondered the strangeness of human behaviour, it came to her that humans always changed their appearance to suit the occasion - clothes and make-up and accessories displaying their power and ideologies, the way she had in former times adorned herself with the bones of those she had defeated. And yet there was more to it - humans also used their armour as a way of making themselves change from without. Reflecting the power - the attitude - inwards.
The display of Fred’s appearance might help her through the discourse with Wesley’s father.
A moment’s silent concentration later and Miss Burkle’s countenance overlaid her own. She heard Jamesson gasp, but ignored him, as she started pressing the code on the telephone.
Many tortuous minutes later she was finally able to utter the customary farewell. The father’s grief for his son was satisfying and revolting in equal measures, but it had helped her own agenda well. Also she was pleased with her assessment of the Watcher’s organisation - as teachers of warriors they had much honour and would not fail to grasp her Wesley’s valour. But knowing that she would have to speak to these people in only a few hours time, mourning and lamentation hanging about them, cloying the air and making her own existence worse moment by moment, was most unpleasant to contemplate.
Finally she looked at her new servant and deigned to explain whose shell she was wearing. He looked at her thoughtfully for a while, then slowly said, “Winifred Burkle... now why does that ring a bell?”
“You were acquainted with the shell?” she asked, surprised. “I cannot find you amongst her memories.”
“No no. But I’m sure I’ve heard the name. What did Miss Burkle do before she had the honour of becoming your vessel?”
Illyria frowned lightly, wondering at the curiosity. Her latest guide had until now been calmer than an endless void, a welcome respite from those she had previously known. Knox had been a babbling, but knowledgeable, fool, and Wesley had been a shattered man, inside his defences - the shards and jagged edges of his brokenness fascinating to her. Jamesson on the other hand seemed more like one of the lawyers from W&H - tall and slightly corpulent, brown hair stained with silver, polite and deliberate. And yet there was curiosity underneath the unruffled exterior. It would appear that it was one of the defining characteristics of humanity.
She began explaining who Fred had been, but when she mentioned Fred’s place of study, Jamesson’s eyes lit up.
“That’s my old college!” He stopped for a second, then enlightenment flooded his features. “Ah, yes, now I know why the name rang a bell. One of Professor Seidel’s students if I recall correctly... very promising. It’s all coming back to me now. She vanished, didn’t she, along with some other brilliant students? I used to be quite involved on various committees some years ago, we had a hell of a time trying to cover it up. Can’t attract the talent if there’s a kidnapper around...”
He stopped and looked at her quizzically. “I guess you can tell me what happened - pardon me your Highness, I think I interrupted your tale.”
After a moments hesitation she continued, but she noticed a new level of attention in him. Something other than worship... and also different from Wesley’s and Knox’s obsession. Doing a tortuous search through Fred’s memories she came across the phrase ‘the personal touch’ - how to make something mundane intimate through a direct connection. There were people that Fred recalled, ordinary people that she met but once, that had made an impression on her. This was a new thing and Illyria was fascinated. She reversed her search, and sure enough it would seem that people had the same sort of reaction to Fred. Everyone cared about her, because... because she cared about them.
Illyria smiled triumphantly. That was the key she had been looking for, the thing that unlocked the mystery of human interactions. Tiny, tiny details mattered to them - a rude word or glance could cause great offence, a smile could cause quite disproportionate happiness... the understanding rippled through her and she realised that she would have to re-evaluate her Fred impersonation. She had thought people liked Fred because of her beauty, her intelligence, her wit, her charm - all her great strengths. But it would seem that the woman’s kindness - her effort to connect with people - was even more important.
As she came to this new and illuminating conclusion, she finished her story of Fred’s life and inclined her head a fraction when Jamesson thanked her. She was increasingly pleased with her choice - as a guide he was proving admirably competent, and his quiet understanding was very soothing.
Soon afterwards they set off to ‘talk to the authorities’ - Wesley’s parents would come the next day and there was paperwork to sort out. Illyria mourned the loss of Charles Gunn, who would have been able to fix it all within 5 minutes, but Jamesson was capable enough, and the exercise was not as trying as she had anticipated. She also tried out her new theory of human interaction, and to her delight found that it worked like a charm on the clerk who attended them.
“I’m sorry miss, but these sorts of things take more than a day to get done. From what you tell me, you’ve not even got a death certificate yet.”
“But...” she manfully held back the tears that welled up. “But I called ahead, and was assured that it could be done. His parents are coming tomorrow, and I don’t know how to do any of this... it’s all just so awful - we were gonna be married in the autumn and now...”
She burst into tears and Jamesson awkwardly patted her on the arm.
“You sure you can’t sort this out? My niece is under severe emotional stress - I mean if there are any problems I’ll be happy to deal with them...”
The clerk looked from one to the other, hesitating.
“Please?” Illyria asked, taking a deep shaky breath. “I mean, if it was someone you cared about...”
“I’ll see what I can do.” he replied, and Illyria gave him the widest, most grateful smile she could muster.
A little later she and her aide sat waiting, and Illyria observed how the town officials were desperately trying to deal with the aftermath of the big battle - she often had to stop herself from smiling, overhearing many remarks as to the overwhelming destruction. It was balm to her soul, even if she could not acknowledge her part openly.
When everything was sorted out to her satisfaction, Jamesson asked permission to leave, since he had people to meet and places to be, and she readily let him go. She would keep watch by Wesley’s body tonight, as the custom was for great warriors and servants. His father had mentioned a family tomb - this would be befitting, and she was pleased. Maybe one day she would be able to restore him...
The next day was wearisome. The proud, haughty man she recalled meeting many months ago (although he had only been a facsimile), had been broken by his son’s death. But at least he was silent and haunted, as opposed to his wife who cried a great deal. Being Fred, Illyria had to act in a kind and concerned manner, even as she tried to project the signs of human grief. It was one thing to cry for 5 minutes for a clerk... quite something else to spend a whole day in the company of mourners. She spoke repeatedly of Wesley’s bravery and unshakeable character, hinted at the future they might have had together, praised his honesty and skill, until she finally said farewell as they left with the body. The relief was overwhelming.
Needing peace, but not desiring to stay any longer in Wesley’s apartment, she decided to go to Fred’s abode. Wesley - being organised as ever - had kept a key that she easily found. All went well, until she walked down the hallway of Fred’s building, and a little old lady came out of her flat. Upon seeing ‘Fred’ she broke into a wide smile and burst into joyous rapture.
“My dear Miss Burkle! Where have you been? It’s been months since I saw you - I think you might have been going to some kinda fancy dressing up party because you looked ever so peculiar. Tell me sweetheart, how are you doin'? Oh you’ve been visiting your family? I was just saying to Mrs Feldman the other day that I was sure you were fine - I remember meeting your mother a few years ago and she was such a lovely person... Have you heard of the racket a few nights ago? They were saying something about terrorists on the news, just awful if you ask me...”
After a few false starts, Illyria was finally able to break through the word torrent: “Please... excuse me - you see my... my Wesley died in the... incident. You remember seeing him, surely? Tall and handsome Englishman...”
She did Fred’s ‘crumple face’ for the 53rd time since the sun had risen, the action feeling almost natural now. Her neighbour exclaimed loudly upon the tragedy and the unfairness of life that took young people away and left old ones like her hanging around for much too long. Illyria had to restrain herself from fulfilling the old lady’s death wish there and then and slowly managed to extract herself from the repeated offers of a cup of coffee and a friendly ear.
When she was finally inside Fred’s flat, she felt like her head might explode. Knowing that she was stuck here, like a fly in a bottle, confined to a tiny glass prison when once all the worlds had been hers to command, was the most exquisite torture. She needed to focus on something else...
Slowly she walked around the rooms, noting the dust that had settled on every surface. The world broken into tiny particles, less than nothing to look upon. She - Illyria - had been dust for untold aeons, resting. And now Fred’s life was dust, like Illyria’s armies and foes - the smallest and the greatest coming to the same ending. She remembered dusting Spike and Angel before she was blasted back through time, remembered waking up in Fred’s body for the first time, feet away from where she was now standing. With Wesley ready to kill her... she shuddered involuntarily, forcing her mind to stop dwelling on the past and the futility of life.
She would not turn to dust. Not ever again.
Chapter 4.
Previous chapters here.
Chapter 3
When Illyria had said goodbye to Trish Burkle, she stood still for a moment, contemplating what lay ahead. She knew what she had to do next - what she would have to suffer for her Qua’Ha-Xhan - but yet it rankled. Speaking to Roger Wyndham-Pryce would require her to flatter another’s ego, to placate and cajole and use everything she’d learnt about humans to make sure her dear Wesley would be remembered with honour.
“O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!” she thought - the words springing into her mind from whence she knew not. As she pondered the strangeness of human behaviour, it came to her that humans always changed their appearance to suit the occasion - clothes and make-up and accessories displaying their power and ideologies, the way she had in former times adorned herself with the bones of those she had defeated. And yet there was more to it - humans also used their armour as a way of making themselves change from without. Reflecting the power - the attitude - inwards.
The display of Fred’s appearance might help her through the discourse with Wesley’s father.
A moment’s silent concentration later and Miss Burkle’s countenance overlaid her own. She heard Jamesson gasp, but ignored him, as she started pressing the code on the telephone.
Many tortuous minutes later she was finally able to utter the customary farewell. The father’s grief for his son was satisfying and revolting in equal measures, but it had helped her own agenda well. Also she was pleased with her assessment of the Watcher’s organisation - as teachers of warriors they had much honour and would not fail to grasp her Wesley’s valour. But knowing that she would have to speak to these people in only a few hours time, mourning and lamentation hanging about them, cloying the air and making her own existence worse moment by moment, was most unpleasant to contemplate.
Finally she looked at her new servant and deigned to explain whose shell she was wearing. He looked at her thoughtfully for a while, then slowly said, “Winifred Burkle... now why does that ring a bell?”
“You were acquainted with the shell?” she asked, surprised. “I cannot find you amongst her memories.”
“No no. But I’m sure I’ve heard the name. What did Miss Burkle do before she had the honour of becoming your vessel?”
Illyria frowned lightly, wondering at the curiosity. Her latest guide had until now been calmer than an endless void, a welcome respite from those she had previously known. Knox had been a babbling, but knowledgeable, fool, and Wesley had been a shattered man, inside his defences - the shards and jagged edges of his brokenness fascinating to her. Jamesson on the other hand seemed more like one of the lawyers from W&H - tall and slightly corpulent, brown hair stained with silver, polite and deliberate. And yet there was curiosity underneath the unruffled exterior. It would appear that it was one of the defining characteristics of humanity.
She began explaining who Fred had been, but when she mentioned Fred’s place of study, Jamesson’s eyes lit up.
“That’s my old college!” He stopped for a second, then enlightenment flooded his features. “Ah, yes, now I know why the name rang a bell. One of Professor Seidel’s students if I recall correctly... very promising. It’s all coming back to me now. She vanished, didn’t she, along with some other brilliant students? I used to be quite involved on various committees some years ago, we had a hell of a time trying to cover it up. Can’t attract the talent if there’s a kidnapper around...”
He stopped and looked at her quizzically. “I guess you can tell me what happened - pardon me your Highness, I think I interrupted your tale.”
After a moments hesitation she continued, but she noticed a new level of attention in him. Something other than worship... and also different from Wesley’s and Knox’s obsession. Doing a tortuous search through Fred’s memories she came across the phrase ‘the personal touch’ - how to make something mundane intimate through a direct connection. There were people that Fred recalled, ordinary people that she met but once, that had made an impression on her. This was a new thing and Illyria was fascinated. She reversed her search, and sure enough it would seem that people had the same sort of reaction to Fred. Everyone cared about her, because... because she cared about them.
Illyria smiled triumphantly. That was the key she had been looking for, the thing that unlocked the mystery of human interactions. Tiny, tiny details mattered to them - a rude word or glance could cause great offence, a smile could cause quite disproportionate happiness... the understanding rippled through her and she realised that she would have to re-evaluate her Fred impersonation. She had thought people liked Fred because of her beauty, her intelligence, her wit, her charm - all her great strengths. But it would seem that the woman’s kindness - her effort to connect with people - was even more important.
As she came to this new and illuminating conclusion, she finished her story of Fred’s life and inclined her head a fraction when Jamesson thanked her. She was increasingly pleased with her choice - as a guide he was proving admirably competent, and his quiet understanding was very soothing.
Soon afterwards they set off to ‘talk to the authorities’ - Wesley’s parents would come the next day and there was paperwork to sort out. Illyria mourned the loss of Charles Gunn, who would have been able to fix it all within 5 minutes, but Jamesson was capable enough, and the exercise was not as trying as she had anticipated. She also tried out her new theory of human interaction, and to her delight found that it worked like a charm on the clerk who attended them.
“I’m sorry miss, but these sorts of things take more than a day to get done. From what you tell me, you’ve not even got a death certificate yet.”
“But...” she manfully held back the tears that welled up. “But I called ahead, and was assured that it could be done. His parents are coming tomorrow, and I don’t know how to do any of this... it’s all just so awful - we were gonna be married in the autumn and now...”
She burst into tears and Jamesson awkwardly patted her on the arm.
“You sure you can’t sort this out? My niece is under severe emotional stress - I mean if there are any problems I’ll be happy to deal with them...”
The clerk looked from one to the other, hesitating.
“Please?” Illyria asked, taking a deep shaky breath. “I mean, if it was someone you cared about...”
“I’ll see what I can do.” he replied, and Illyria gave him the widest, most grateful smile she could muster.
A little later she and her aide sat waiting, and Illyria observed how the town officials were desperately trying to deal with the aftermath of the big battle - she often had to stop herself from smiling, overhearing many remarks as to the overwhelming destruction. It was balm to her soul, even if she could not acknowledge her part openly.
When everything was sorted out to her satisfaction, Jamesson asked permission to leave, since he had people to meet and places to be, and she readily let him go. She would keep watch by Wesley’s body tonight, as the custom was for great warriors and servants. His father had mentioned a family tomb - this would be befitting, and she was pleased. Maybe one day she would be able to restore him...
The next day was wearisome. The proud, haughty man she recalled meeting many months ago (although he had only been a facsimile), had been broken by his son’s death. But at least he was silent and haunted, as opposed to his wife who cried a great deal. Being Fred, Illyria had to act in a kind and concerned manner, even as she tried to project the signs of human grief. It was one thing to cry for 5 minutes for a clerk... quite something else to spend a whole day in the company of mourners. She spoke repeatedly of Wesley’s bravery and unshakeable character, hinted at the future they might have had together, praised his honesty and skill, until she finally said farewell as they left with the body. The relief was overwhelming.
Needing peace, but not desiring to stay any longer in Wesley’s apartment, she decided to go to Fred’s abode. Wesley - being organised as ever - had kept a key that she easily found. All went well, until she walked down the hallway of Fred’s building, and a little old lady came out of her flat. Upon seeing ‘Fred’ she broke into a wide smile and burst into joyous rapture.
“My dear Miss Burkle! Where have you been? It’s been months since I saw you - I think you might have been going to some kinda fancy dressing up party because you looked ever so peculiar. Tell me sweetheart, how are you doin'? Oh you’ve been visiting your family? I was just saying to Mrs Feldman the other day that I was sure you were fine - I remember meeting your mother a few years ago and she was such a lovely person... Have you heard of the racket a few nights ago? They were saying something about terrorists on the news, just awful if you ask me...”
After a few false starts, Illyria was finally able to break through the word torrent: “Please... excuse me - you see my... my Wesley died in the... incident. You remember seeing him, surely? Tall and handsome Englishman...”
She did Fred’s ‘crumple face’ for the 53rd time since the sun had risen, the action feeling almost natural now. Her neighbour exclaimed loudly upon the tragedy and the unfairness of life that took young people away and left old ones like her hanging around for much too long. Illyria had to restrain herself from fulfilling the old lady’s death wish there and then and slowly managed to extract herself from the repeated offers of a cup of coffee and a friendly ear.
When she was finally inside Fred’s flat, she felt like her head might explode. Knowing that she was stuck here, like a fly in a bottle, confined to a tiny glass prison when once all the worlds had been hers to command, was the most exquisite torture. She needed to focus on something else...
Slowly she walked around the rooms, noting the dust that had settled on every surface. The world broken into tiny particles, less than nothing to look upon. She - Illyria - had been dust for untold aeons, resting. And now Fred’s life was dust, like Illyria’s armies and foes - the smallest and the greatest coming to the same ending. She remembered dusting Spike and Angel before she was blasted back through time, remembered waking up in Fred’s body for the first time, feet away from where she was now standing. With Wesley ready to kill her... she shuddered involuntarily, forcing her mind to stop dwelling on the past and the futility of life.
She would not turn to dust. Not ever again.
Chapter 4.