Ficbit: After the fall (2/many) (still FT13)
Is there really any need to put the rating in the title again? This whole story is work safe after all, and I'm still unsure about ratings systems in general.
The previous part is here
All parts are here
***
#1 - A king in exile (cont.)
London is the land of Wesley's childhood and so all here should speak as he did, but they don't.
"Got anyfing to declare, Miss?"
"Where to, darling?"
"Hyou wunna see who?"
There are as many different tones and accents here as in Los Angeles, all of them disrespectful. It has taken a supreme effort of will to reach the Council without committing more than the minimum necessary amount of violence and, even then, the customs official should be able to walk properly within the week. All of this just to come here and impart news of their victory in battle to a bunch of desk jockeys in tweed, as Spike had called them.
Illyria is not impressed.
"Are you saying that this... this Texan is a friend of my son's?" asks one of the men at the table, pointing to the Old One standing in the middle of the room. The sparks of dead memory began fading long ago but it does not take much to recognize him as Wesley's father.
"So it would appear," confirms another as he reads Angel's letter. This must be the man called Rupert Giles.
"But..." The red-haired woman sitting beside him seems upset. "But... She's not... She's not really... She's not human. Fred was... Fred is dead. And she was nice. And... And, this isn't Fred."
"No. No, she's not." Having reached the end of the letter, Rupert Giles looks up. "Could you please drop the pretense?"
"Folks tend to get upset when I do," replies Illyria, in Fred's voice.
"Nevertheless."
They challenge each other for a moment. He does not flinch. The once-god relents first. It is a small enough concession and maintaining the pretense is a strain anyway.
"So be it."
More pain. More fetters. Before the binding of Illyria's powers and the battle and the damage taken at the hands of mage and monster alike, shape changing was as easy as drawing breath. More so. It required barely a thought. Now, it takes effort. Effort that wracks the shell with spasms and jolts of discomfort. And it lasts much too long. Still, it is a relief when it is over.
Everyone is staring.
"Is this satisfactory?"
"Y-Yes. Quite." Only a visible act of will prevents Rupert Giles from reacting like the others around the table. He coughs and waves the letter in his hand. "This states that you are here to deliver some information?"
A task which had been taken on a whim, perhaps, but the once-god acknowledges the responsibility. The half breeds presumably had their reasons to deem it necessary.
"News of the battle."
"Battle? What battle?"
"Between the coterie of the vampire Angel and the legions of the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart."
There is a moment's silence during which the aquatic ancestry of all land-living mammals comes to the forefront in their fish-like gawping. Then many of them begin talking at once. Illyria ignores the din to concentrate on Rupert Giles. He is the leader of these fools. There is no sense in pandering to underlings.
Eventually, the agitation dies down. In the relative silence, he clears his throat.
"What happened?"
"The circle of the Black Thorn sought to end the world. Angel prevented them from doing so. The Wolf, the Ram and the Hart sent their legions against him to seek retribution."
"Oh my god!" The woman beside him has straightened in her chair. "Is he okay? What happened? I thought he was working for those lawyer guys. Why did they-?"
Rupert Giles raises a hand to still the flow of questions, his eyes never leaving Illyria's.
"Exactly how large a force are we talking about?"
"Not many." An admission that makes the outcome all the more bitter. "Certainly less than one tenth of my own armies in the Primordium."
More gawping ensues, followed by many panicked outbursts. Rupert Giles is forced to pick up one of the large tomes in front of him and use it as a gavel to gain everyone's attention. "Before we all begin running around like chickens with our heads cut off, might I suggest we put a hold on the dire panic long enough to find out what it is we should in fact be panicking about?"
There is a murmur of discontent among the ranks, followed by a murmur of embarrassment. At last, some measure of restraint returns as the others resume their positions at the table, straighten their clothes and attempt to regain the pretense that passes for dignity among their kind.
Rupert Giles frowns at this display before continuing.
"The Primordium, you say? Am I to take that as being a reference to the age of the Old Ones?"
The red head beside him frowns.
"Old ones?" she wonders aloud. "As in 'Golden Girls' kind of old or, you know, tentacle monsters and Lovecraft?"
There are several disgusted sighs about the room and not a few looks to accompany them. Rupert Giles does not seem phased however.
"Pleased as I am that you have been able to spend so much time with Xander since his return, Willow, could we perhaps save the pop culture references for a more suitable moment?"
The woman blushes. It makes her face match her hair.
"Sorry."
Illyria watches the byplay with an odd sense of familiarity. It is disturbing.
"The Old Ones," he continues patiently, "were true demons and demon lords who lived in this dimension before humanity managed to push them out." Despite a studied lack of outward reaction, something about Illyria's attitude must intrigue him nonetheless because he proceeds to ask, "Is that not so?"
"I do not care how history has been rewritten in the mind of brief creatures such as yourselves, but to reduce the majesty of the ancient gods to the level of mere demons and claim the triumph of removing them as your own is laughable. The chattel humans of the day could barely stand up in the power of our presence, let alone play a significant role in the final conflict."
"Oh?" He sits forward, his face animated with interest. "Then what did happen?"
"I do not know. I was betrayed and murdered before the Primordium's end and my body sent to the Deeper Well."
"Murdered? You were murdered?"
"Yes."
He raises an eyebrow.
"And yet... Here you stand now."
It is not quite a question. There is an unmistakable request in his manner if not his tone, but it is the request of one who is accustomed to being obeyed.
The once-god is starting to lose patience. In truth, however galling it is to have to admit, the shell's wounds are all but incapacitating now. Changing shape must have worsened them. Pain is an issue to be ignored, true, but when strength begins to lack for even the most basic of tasks, then standing in front of these insects and being interrogated like a common prisoner becomes an intolerable reversal of hierarchy. With no other means to fight back, only the sparks of dead memory remain.
"You speak as if this could surprise you," Illyria states, "and yet the vampires called you before my resurrection to beg for your help in preventing it."
Shock replaces the casual arrogance on Rupert Giles' face.
"Excuse me?"
"The human Winifred Burkle was dying. More than death, only oblivion awaited her. The half breeds were desperate. They begged for help, you denied it to them and yet now you pretend not to have known this happened? You pretend my existence is a puzzle? I do not understand."
The face of the woman named Willow has gone from the red of certain fruits to a pallor worthy of a vampire as she rounds on her liege lord with wide, shocked eyes.
"Giles!"
The Council's liege can only stare dumbly. The others in the room are equally silent.
"It pleases you to sit here and pass judgment," Illyria continues, although from where the words are coming remains a mystery. "It pleases you to decree what is and what is not. But you are just primitives, surrounding yourselves with ceremony and structure to push away the dark. Cowering behind others and using their powers. You believe you have some role to play in the grand scheme of things, some greater purpose, but you have no part in the true battles. Your continued existence or obliteration are never more than incidental."
"Now steady on!" one of the old men at the end of the table says. "I'm not going to sit here and let some demon-"
"I am still a KING!"
As one, the humans recoil in the face of Illyria's indignation. A heat unrelated to any discernible physical symptom floods through the shell, making it hard to hold back the words.
"I conquered and claimed my throne of ages before even the Powers themselves were born! And all that I had, I took with my own strength! My own power! You sit here and think yourselves safe behind that table, safe inside this building, safe within the confines of this stagnant human world, you hide behind your slayers and champions and legend and lore and you DARE to question my existence?"
The shell is weakening rapidly now, straining to contain the sudden rage.
"The battle was fought and won without your help. I am not here to beseech you. I am not here to serve you. I came at the request of the vampires simply to inform you. The circle of the Black Thorn is gone. The vampire Angel worked from within its very ranks to destroy it. We helped him. After his triumph, the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart were displeased. They sent demons and dragons and giants and warriors against us. I did not count their numbers. I know only that there were so many that the piles of bodies blotted out the light. And in the end, I was alive. Angel was alive. Spike was alive. Charles Gunn died. And so did... So did Wesley."
"Wesley?" Roger Wyndham-Price bolts to his feet. "My... My son Wesley?"
"Yes."
From the lack of expression on his face, it is impossible to know whether he is affected by the news or not, but his knuckles are white as he grips the table in front of him.
"You're lying! You... You come in here with some cockamamie story about a war in a major American metropolis, a war that somehow managed to avoid our attention even though California was up until recently the home of the active Hellmouth, and you expect us to believe that... that... My son...?"
"I do not care what you believe. Your opinions matter only to yourselves. The facts of the matter are as I stated them. The cost is for each to bear as they will."
No doubt there is more to be said but Illyria cannot stand this any longer. The pain is too great. Having done as Angel asked, the once-god turns and leaves without a backwards glance, ignoring the slayers at the door and the voices of their masters still hungry to know more.
***
Tbc...
<< (02) >>
Well there you have it. A bit melodramatic, perhaps, but it's still only a matter of hours since the battle and everything so I thought Illyria was owed a little outburst. I hope this makes sense.
Don't expect daily postings of this particular fic. It's probably going to stay weekends only for a while, until I've built up enough of a buffer. There's a lot of nuance and stuff that I want to get right and that's a bit of a bugger to write.
Anyhoo, s'all for now. I'll be back later to meme and whatnot. Thanks for reading!
ETA: FT? What the heck kind of rating is FT? *is strange*