Author: Jo
Disclaimer:
Usual stuff…
Written for the
IWRY Fic Marathon, 2010. Thanks for
hosting this, Dark Star, and for letting me play.
Rating: General
Content:
Buffy/Angel
Summary: Forever.
That’s the whole point.
**
It is an
all-night vigil, in remembrance and prayer for those lost in battle, including
members of this small congregation.
Remembrance of the warriors’ lives, of the freedoms paid for in their
blood, and prayers for forgiveness of their sins.
In this darkest
hour of the night there are few in the church, just a handful of parishioners
and priests. An old man, scarcely able
to hold himself upright, stumbles in, crossing himself as he steps over the
threshold.
The old man settles
into a pew under the watchful eye of a priest.
With knob-knuckled fingers, the man pulls from his coat pocket a rosary
of black jet and sparkling white crystal, and he begins to tell the beads. As he works up to the circle of the decades,
painfully slowly with his arthritic hands, his lips are moving. The words are hesitant, as though he’s
having trouble remembering the prayers.
The priest hasn’t seen him before, and wonders whether, with death so
close, the man has come back to the church after many years away. The priest smiles on this new
parishioner. With true contrition,
there is forgiveness for all.
He’s right about
the first, but the forgiveness might be harder to come by.
The man is
Angel.
+
Angel would
prefer to kneel in penitence and supplication, but he cannot. He’s too weak and in too much pain. And so he sits, head bowed, speaking the
prayers of his youth. He intends to
work through the whole rosary, exploring all four decades of mysteries. There may not be another opportunity. He doesn’t think that he will see tomorrow. He feels cold tears sliding down his
face. This death is so unfair, so
unlooked for. His mind tells him he has
very little time to make his peace, although his heart tells him that if he
hasn’t made his peace with the Powers now, after all these years of trying,
then a couple of hours in this church won’t make the slightest difference.
His stiff
fingers start their journey over the beads.
His mind can’t concentrate though.
He tries to speak the prayers, but the words are halting, uncertain, as
his memories intrude. With a small sob,
he opens himself to the recollections.
They will be a better focus for him.
If it’s blasphemous to make his peace through her, then so be it. His
entire life has been one long blasphemy, except for her. The Power in this
church should understand that.
There’s the
first bead. He knows that he should
announce the Mystery, and then pray as he meditates on its meaning for
humanity, on the spiritual fruit that it should bear. He starts at the beginning, and hopes there will be enough time.
The Joyful Mysteries:
1 The Annunciation (Humility)
He would never
have thought that he had any pride left in him, living in the New York
gutters. But he must have done. He was so caught up in guilt and
self-loathing that he’d made it into an art form, pasting it onto a banner and
waving it at any vampire who would look.
See? I’m better than you. You
could never exceed my hatred and contempt for myself, if you were in my
position. He’s been humbled many
times since then, but perhaps none more so than when Whistler called him a
parasite, and announced that he had something to show him.
To a filthy,
arrogant monster it had been an annunciation of hope, and he had embraced
it. He still embraces it. His hope is why he’s here, trying to pray.
Hail, Mary...
2
The Visitation (Love Thy Neighbour)
Whistler had taken
him to Los Angeles and shown him Buffy, and he had been enthralled. He had loved her at first sight, and he had
set himself to serve her, to protect her, to do whatever it took to be someone
who counted in her eyes.
If his neighbour
was everyman, he couldn’t in all honesty say that he had ever truly loved them when
he was human. But, afterwards, when he
was no longer human, he had often loved them to death, in many very creative,
lingering ways. She had changed
him. At first, he had wanted to save
humans simply to please her, and to vent his anger on the vampires, on those
who weren’t like him, but she had taught him her sense of duty and sacrifice. After a while, he wanted to save them for
their own sake. She had done that and,
ever since, he had bled for the innocent and the helpless; he had offered to
lay down his life for them. He wishes
he could say that he’s made a difference, but only the Final Judgement will
determine that.
Please, he thinks, please, I have tried so hard to serve.
Forgive my failures and remember how much I tried.
He isn’t certain
whether that prayer is addressed to the Power in this church, or to Buffy
herself. He’s not sure whether it
matters.
3
The Nativity (Contempt for Riches)
He thinks that
he’s failed here, too. He loves fine
things. He always has. But then he thinks of how much in the way of
worldly goods he’s given up in his quest as the Powers’ champion. He’s given up much more, of course, but this
Mystery is about material things.
With Darla,
material luxuries were important. Nothing
but the best for her. She liked to be
comfortable, to have fine clothes, plenty of toothsome food. To have a view. He’d been a good provider.
He’d obsessed about that, as he’d obsessed about it when Connor was...
When he was a baby.
After Darla, but
before Connor, he had been reborn with a purpose, and with Buffy he’d been
happy just to have a sword in his hand.
As his finger slips over the bead, though, he thinks that if their past
had ever become a future, he would have wanted to be a good provider. He wouldn’t have wanted Buffy to live in
drab poverty. She was meant for better
things than that.
I’m sorry, he murmurs. I have sinned. And I would have continued to sin, given the
chance. But I would have burned all the
world’s finery, to give her one extra moment of peace, of life, of happiness. He understands that is not the lesson of this
Mystery, but it’s the best he can do.
4
The Presentation (Purity of mind and body)
It had been the
requisite forty days from when she first saw him to when she first truly saw him. He had presented his monstrous nature to her in a kiss, mind and
heart so overcome by her innocence that his body had forgotten itself. She had looked up at him, a question in her
eyes, a temptation on her lips, and he had kissed her. He had wanted to kiss her ever since he
first spoke to her and, forty days after that, he had found enough of his
boyhood’s innocence to answer hers.
More than ever
before, he had wanted to be cleansed and, with his lips on hers, he had thought
it might be possible. He had let the
demon go, but it wasn’t going to be as easy as that, of course. She had seen what he really was.
And she had
still found something in him to love.
If there is any purity to be had in everything that he has learned, it
was all in that moment.
Its memory has
stayed with him all his life, at first a shining star of innocence to be
regained, and later, a dying light reminding him of what might have been.
He has thought
about purity of mind and body many times, but the obscenity of his animating
spirit has always mocked him, and he knows that this is something he could
never attain.
But he was an
innocent, once upon a time, and perhaps the Powers will remember that.
Hail, Mary...
5 The Finding in the Temple (True
Conversion)
He’s had many
Road to Damascus moments, some of them no more than fleeting impulses, some
that have shaped the rest of his life.
In China, he’d
snatched the orphaned baby that Darla offered him for supper, and he’d
run. He supposes that was probably the
first act of worth he’d ever performed.
The stand-off in the cantina to save a woman from a fate worse than
death: that had been another.
Knowing Buffy
had been his true conversion to the cause of the Powers, marked by the day he
killed Darla to save Buffy. He’d never
been able to do that again. He’s told
himself that his later inability was because he wanted to save Darla’s soul,
but he knows it was just weakness. Darla
had been everything to him, once upon a time.
You didn’t kill someone like that easily, not even the second time. Buffy had had so much more strength than
him.
And he’s been a
backslider. He left them all to die in
the Hyperion, when it was still a hotel, after they tried to hang him; and he
left all the lawyers to die in the wine cellar, the ones who had tried to drive
him into Angelus. He’d had complicated
feelings about both events at the time.
He remembers that the overriding one was righteousness. That was a blasphemy in itself, but he’s
suffered for it. He hopes he’s suffered
enough.
There was
Angelus, too, in that terrible conversion, on the night when he’d felt complete
joy and contentment after a hundred years of misery. But these are the Joyous Mysteries. He’ll get round to the Sorrowful ones soon enough.
He can only
remember the important moments with joy.
With his first sight of her, his conversion began, but it was sealed and
confirmed one Christmas morning on a hillside overlooking Sunnydale, when she taught
him to fight for his future.
She had been
Called, and he had seen the instant when she became the Chosen One, had
revelled for her in her new-found power, but his heart had bled for her
innocence and her pain. And in his own
small way, he, too, had been Chosen by the Powers, had been Called for her, to
take his place by her side. If only it
could have stayed that way.
I answered the call. I may have stumbled along the way, but in
the end, I never shirked the good fight.
Have I fought enough?
The Luminous Mysteries :
1
The Baptism (Gratitude for the gift of Faith)
For most of his
existence, he’s had a closer acquaintance with the agony of holy water than he
really wants to remember. Was that the
last time he had faith, when he was baptised?
Or when he first received communion?
Has it been so long? But he has
had faith in his sword arm, faith in Buffy to stand with him, and after that,
faith in his friends, although they didn’t always know it. And he has had faith that the Powers of Evil
would try to dig their talons deeper into him, to never, ever let him go. Forewarned is forearmed.
He has faith
that he has done everything he could to carry out the wishes of the Powers that
had called him. Most of the time. When he followed his own heart, things
became more difficult. Lawyers in wine
cellars come to mind again. That was provocation, he thinks. And they were evil. But his heart is troubled that he should
have tried harder, that he must blame his soul and not his demon for too many
of the things that he has done.
And he hasn’t
always been grateful for having been called.
Sometimes, he has cursed the day he tried to become someone. Never did he wish his soul away more than
when he was in Hell.
But there will
be time enough to reflect on that later.
Forgive me, he pleads silently. Forgive
me when I lost heart and hope and faith.
2
The Wedding at Cana (Fidelity)
As a human, he’d
been a useless, worthless layabout who would undoubtedly have died of syphilis
before much longer. He’d led a charmed
life as it was. He’d bedded every girl
who was available in and around the village, and most of the unavailable ones,
too. He hadn’t cared who they were, as
long as they were pretty. Or if they’d
been a challenge. He’d liked that. But no matter how dissolute he was, he’d
known how he ought to behave. He’d
simply chosen not to follow his father’s teachings.
With Buffy, he
couldn’t have acted differently than he had, despite the promptings of his
worse self. He’d wanted to wait, not
because of her age or her friends or her family, but because of those long-ago
precepts that a gentleman had lived by.
No despoiling the maiden you love until she is properly yours. The problem was that there was nothing to
wait for. She could never be properly his.
He could never marry her. Not in
any way she would want.
But he had given
her a ring. To him, it had been a
gesture as binding, as unbreakable, as the shackles of Hell and perhaps that
was what he truly offered her with that band of silver, but she had never
blamed him for his selfishness. Not for
that, at least.
If she had not accepted
the ring in the way he’d offered it, joining the two of them through
friendship, loyalty and love, he’s sure that he would not have made love to her
that night. He would have waited longer,
until she was ready. His fingers,
stiffer now than when he began this journey of remembrance an hour or so ago,
tighten on the beads, as he remembers the terrible consequences. He would offer himself to be flayed every
day for a thousand years to take back what Angelus did in Sunnydale. But he can never regret the act of love, the
only sign he’d ever been able to give her of his absolute love and fidelity.
Forgive me, he whispers silently. Forgive
me for my presumption, for my infidelities when times were darkest. But see the loyalty in my heart.
3
The Proclamation (Trust in Repentance)
The birth of
hope, for him, has been a rare experience, not enough to enumerate the beads of
a single decade on this rosary. When he
was shown Buffy. When she accepted him
for what he was. When he knew she loved
him. When he was human for a day. When he found the Shanshu prophecy. The birth of his son. These have been his touchstones, even after
their hope died. He has to believe that
it happened once, so it can happen again.
And he has to believe that the Powers have a goal for him, an attainable
goal, when he has repented enough; when he has made sufficient amends. He has
to believe in deliverance, or he would have walked out into the sun years
ago.
He tried that
once, and Buffy stopped him. So did the
Powers, in that soaring moment of hope on Christmas morning, when the snow
saved him. But it was Buffy who
restored his belief, and who bolstered his strength, and his trust in the
future. She has always been essential
to his sense of self-worth, in giving him the belief that he can earn his place
at her side once more
Of course, he’s
going to walk out into the dawn soon, but that’s different.
I believe. I believe that no sinner is beyond redemption. She taught me that. I pray that it is true.
4
The Transfiguration (Spiritual Courage)
Since he met
Buffy, he’s wished that he was a better man.
Forget the demon, forget the need for blood, the unholiness of his state
as a vampire. Perhaps those might be
forgiven. His great lack has been the weakness
of the man. If he had been better, more
principled, when he was human, would he have become the Angelus that stood head
and shoulders above all the evils around him?
Would he have been quite so monstrous?
He was lacking spiritual courage as a man, and perhaps that is what will
damn him, in the end.
But then a small
voice gently imposes on his self-condemnation.
Her voice. When he came back from Hell, she would read
to him while he shivered and whimpered in front of her. And sometimes she would just talk to him. She thought that he didn’t understand what
she said, that he was simply responding to the sound of her voice. True, her voice was the most beautiful thing
he’d heard for hundreds of years, but he understood what she said well enough. And he remembered. He remembers now.
“Giles doesn’t know you’re back. I won’t tell him. I won’t tell anyone. But
he said... He said, ‘It would take
someone of extraordinary will and character to survive that and retain any
semblance of self.’ He thinks that
you’d probably become a monster. But
you aren’t. I know you aren’t. You fought down there. And you kept fighting. You were strong. You kept yourself...”
Another tear
slips down his cold skin as the remembrances of Hell try to break out of the dark
vault in which his memory has confined them.
He’s afraid that, come the dawn, he’ll be back somewhere like Acathla’s
killing fields, and if he allows the memories of that to come, then he will be completely unmanned.
Was I strong enough? he wonders. Surely, in those centuries of torment, I paid for some of my crimes,
but did my soul learn strength?
The voice comes
again, reminding him of more that she had said, as she stroked his trembling
limbs.
“Giles told me this. ‘In my experience,’ he said, ‘there are two
types of
monster. The first can be redeemed, or more
importantly, wants to
be redeemed. The second is void of humanity, cannot respond to reason or
love.’
I love you, Angel. I know you
want to be redeemed. We can do
this. Together. You’re strong enough.”
He fears the
future. If spiritual courage means
accepting Hell as his due, then he has failed.
But he has tried to put others before himself, to take the punishments
that his new life has meted out to him.
My soul is that of a man, he pleads, just a man, born into sin and surrounded by temptation. I was a disappointment and a failure. But I have tried to learn, to be
stronger. I have tried to change. Please, accept that I was reforged, stronger
and better, in the fires of Hell.
5
The Eucharist (Adoration)
Angel dare not
think of the transubstantiation that happens in this church with every
service. It feels too much like
blasphemy, considering what he is. But
there was a time, once, when he and Buffy had their own
transubstantiation. Just as the
worshippers in this church believe that the transubstantiation of bread and
wine into body and blood means that their Saviour is present, so it was with
them, except that vampires are much more direct.
When Faith
poisoned him with the Killer of the Dead, only the blood of a slayer could save
him. He knew that Buffy had intended to
bring him Faith. He would have drunk that
other Slayer, but maybe the Powers had had something different in mind. In the end, his salvation had once more come
from Buffy, from her blood this time.
He had almost drained her, and what was her had become him. After that, she was written into every cell
of his body, even if she hadn’t been before.
Her flesh and blood is his, and he thinks that, perhaps, his flesh and
blood was also hers, in some way that the weak and selfish part of him approved
of.
She is always
with him. Always. Out of the corner of his eye, he sometimes
sees a flash of blonde hair, or a familiar shape; or there is a hint of her
scent... She has been dead for twenty
years now, but she is always with him, always part of him, and he knows that this
gift is because of her blood remade into his flesh, his mind, his soul.
I am yours forever. You are part of me, and I believe I was part
of you. You are always with me. That is my Luminous Mystery, and it has
illumined my life, has helped make me what I am. You are my guiding star.
He starts to
cough, a wracking sound that would speak of worn-out and broken lungs, if only
he breathed. He smothers it as best he
can, so as not to intrude on the devotions of the others here. A woman, renewing candles beneath the battle
standards of the fallen, looks towards where he sits, near the back, and gives
him a kindly smile.
He’s halfway
through his circuit of the Mysteries.
He must hurry now. He knows his
time is running short. And he can smell
the approaching dawn. Vampires can
always smell the dawn, and the rising sun must be his deliverance today.
His fingers
shuffle up the string of beads.
The Sorrowful Mysteries:
1
The Agony (Sorrow For Sin)
All the centuries
that he spent in Hell... He thought for
a long time that surely these must be balanced against the sins that he’d been
punished for. Now, though, he knows
differently. Better.
All the agony
that he’s suffered, the torments of Hell, the mental and physical agony of most
of his life on Earth since that time, none of this matters. It is unimportant. It can never extirpate his sin.
He is full of sorrow for what he has done, but that will never be
enough. All the remorse, all the
terrors of his soul for the Hell that he expects to be his eternal future,
these cannot buy salvation. Buffy and
her friends – and his friends – have
taught him this.
He thinks of
Buffy, to whom he, in his life as Angelus, did so much harm. And Giles.
What he did to Giles and to Jenny can never be atoned for. He sinned against them all. He has
terrorized them, and he has rejected them, and yet, they did not abandon
him. It was they who suffered for his
sins, they who were cast into sorrow, and all that matters, he thinks, is that,
out of their sheer humanity, they still tried to help him.
If anything can
save him, it is the forgiveness of others for the sins he committed against
them, forgiveness arising out of the agony that he brought to them.
My sorrow is without bounds. And if I could, I would kneel in humility at
the feet of all those I have offended and to whom I have caused such
intolerable pain. And who have still
held out the hand of friendship to me. Such
generosity of spirit cannot be sought, or bought. It can only be freely given.
This lesson, at least, I have learned.
2
The Scourging (Mortification of the Senses)
Angel thinks
that he has known every form of torment during his time in Acathla’s Hell. He doesn’t want to enumerate them, partly
because he can’t bear to, and partly because he doesn’t have enough life left
in him to encompass them all. And true
Hell, he’s sure, will be so much worse.
But what hope is there for him?
He can never do enough to repay.
If Hell was created for one being alone, beyond its Fallen Archangel, it
would surely be him. He cannot bear it. He cannot bear to even think about it, so
perhaps he has failed here, too.
But surely every
slash, every sword thrust, every hurt he has borne in his quests on behalf of
the Powers... Surely these will count
in the balance?
I don’t say that I have suffered enough
in that place, because I know I have not.
But I beg you, deliver me from this. Say
that I am not beyond redemption. Help
me. Please.
3
The Crowning with Thorns (Courage)
A coward dies a thousand deaths, a hero
only one. He knows this. He has tried to have courage.
But sometimes it has been hard. It
took everything in him to approach the Slayer for the first time. He almost failed in the trials to save
Darla. He can see now the array of
stakes speeding towards him. Every time
he’s gone out to fight evil, he’s known it might be the end of him. He’s known what would be waiting for him if
he was dusted and, obscene as it is, he has valued his eternal living death as
better than the alternative. Worse has
been the understanding that he might die without ever seeing her again. But he’s persevered through force of will, and laid his life on
the line as often as it was needed.
He knows,
though, that whatever courage he has had has come from Buffy’s example. Never did she flinch from what needed
doing. She loved him and she killed
him, because it was necessary. Even in
the pit of hell, he could never hold that against her. He has tried to follow in her footsteps, to
take the hard decisions.
Worse than the
physical dangers have been the losses he has suffered. Putting his friends in harm’s way. Killing Connor. Giving up his son. Giving
Buffy up, although that almost finished him.
I learned from a schoolgirl, and then
from a woman. Often, I should have done
better but I have tried to do what was right, not what I wanted. I have tried to have that sort of courage,
because she showed me how.
4
The Carrying of the Cross (Patience)
His knuckles hurt
as he remembers the times his patience has snapped, and, to vent his rage, he
has had to destroy something with his bare hands. Seeing Cordelia with Connor.
Failing to win a second chance for Darla. He can’t bear to think of what he did when he learned that Buffy
had died and his sacrifice of his humanity had been for nothing. At least he didn’t kill anyone except
demons. It had been close, though.
He has not
always had enough patience. That’s one
difference between himself and Angelus.
Angelus has had eternal patience when playing his games. Buffy.
Drusilla. So many others... Perhaps that’s why, with his soul, he has
failed so often. He has not wanted to
be like Angelus.
Perhaps that reason can excuse my
failings... Forgive my sins. Forgive my intemperance.
Hail, Mary....
5
The Crucifixion (Forgiveness)
Revenge. He was born into revenge (I thought I’d take the village). In his first days as a vampire he had
revenged himself on everyone who knew him, for every petty slight and offence that
he’d suffered as a human, whether it was real or imaginary. And then, as he’d grown into his
monstrousness, he’d revenged himself on humanity simply because they were
alive, and he wasn’t. Because he could
never be alive again. Because he had
strength and skill and power, all of it focused only on the kill. (Without
the artistry, we’re just animals.)
And then, others
had practiced revenge on him. Holtz,
stealing his son. Connor, sinking him
beneath the ocean. The gypsies, imperfectly
restoring his soul. The consequences of
revenge lived on for generations, destroying the innocent as well as the
guilty.
He bows his head
in memory of all the pain. Someone once
said, The best form of revenge is
forgiveness. He isn’t sure about
that, although perhaps there’s something in it. Buffy forgave him all the hurts he’d ever dealt her, and he still
carries the weight of them. He always
will.
If anyone, ghost or living, needs
revenge, let it be on me alone. He hesitates, trembling in fear. If it
means Hell, so be it. If it means
living on eternally in this decaying body... He can’t say it. The
prospect is too dreadful. Please, please, forgive me. I renounce all the thoughts I’ve ever had of
revenge on those who caused hurt to me and mine. I have learned this lesson all too well. Revenge corrodes all whom it touches. May I find forgiveness, here at the end.
His hands are
trembling, and he knows he has just enough strength to get back to the
door. He has bared his soul and he
could leave now, the final mysteries unexplored. But he wants to finish with thoughts of hope and salvation, and
for some reason that he doesn’t comprehend, it seems important that he do
this. He’d better be quick, then.
The Glorious Mysteries:
1
The Resurrection (Faith)
He’s had his own
resurrection. He’s had more than one,
in truth.
His first
resurrection was at the hand of Darla.
He can still remember fighting his way out of his coffin in a
blasphemous parody of birth. After
that, he found a different sort of faith, but it was still founded on blood and
pain. He regrets every cut, every kill,
but he cannot, now, regret the fact of his life-in-death. If Darla had not turned him, he would have
died young, and died foolish, a much poorer man in heart and mind. The way has been long and hard, but he hopes
he’s better for it. And he would never
have met Buffy.
His second
resurrection was at the behest of the gypsies, when they brought his soul back
from death. That, too, was a birth
filled with pain, and it was more than he thought he could bear. That had been the pain of guilt, and, unlike
faith, it has never left him. In the end, they did him a good turn, although it
took a hundred years for him to understand that, and he would have traded a
thousand years of life – more – not to have had the happiness clause in that
curse.
His third
resurrection was from Hell, and it was at Buffy’s hand. He doesn’t know how, although he knows that
she had to give him up, and she left his ring on the Mansion floor. He has never understood his release, but he
has no doubt that it was because of Buffy and her love. She has saved him, body and soul. He would have served a thousand years in
that demon dimension, if he had only known she would call him back in the end.
I give thanks. I am grateful every day of my life for the new chances I have
been given, and I have faith that there is still some small mercy for me at the
end of things.
2
The Ascension (Hope)
For a hundred
years, he had no hope, and on one cold New York night, everything changed. Whistler had said, You could go either way here.
Assuming the little demon hadn’t lied, then what he’d said meant that
there was a chance of salvation. And
gradually, day by day, he has pulled himself up the ladder to some sort of worth. There have been many slips and falls along
the way – and some headlong crashes, but every time, the hand that reached down
to help him back up again was hers.
Even after they’d parted. Even
after she’d died.
Thank you for the gift of hope, which has
lighted my darkest days.
Hail Mary...
3
The Descent of the Holy Spirit (Wisdom and Charity)
He can’t help a
wry smile here. His unsouled self
always seemed smarter than his souled self.
Smart isn’t the same as wise, but he thinks he often hasn’t had much in
the way of wisdom, either. But at least
he doesn’t think that he’s made the same mistake twice. That must be a start, right?
But life with a
conscience is not straightforward. So
many times, decisions have had too many choices, too many conflicts. Angelus never had the problem. As Angelus, Angel remembers, he simply did
what he wanted, what satisfied him most.
I have tried to learn from my
mistakes. Forgive me for the times when
I missed the clarity that was lost when my soul was gained. As for charity, I have spent my blood and
pain unstintingly to save others. Does
that count?
4
The Assumption (A Happy Death)
Is any death happy, he asks bitterly. Especially
ours? Buffy died in battle, without
him by her side. And yet... Her death was fulfilled, he thinks. She
died doing what she was born to do, and it was quick, or so he heard. His death, on the other hand... And now the bitterness and resentment forces
through the calm acceptance that he has tried to impose during his telling of
the decades of the rosary. His death
might not be death at all, and he’s terrified.
After the young
slayers were gone, Buffy was left as the only Chosen One. And when she died, the line ended. There were no more Slayers, no more young
girls to fight for humanity. There were
still Watchers though, even if they were reluctant to undertake the dangerous
jobs they had sent those young girls to do.
And the Watchers came up with something even more deadly than the
stake. They found a semi-mystical virus
that was even now in the process of wiping out vampires.
There were some
side-effects. Humans who had ever been
resuscitated, these suffered as vampires did.
Returning from death seemed to be the cue that the virus sought. He’s grateful that Buffy was dead and gone
by then, because the effects of the virus aren’t pretty.
It left the
demon unaffected, targeting the body, instead.
It gave vampires back to the world of Time, their bodies ageing and
decaying until there was nothing left of them.
What then happened to the demon was unknown, and the Watchers could care
less. They hadn’t even cared what
happened to the souls of those humans they had murdered, as collateral damage.
But Angel cared.
He’d found
things that couldn’t possibly be called bodies. They were just remnants of decayed flesh. They had still been sentient, in a way that
only a vampire could understand. He’d
burned them, or thrown them into the sun, and then he’d travelled the country
staking the diseased before they got to that stage.
He’d killed
humans, too, murdering their bodies in the hope that he was saving their souls.
He caught the
infection three days ago, and he’s aged sixty years since then. He’s helped the helpless, but he’s left it
too late, and now he is unable to help himself. He’d intended to make it quick, with a stake, but he’s too weak
for that.
So, he decided
to sit here and pray for forgiveness, and try to think thoughts that would show
how far he had come from the monster he’d been, and then to find an open space
outside and wait for the sun to cleanse whatever had become of him by morning.
And to pray to
at least be allowed to know that Buffy is safe, even if he isn’t allowed to
join her.
But the sixth
Commandment is absolute. Thou shalt not kill.
Surely I gave those I’ve just killed a
better death than the Watchers did?
Will they, too, be held against me?
Or will they intercede for me? Will
they say that they begged me to end it?
Hail, Mary...
5
The Coronation of Mary (Trust in Her Intercession)
His throat fills
as tears threaten.
Help me, Buffy. Reach down your hand to me, as you have done so often before.
He wishes he
could see her one more time before the end, but there is no flash of blonde
hair in this candlelit church, no subtle movement that he can recognise.
It’s time for
him to go. He has done everything he
came here to do. He pushes himself out
of the pew... and finds that he cannot.
He tries again, but there is no strength in his legs. When he reaches forward to grasp the back of
the pew in front, to lever himself up, his arms will not answer to him. He has left it too late. Now the tears run down his withered
cheeks. Is he to be trapped inside a
piece of sentient flesh, until it has rotted down to its component atoms? Will his spirit be released even then?
Help me, Buffy! Please...
Hail, Mary...
As he murmurs
the words of the prayer, a small, warm hand closes over his, and a much-loved
voice completes the incantation.
‘... pray for us sinners, now and at the
hour of our death.’
He can turn his
head a little, and he sees her sitting next to him. She looks as he remembers her best. His heart soars. Even if
this is only his memory, the part of Buffy that he made into his own flesh and
blood and spirit, he has been granted a last wish, to see her again.
She’s holding a
stake. Of course she would be. He always thinks of her with a stake in her
hand. The stake shimmers, and he tries
to focus on it. It is long and very
thin, and it seems to twist around itself, as though it were carving through
the dimensions. It’s as slim and
delicate as a misericord and he wishes that, like that knife, it could be used
to dispatch a loved one. Or an enemy. Which one is he, now?
She lifts the
stake higher.
“We always knew
that it would come to this, didn’t we, Angel?
Magic swords just don’t cut it.
Slayer. Vampire. Stake.
That’s how it’s meant to be, even for us.”
“Yes.” His voice is little more than a croak,
because of the tears, and because his muscles are failing, even there.
She twists
sideways on the smooth wood of the pew, and runs a finger down his cheek.
“Look what
you’ve come to, Angel.” But her voice
is loving, and her finger as warm as though she really were here.
“You always put
yourself last, don’t you?”
It doesn’t seem
so to him. It seems that he might have
always put his own desires first, even with his soul. His desire that Buffy live a normal life. His desire that his son, too, live a normal
life. His desire to keep his friends
safe. His desire to rid the world of
evil. Perhaps it was always about what
he wanted. But now doesn’t seem to be
the time to argue the point, and in any event, he can’t form enough words to
make his case.
She seems to
understand. She would, of course, if
she’s a manifestation of himself.
“Wanting other
people’s happiness isn’t putting yourself first. Don’t twist things unnecessarily, Angel. Don’t torment yourself. People needed things, and you gave them
those things. You paid the price for
them too. You might have learned to
consult a bit more – have you learned that? – but on the whole, you did the
painful things that needed doing, and just added them to your guilt baggage.”
She toys with
the stake.
“I love you, you
know. I never stopped. More than anything in the world. Or out of it. More than anything.”
He tries to
smile at her, but he hasn’t much strength left, even for that.
“I love you
too,” he whispers.
He can tell by
her body language that she has made some decision.
“It’s time,” she
says. “You and I, we have business to
attend to. Loose ends. Things not done.” She squeezes his hand, a comfort after her words. “Angel.
Sometimes I thought I’d never be able to say your name again, but you
always came good.”
She stands up,
and there, at the back of the church, she straddles him. Slight as she is, he can feel her weight on
his thighs, feel the warmth of her through the denim of his jeans.
Oh, Buffy...
The priest, he wants to tell her. What
will the priest say..? But he has
no more voice. She positions the stake
against his heart.
“Ready?”
Ready and more
than ready, and if only this were something other than a dream...
And then she
pushes.
The pain is greater
than he has ever suffered in his life before.
More than the demons could do in Acathla’s Hell, more than the
restoration of his soul, more than the loss of it. And the stake seems to take forever to pierce even this fraying
flesh, travelling as long and as slowly as from one universe to another. Or from one state of being to another.
And then it’s
over.
She stands,
taking her warmth with her, and hops up to perch on the back of the pew in
front.
“Come on,” she
says. “It’s time to go.”
He looks down at
himself. There is no sign of the stake,
no sign of the Watchers’ disease, just the flesh that he’s familiar with.
“Go where?” he
asks.
“Oh, you
know... Things to do, things left
undone. Where would you like to start?”
He stands up,
and takes her hand.
“Am I
hallucinating?”
“Does it feel
like it?”
“I don’t know.”
“So long as it
lasts forever, does it matter?”
He thinks of all
the people he’s killed to save them from the Watchers’ Disease. Has he deprived them of this? Of a taste of Heaven? Oh,
please, no...
“Stop it,
Angel! No more guilt. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, people
to see...”
She presses
against him.
“A lot of catching up. Then you can decide how reality figures in
this. Okay?”
He nods, and
follows her towards the church door.
The sun is just rising. He turns
to take one last look at where he had been sitting, at his body slumped in the
pew. Buffy always did things
differently. He should have known that
she would use the empty promise of the Shanshu and make it real, make it drive
away the years of the demon, and the disease of the Watchers, even as it
delivered his death. The Watchers, the
Powers that Be, none of them ever stood a chance against her.
+
The priest walks
quickly down the aisle to where the old man is sitting. He has seen the figure slump into itself,
and he is worried. When he reaches the pew,
he is even more worried. What he sees
is a young man in his twenties, his chest covered in a welter of blood. It seems impossible that one body could have
contained so much blood, and the priest forms the fanciful notion that the
blood might represent hundreds or thousands of deaths.
But there’s no
time for fanciful notions. With
trembling fingers, he unfastens the buttons of the shirt, to find the skin
beneath whole and unmarked. Despite
that, and despite that the man is still warm to the touch, he’s quite
dead. The priest is sure of it.
And it is the
same man he saw come in. He knows
it. The jet and crystal rosary is still
clutched in his fingers.
Some sort of
miracle has happened here, if only he could understand it. And then the sun clears the horizon, and
light pours through the East Window.
It’s a stained glass picture of the Great Day of Judgement, of the
ascent of the righteous into Heaven.
For a moment of time, the stream of blessed light is focused only on
this figure, painting him in all the colours of salvation, before it
illuminates the whole church.
The priest
crosses himself, and then he hears the door open. He turns to look, but no one is there, just the fresh light of a
new day. And when the door closes
silently, of its own accord, he could swear he heard two people laughing.
The End
October 2010
Author’s Note
If, like me, you
aren’t Catholic, you may not be familiar with the telling of the rosary. Contemplation of each of the twenty
Mysteries should result in a ‘spiritual fruit’, and I have shown each of these
fruits in brackets alongside the Mystery itself. If you want to know more, just google ‘rosary’.
‘Rosary’, by the
way, means ‘rose’, or ‘rose garden’, since the rose, in Christian iconography,
is the symbol of the Virgin Mary.