(no subject)
And now that I've learned how do use LJ cuts:
Disclaimer: "Angel: the Series" does not belong to me. Nor does anything else in the Buffyverse. It all belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox, and probably a dozen other people I couldn't name.
A/N: There are no ships planned for this fic. Although, if you are abnormally touchy about such things, there are mentions of Illyria/Wesley, Fred/Wesley, Angel/Nina, Lilah/Wesley, Fred/Gunn, and probably a dozen others.
"Well, personally, I kinda wanna slay the dragon."
Angel raised his sword as the demon onslaught charged towards the foursome. Wesley was dead, Lorne was gone, and Gunn was running on the strength of his bravery alone, his veins nearly devoid of blood and his breath coming in sharp gasps. Illyria, Spike, and Angel would be the only ones standing in ten minutes time, if any of them even lasted that long. Angel's audacity was legendary, though, and while death was imminent for the small band of heroes, he was going to make certain their last battle would shake the Senior Partners to their cores.
As the rain pasted Angel's hair to his prominent forehead (a feat never-before-seen, considering the amount of product Angel had always utilized), he stepped forward and fell into the fray of monsters. No sooner had his first blow fallen on the demon in front of him, however, than the dragon swooped down upon him and seized the vampire in its iron jaws. As Angel shrieked in pain and terror, the dragon flew the two of them to the top of the nearest building. The beast proceeded to rip out Angel's bowels and toss them into the air, while Angel's shriek crescendoed into the most high-pitched, girly wailing ever heard on the face of the planet. The dragon continued to gorge out Angel's insides until finally, after several minutes of torture, the creature bit Angel's head clean off at the neck and frolicked in the dust of--
"These are lies," said Illyria. After watching Spike write fervently in this small book for the past hour, she had not been able to refrain from inspecting its contents. Wesley had called the feeling 'curiosity'.
Spike had not prevented her from examining his project. Not that he would have been able to stop her from breaking off his arms and forcing them both down his throat had he tried.
"You mutilate your own history and the history of those close to you. Angel was not killed in the battle. You do him injustice and demean his courage. Why have you written as a false scribe?"
Spike, who was standing by the window of Wesley's apartment (no, not Wesley's anymore), stomped his cigarette out on the carpet. It would leave a spot. Spike, of course, didn't care. "It's called 'fiction', Your Royal Blueness. It's a way of making events seem more interesting. And, in this case, it's also cathartic. You should try it some time. Might help you understand all those emotions you don't have."
Illyria glared at him. At least, Spike thought it was a glare. It was incredibly difficult to perceive any of Illyria's facial expressions, but Spike reckoned he was getting better at it.
"You think I would rely on false memories to survive? I require nothing of the sort, and I would no sooner deign to use these methods than I would lick the toes of a human. Your lies are as disgusting to me as--"
Spike let Illyria rattle on about human filth for a few more minutes. It seemed to be her only pleasure, and he figured she deserved some after the last week. The final fight had been taxing, even on the queen-demon. When her rant started to lose steam, Spike spoke up again. "All right, all right, lies are nasty, I get it. Humans equal bad." Spike thought for a moment. "You could try a diary, at least."
Illyria cocked her head to the side in a display that reminded Spike of a confused puppy. The comparison made Spike snicker inside. Illyria, the dog-queen. Heh.
"What is this word you suggest?" asked Illyria
"A diary. Journal, memoirs, whatever. You're telling me no one back in your olden times wrote an autobiography or anything?" Illyria continued to look confused, so Spike elaborated. "You write about yourself and your feelings in a book. You know, like 'Dear Diary, humans suck, love Illyria.' That sort of thing."
"Why would I convey my thoughts to something as ill an advisor as a book? I have no need to put my plans and impressions on display in papers."
Spike conceded defeat. It was happening more and more nowadays. He or Angel would say something that perplexed Illyria, and when they tried to explain, she would debase their ideas without listening to any of their arguments. Spike was tired, and he wasn't in the mood to make a case for something as trivial as a journal.
"Whatever, pet. It was just an idea. Thought maybe you might appreciate the chance to bitch at someone else for a change." As he walked past her to the door, he added, "If you ever change your mind, though, there are a few blank books on the top bookshelf. I reckon Wesley-boy kept a few spare ones for his case studies and whatnot."
Spike closed the door behind him, leaving Illyria alone in Wesley's old dwelling. She could only assume he was going out to intoxicate himself. Or perhaps to get one of those onion flowers for which he had an unusual predilection. Unusual for a vampire, at any rate. Half-breed vampires never ate human food back when Illyria was ruler, yet Spike devoured their sustenance on a regular basis. Perhaps they had evolved. Illyria didn't care, one way or the other. Spike had left, Angel was visiting his wolf mistress (girlfriend is the term he uses), and Illyria was alone in this apartment they had habited since the battle.
Unbidden, a sudden ache struck her chest. For a moment, she did not understand it (I do not feel pain). But just as quickly as the pain had come, a name passed through her thoughts: Wesley. She was still feeling the after-effects of grief. It was at these moments that Illyria longed for the times she could converse with the trees and the flowers and the grasses, for they were the only lifeforms whose speech did not disgust her. This power lost, however, she resorted to pacing around the apartment, walking circles around the kitchen table and trying not to suffocate in her embarrassingly human body.
Her eyes fell upon the shelf Spike had mentioned. No. No, she would not lower herself to partake of such an ignorant custom of mankind. Writing down thoughts indeed. Spike was just as dumb-witted as the cows from which the books had been made if he thought she would ever do something so degrading.
And yet, the pressing feeling would not go away. Wesley's curtains exuded his scent, and his chair flooded her with memories of his many drunken stupors since she'd known him. Must stop, stop thinking, no more human thoughts, smells, crushing me, crushing this frail, human body, do something!
She ran for the door, stopping just long enough to grab one of the empty books on the shelf and a pen.
~~~~~
Journal,
My thoughts have betrayed me. I sit here, on the roof of Wesley's building, and realize that I have sunk to the very depths of the human culture. Why am I writing these words? Why do I let mankind influence me, an emperor among sewage rats?
Why am I attempting to fathom this writing utensil, a 'pen' I believe it is called? It confounds me so. Or perhaps I am simply unaccustomed to manipulating these spindly fingers around such a small object. I can break the neck of the most powerful demon with ease, and yet I am unable to bend this pen to my will. My writing lacks the finesse I would surely have commanded in my old body, when I knew every particle of myself and could break apart the atoms of a water molecule as surely as I could torture the half-breed demons.
Uncertainty surrounds me. I do not know how I shall pass the days. I do not even know how many days are left to me. Am I to be as I once was, eternal and limitless? Or does the body confine me to the lifespan of the everyday human? A thousand curses upon those who have awakened me. I long to sleep again, deep in my sarcophagus in the Well. The last time I knew any peace. There is no peace for me now. My only pleasure is in the fight, when I can remember the Old Days.
It has been a week since Wesley fell. How much longer will my thoughts turn to him? His pain for this shell, Winifred Burkle, lasted for months, until his moment of death. Am I resigned to the same fate? Most assuredly not. He expressed love for the Burkle girl. I did not love Wesley. My feelings for him were customary and nothing more. I miss him the way I missed my baby fang when it had fallen out. The loss of it lasted only until the Fang Fairy left me a soul under my pillow. I've no doubt the aches I feel for Wesley will pass in much the same manner.
~~~~~
Journal,
Amazingly, I find myself returning to this piece of slaughtered tree. I have just finished dinner with Spike and Angel. Spike insisted I try some of his precious food. I had thought nothing could taste so appalling as human tears. But now I have tried these bits of garbage, these buffalo wings, and I know my mouth shall never know pain as it just has.
Angel dared to laugh at my expense when he saw my disgust. He wouldn't laugh if I shoved my hands up his nostrils and ripped out all of his brains. I refrained from committing such an act. I am, on occasion, merciful. Besides, I allowed myself a sneer when Spike made mention of Angel's somewhat dog-like odor.
Spike was watching the television earlier. I do not understand how anyone can abide such drivel. I can only assume Spike has buffalo wings for brains. He would not tear his eyes away from the box for an entire hour. He has, apparently, become fond of some particular television show. I asked him about it. "Shut up," he responded, "it's the series premiere of 'Lost'."
"Lost what?" I asked.
"Lost nothing. That's the name of the show. Just 'Lost'."
I find Spike's company dull and irritating. Yet, he is the only companion I can claim to have, nowadays. Wesley and Gunn are dead. And Angel does not interest me at all, even when he is here, which isn't often. Most nights he either takes refuge in the bed of his werewolf concubine or else wanders the streets of this world in a mad desire to avenge himself on the lives of his slain allies.
At least Spike occasionally takes me with him on his demon hunts. Not that I desire or require company. But it is sometimes useful when I wish to keep painful memories at bay. Memories of incredible palaces, stars that glittered brighter than a thousand moons, fires that burned colors. Worlds that obeyed my wishes. I remember unspeakable beauties that would melt the eyes of any human in existence if he but glanced them. And Wesley. I remember Wesley.
~~~~~
Journal,
We have moved. The Wolf, Ram, and Hart discovered us yesterday, and were quick to unleash more of their demonic legions. Angel received warning of the coming onslaught with enough time to plan an escape.
"Why aren't we gonna try and fight? Worked well enough before," Spike opined.
"We're not up to our full strength," responded Angel. "You're still limping and the tendons in my arm are still torn. Even Illyria isn't what she was."
I would have gladly crushed his skull beneath my boot for daring to imply my strength was not a thousand times greater than that of any army that might march against me, but my anger was almost immediately eclipsed by a different feeling which I could not, at the time, name. I believe it may have been relief. Yes, relief at leaving Wesley's old apartment. It had been the closest, undemolished building which we could access after the battle.
Yet, I have grown to detest the place. Whenever Spike and Angel had left me alone, the smells of Wesley pressed upon me as once I had crushed humans in my grasp. Wesley sleeping in his chair, Wesley weeping over the sink, Wesley burying his face in a pillow which I believe once belonged to another woman. It didn't smell of Winifred Burkle.
We are currently riding in an automobile, which Spike procured for our use. Stole it. In my day, thieves like him would have been butchered, their flesh fried over the fire of a dragon's breath and laid out on plates for the pigs to eat. But now, we are only alive because of his ability to filch unnoticed. He is currently asleep in the front passenger seat while Angel drives. He is listening to some dreadfully prosaic music and does not notice me writing. The song hurts my ears. The man singing it should be pierced with a thousand arrows. What is this "Copa Cabana"?
Illyria discovers a form of catharsis other than violence. Post "Not Fade Away"
Disclaimer: "Angel: the Series" does not belong to me. Nor does anything else in the Buffyverse. It all belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox, and probably a dozen other people I couldn't name.
A/N: There are no ships planned for this fic. Although, if you are abnormally touchy about such things, there are mentions of Illyria/Wesley, Fred/Wesley, Angel/Nina, Lilah/Wesley, Fred/Gunn, and probably a dozen others.
"Well, personally, I kinda wanna slay the dragon."
Angel raised his sword as the demon onslaught charged towards the foursome. Wesley was dead, Lorne was gone, and Gunn was running on the strength of his bravery alone, his veins nearly devoid of blood and his breath coming in sharp gasps. Illyria, Spike, and Angel would be the only ones standing in ten minutes time, if any of them even lasted that long. Angel's audacity was legendary, though, and while death was imminent for the small band of heroes, he was going to make certain their last battle would shake the Senior Partners to their cores.
As the rain pasted Angel's hair to his prominent forehead (a feat never-before-seen, considering the amount of product Angel had always utilized), he stepped forward and fell into the fray of monsters. No sooner had his first blow fallen on the demon in front of him, however, than the dragon swooped down upon him and seized the vampire in its iron jaws. As Angel shrieked in pain and terror, the dragon flew the two of them to the top of the nearest building. The beast proceeded to rip out Angel's bowels and toss them into the air, while Angel's shriek crescendoed into the most high-pitched, girly wailing ever heard on the face of the planet. The dragon continued to gorge out Angel's insides until finally, after several minutes of torture, the creature bit Angel's head clean off at the neck and frolicked in the dust of--
"These are lies," said Illyria. After watching Spike write fervently in this small book for the past hour, she had not been able to refrain from inspecting its contents. Wesley had called the feeling 'curiosity'.
Spike had not prevented her from examining his project. Not that he would have been able to stop her from breaking off his arms and forcing them both down his throat had he tried.
"You mutilate your own history and the history of those close to you. Angel was not killed in the battle. You do him injustice and demean his courage. Why have you written as a false scribe?"
Spike, who was standing by the window of Wesley's apartment (no, not Wesley's anymore), stomped his cigarette out on the carpet. It would leave a spot. Spike, of course, didn't care. "It's called 'fiction', Your Royal Blueness. It's a way of making events seem more interesting. And, in this case, it's also cathartic. You should try it some time. Might help you understand all those emotions you don't have."
Illyria glared at him. At least, Spike thought it was a glare. It was incredibly difficult to perceive any of Illyria's facial expressions, but Spike reckoned he was getting better at it.
"You think I would rely on false memories to survive? I require nothing of the sort, and I would no sooner deign to use these methods than I would lick the toes of a human. Your lies are as disgusting to me as--"
Spike let Illyria rattle on about human filth for a few more minutes. It seemed to be her only pleasure, and he figured she deserved some after the last week. The final fight had been taxing, even on the queen-demon. When her rant started to lose steam, Spike spoke up again. "All right, all right, lies are nasty, I get it. Humans equal bad." Spike thought for a moment. "You could try a diary, at least."
Illyria cocked her head to the side in a display that reminded Spike of a confused puppy. The comparison made Spike snicker inside. Illyria, the dog-queen. Heh.
"What is this word you suggest?" asked Illyria
"A diary. Journal, memoirs, whatever. You're telling me no one back in your olden times wrote an autobiography or anything?" Illyria continued to look confused, so Spike elaborated. "You write about yourself and your feelings in a book. You know, like 'Dear Diary, humans suck, love Illyria.' That sort of thing."
"Why would I convey my thoughts to something as ill an advisor as a book? I have no need to put my plans and impressions on display in papers."
Spike conceded defeat. It was happening more and more nowadays. He or Angel would say something that perplexed Illyria, and when they tried to explain, she would debase their ideas without listening to any of their arguments. Spike was tired, and he wasn't in the mood to make a case for something as trivial as a journal.
"Whatever, pet. It was just an idea. Thought maybe you might appreciate the chance to bitch at someone else for a change." As he walked past her to the door, he added, "If you ever change your mind, though, there are a few blank books on the top bookshelf. I reckon Wesley-boy kept a few spare ones for his case studies and whatnot."
Spike closed the door behind him, leaving Illyria alone in Wesley's old dwelling. She could only assume he was going out to intoxicate himself. Or perhaps to get one of those onion flowers for which he had an unusual predilection. Unusual for a vampire, at any rate. Half-breed vampires never ate human food back when Illyria was ruler, yet Spike devoured their sustenance on a regular basis. Perhaps they had evolved. Illyria didn't care, one way or the other. Spike had left, Angel was visiting his wolf mistress (girlfriend is the term he uses), and Illyria was alone in this apartment they had habited since the battle.
Unbidden, a sudden ache struck her chest. For a moment, she did not understand it (I do not feel pain). But just as quickly as the pain had come, a name passed through her thoughts: Wesley. She was still feeling the after-effects of grief. It was at these moments that Illyria longed for the times she could converse with the trees and the flowers and the grasses, for they were the only lifeforms whose speech did not disgust her. This power lost, however, she resorted to pacing around the apartment, walking circles around the kitchen table and trying not to suffocate in her embarrassingly human body.
Her eyes fell upon the shelf Spike had mentioned. No. No, she would not lower herself to partake of such an ignorant custom of mankind. Writing down thoughts indeed. Spike was just as dumb-witted as the cows from which the books had been made if he thought she would ever do something so degrading.
And yet, the pressing feeling would not go away. Wesley's curtains exuded his scent, and his chair flooded her with memories of his many drunken stupors since she'd known him. Must stop, stop thinking, no more human thoughts, smells, crushing me, crushing this frail, human body, do something!
She ran for the door, stopping just long enough to grab one of the empty books on the shelf and a pen.
~~~~~
Journal,
My thoughts have betrayed me. I sit here, on the roof of Wesley's building, and realize that I have sunk to the very depths of the human culture. Why am I writing these words? Why do I let mankind influence me, an emperor among sewage rats?
Why am I attempting to fathom this writing utensil, a 'pen' I believe it is called? It confounds me so. Or perhaps I am simply unaccustomed to manipulating these spindly fingers around such a small object. I can break the neck of the most powerful demon with ease, and yet I am unable to bend this pen to my will. My writing lacks the finesse I would surely have commanded in my old body, when I knew every particle of myself and could break apart the atoms of a water molecule as surely as I could torture the half-breed demons.
Uncertainty surrounds me. I do not know how I shall pass the days. I do not even know how many days are left to me. Am I to be as I once was, eternal and limitless? Or does the body confine me to the lifespan of the everyday human? A thousand curses upon those who have awakened me. I long to sleep again, deep in my sarcophagus in the Well. The last time I knew any peace. There is no peace for me now. My only pleasure is in the fight, when I can remember the Old Days.
It has been a week since Wesley fell. How much longer will my thoughts turn to him? His pain for this shell, Winifred Burkle, lasted for months, until his moment of death. Am I resigned to the same fate? Most assuredly not. He expressed love for the Burkle girl. I did not love Wesley. My feelings for him were customary and nothing more. I miss him the way I missed my baby fang when it had fallen out. The loss of it lasted only until the Fang Fairy left me a soul under my pillow. I've no doubt the aches I feel for Wesley will pass in much the same manner.
~~~~~
Journal,
Amazingly, I find myself returning to this piece of slaughtered tree. I have just finished dinner with Spike and Angel. Spike insisted I try some of his precious food. I had thought nothing could taste so appalling as human tears. But now I have tried these bits of garbage, these buffalo wings, and I know my mouth shall never know pain as it just has.
Angel dared to laugh at my expense when he saw my disgust. He wouldn't laugh if I shoved my hands up his nostrils and ripped out all of his brains. I refrained from committing such an act. I am, on occasion, merciful. Besides, I allowed myself a sneer when Spike made mention of Angel's somewhat dog-like odor.
Spike was watching the television earlier. I do not understand how anyone can abide such drivel. I can only assume Spike has buffalo wings for brains. He would not tear his eyes away from the box for an entire hour. He has, apparently, become fond of some particular television show. I asked him about it. "Shut up," he responded, "it's the series premiere of 'Lost'."
"Lost what?" I asked.
"Lost nothing. That's the name of the show. Just 'Lost'."
I find Spike's company dull and irritating. Yet, he is the only companion I can claim to have, nowadays. Wesley and Gunn are dead. And Angel does not interest me at all, even when he is here, which isn't often. Most nights he either takes refuge in the bed of his werewolf concubine or else wanders the streets of this world in a mad desire to avenge himself on the lives of his slain allies.
At least Spike occasionally takes me with him on his demon hunts. Not that I desire or require company. But it is sometimes useful when I wish to keep painful memories at bay. Memories of incredible palaces, stars that glittered brighter than a thousand moons, fires that burned colors. Worlds that obeyed my wishes. I remember unspeakable beauties that would melt the eyes of any human in existence if he but glanced them. And Wesley. I remember Wesley.
~~~~~
Journal,
We have moved. The Wolf, Ram, and Hart discovered us yesterday, and were quick to unleash more of their demonic legions. Angel received warning of the coming onslaught with enough time to plan an escape.
"Why aren't we gonna try and fight? Worked well enough before," Spike opined.
"We're not up to our full strength," responded Angel. "You're still limping and the tendons in my arm are still torn. Even Illyria isn't what she was."
I would have gladly crushed his skull beneath my boot for daring to imply my strength was not a thousand times greater than that of any army that might march against me, but my anger was almost immediately eclipsed by a different feeling which I could not, at the time, name. I believe it may have been relief. Yes, relief at leaving Wesley's old apartment. It had been the closest, undemolished building which we could access after the battle.
Yet, I have grown to detest the place. Whenever Spike and Angel had left me alone, the smells of Wesley pressed upon me as once I had crushed humans in my grasp. Wesley sleeping in his chair, Wesley weeping over the sink, Wesley burying his face in a pillow which I believe once belonged to another woman. It didn't smell of Winifred Burkle.
We are currently riding in an automobile, which Spike procured for our use. Stole it. In my day, thieves like him would have been butchered, their flesh fried over the fire of a dragon's breath and laid out on plates for the pigs to eat. But now, we are only alive because of his ability to filch unnoticed. He is currently asleep in the front passenger seat while Angel drives. He is listening to some dreadfully prosaic music and does not notice me writing. The song hurts my ears. The man singing it should be pierced with a thousand arrows. What is this "Copa Cabana"?
Illyria discovers a form of catharsis other than violence. Post "Not Fade Away"