A:TS FIC: Adagio (1/1)
Tiny wee ficlet again; not beated or anything. Just trying to wrap my brain around the post-NFA world...
Title: Adagio
Author: kangeiko
Summary: The smoke clears. Set post-NFA.
The ash and noise of the earthquake wasn't the coup de grâce, despite appearances. In the almost quiet aftermath of the battle, with too many corpses and torn bodies to hide or burn effectively, the earth had finally simply opened up and swallowed the entire battlefield, side streets and all. What little had remained alive in downtown Los Angeles had disappeared underneath the soil, scrabbling desperately at the loose dirt and torn strips of tarmac for a hold on to this reality.
At the end of it, Los Angeles had levelled itself and there were upturned trees where the Boulevard had used to be. In the centre of the clearing, the old offices of the Wolf, Ram and Hart had been razed to the ground, smote - if that word could still be used - with fire and brimstone.
When the topmost storey caught fire, Ilyria turned to run.
Behind her, the earthquake sifted through the bloodied ash and bits of dead flesh that were all that remained of Gunn; of Spike; of Angel. The smoke billowing out from the conflagration obscured the filtered rays of morning light, throwing down a blanket of soot and dead false hopes across Ilyria's wake.
When the smoke cleared, the humans returned, bit by bit. With them came the fire crews and the politicians and the lawyers, and the Wolf, Ram and Hart. The sensitive, sympathetic representatives of the firm - so terribly photogenic - took the helpless few struggling survivors under Wolfram & Hart's widespread wing. The firm fed them, and it bandaged them, and it took many, many witness testimonies, and by the time the Slayers arrived on the scene, it had quietly disappeared them all, each and every one.
By this point, Ilyria had already found her target, aimlessly wandering the bars of San Diego, and had slid into a corner booth during the show. It was an interminable interlude, and something about it was disturbing to Ilyria's unpractised ears; something about the words was vaguely familiar and hostile. Her entire body coiled up tightly during the climb and lull of the song and the clinking of the piano, straining to remember.
"You make me happy, when skies are grey -"
And she wasn't even listening by this point, watching Lorne as he slowly wove his way through the rest of the set, his red eyes somehow dimmed by the glare of the bright stage lights.
Ilyria hummed under her breath and Lorne's practiced hands stumbled on the ivory. "Well. Ah, wasn't that song just peachy? I'm going to just -" And, oddly, Lorne didn't have much to say as he gathered up his jacket and left the stage.
Ilyria stood to join him at the exit, pushing the careless crush of human bodies out of their way.
"What're you doing here? I mean, I told Angel that I'm done and -" He stumbled to a halt, hands clasped in front of him as if he couldn't quite summon the energy to wring them.
"The rest are dead. Ashes and bits of flesh; not enough for your required rites. I exacted what vengeance I could from those responsible for their deaths," Ilyria said. She looked Lorne over carefully. "You are not injured."
"No, sweetcake, I'm not. Not what you can see on the outside, anyway. All of them?"
"All. Wesley died before the rest. Charles, next, then the blond one. Angel died last." She paused, wondering whether the lie would be of more use than the truth. "He was distracted by his underling's death. He faltered when delivering the killing blow to the dragon he was battling, and -"
"Yeah, okay, hold on there, I just don't - I don't -" Lorne's mouth thinned. He looked uncomfortably pale at the news, though he could not have supposed that any of them survived. Surely word would have reached him by now of the aftermath.
Ilyria studied him curiously, unable to read the expression on his face. She surmised that grief and anger were present, but was unable to unpick the lines and scales and tautness that would reveal this one's thoughts. "You are grieving."
Lorne made a sound deep in his chest. "Why are you here?" He asked instead. "Why did you come all the way out here? Just to tell me that they're dead? To - sing?"
There could be no answer to that; at least, none which Ilyria was willing to give to such a weak underling. To admit weakness to her guide in this world had been one matter in which she had humbled herself, as it had been necessary. But this one - all softness and sinew and slick grief - why, she could still break him in two and sup all the marrow from his bones. "You are all that is left," she said instead, and was surprised at how uncertain her voice sounded.
Lorne smiled a little at that. "I suppose that makes us the survivors."
"Yes. Although -" she inclined her head. "I am not certain I wish to be a survivor any longer."
And in a fit of great daring, the creature Lorne - underling, Pylean, the only one left she remembered - reached out and touched her hand gently.
They spoke some more, tucked up in a booth and the light away from their eyes. The talk was inconsequential, and the Fred persona coped with it well; oddly, Lorne seemed less uncomfortable with the shell now than before. He reached out to hold her hand mid-way through the conversation. When Ilyria changed back, their fingers were still laced together, rested on the polished metal of the table.
"I wish for you to sing," Ilyria said. "Sing something for me."
Lorne's eyes were very bright. "Anything your majesty desires."
On the stage, the lights were just as merciless as before, and Lorne looked a hundred years older. "Ah, ladies and gents, this song's for a very special someone out there, because the world didn't end. And, hey, that can only be good, right?" He looked back out at the crowd, at Ilyria, and smiled.
And he sang.
*
fin
Title: Adagio
Author: kangeiko
Summary: The smoke clears. Set post-NFA.
The ash and noise of the earthquake wasn't the coup de grâce, despite appearances. In the almost quiet aftermath of the battle, with too many corpses and torn bodies to hide or burn effectively, the earth had finally simply opened up and swallowed the entire battlefield, side streets and all. What little had remained alive in downtown Los Angeles had disappeared underneath the soil, scrabbling desperately at the loose dirt and torn strips of tarmac for a hold on to this reality.
At the end of it, Los Angeles had levelled itself and there were upturned trees where the Boulevard had used to be. In the centre of the clearing, the old offices of the Wolf, Ram and Hart had been razed to the ground, smote - if that word could still be used - with fire and brimstone.
When the topmost storey caught fire, Ilyria turned to run.
Behind her, the earthquake sifted through the bloodied ash and bits of dead flesh that were all that remained of Gunn; of Spike; of Angel. The smoke billowing out from the conflagration obscured the filtered rays of morning light, throwing down a blanket of soot and dead false hopes across Ilyria's wake.
When the smoke cleared, the humans returned, bit by bit. With them came the fire crews and the politicians and the lawyers, and the Wolf, Ram and Hart. The sensitive, sympathetic representatives of the firm - so terribly photogenic - took the helpless few struggling survivors under Wolfram & Hart's widespread wing. The firm fed them, and it bandaged them, and it took many, many witness testimonies, and by the time the Slayers arrived on the scene, it had quietly disappeared them all, each and every one.
By this point, Ilyria had already found her target, aimlessly wandering the bars of San Diego, and had slid into a corner booth during the show. It was an interminable interlude, and something about it was disturbing to Ilyria's unpractised ears; something about the words was vaguely familiar and hostile. Her entire body coiled up tightly during the climb and lull of the song and the clinking of the piano, straining to remember.
"You make me happy, when skies are grey -"
And she wasn't even listening by this point, watching Lorne as he slowly wove his way through the rest of the set, his red eyes somehow dimmed by the glare of the bright stage lights.
Ilyria hummed under her breath and Lorne's practiced hands stumbled on the ivory. "Well. Ah, wasn't that song just peachy? I'm going to just -" And, oddly, Lorne didn't have much to say as he gathered up his jacket and left the stage.
Ilyria stood to join him at the exit, pushing the careless crush of human bodies out of their way.
"What're you doing here? I mean, I told Angel that I'm done and -" He stumbled to a halt, hands clasped in front of him as if he couldn't quite summon the energy to wring them.
"The rest are dead. Ashes and bits of flesh; not enough for your required rites. I exacted what vengeance I could from those responsible for their deaths," Ilyria said. She looked Lorne over carefully. "You are not injured."
"No, sweetcake, I'm not. Not what you can see on the outside, anyway. All of them?"
"All. Wesley died before the rest. Charles, next, then the blond one. Angel died last." She paused, wondering whether the lie would be of more use than the truth. "He was distracted by his underling's death. He faltered when delivering the killing blow to the dragon he was battling, and -"
"Yeah, okay, hold on there, I just don't - I don't -" Lorne's mouth thinned. He looked uncomfortably pale at the news, though he could not have supposed that any of them survived. Surely word would have reached him by now of the aftermath.
Ilyria studied him curiously, unable to read the expression on his face. She surmised that grief and anger were present, but was unable to unpick the lines and scales and tautness that would reveal this one's thoughts. "You are grieving."
Lorne made a sound deep in his chest. "Why are you here?" He asked instead. "Why did you come all the way out here? Just to tell me that they're dead? To - sing?"
There could be no answer to that; at least, none which Ilyria was willing to give to such a weak underling. To admit weakness to her guide in this world had been one matter in which she had humbled herself, as it had been necessary. But this one - all softness and sinew and slick grief - why, she could still break him in two and sup all the marrow from his bones. "You are all that is left," she said instead, and was surprised at how uncertain her voice sounded.
Lorne smiled a little at that. "I suppose that makes us the survivors."
"Yes. Although -" she inclined her head. "I am not certain I wish to be a survivor any longer."
And in a fit of great daring, the creature Lorne - underling, Pylean, the only one left she remembered - reached out and touched her hand gently.
They spoke some more, tucked up in a booth and the light away from their eyes. The talk was inconsequential, and the Fred persona coped with it well; oddly, Lorne seemed less uncomfortable with the shell now than before. He reached out to hold her hand mid-way through the conversation. When Ilyria changed back, their fingers were still laced together, rested on the polished metal of the table.
"I wish for you to sing," Ilyria said. "Sing something for me."
Lorne's eyes were very bright. "Anything your majesty desires."
On the stage, the lights were just as merciless as before, and Lorne looked a hundred years older. "Ah, ladies and gents, this song's for a very special someone out there, because the world didn't end. And, hey, that can only be good, right?" He looked back out at the crowd, at Ilyria, and smiled.
And he sang.
*
fin