DISCLAIMER: The Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Angel characters are the property of Mutant Enemy, Joss Whedon, Lazy Dave, Kuzui, and Fox Studios. The story contents are the creation and property of Djinn and are copyright (c) 2005 by Djinn. This story is Rated PG-13.
Blue Rain Falling
by Djinn
Illyria lies still, canted on
her side with the demon corpse she fell next to supporting her back. The warm
rain falls on her face as blood trickles from her nose and scalp and joins the
water running onto the broken pavement, water that she knows would be pink if
she could see color in the dark. She can barely see anything in the dark, but
she counts it a victory that she can still see at all. A surprising victory—almost
as surprising as the fact that she has two hands and two feet and they are
still connected to her body. Her body that hurts.
Pain. She is becoming
accustomed to pain. It is wrong that she is becoming used to it. Pain was a
thing for others. Pain was what she inflicted on any who opposed her. Any who
angered her. It was never something she had to feel.
She lies in what would be
blood and dust if the rain was not washing the dust and blood away. Angel and
Spike fell here; Charles lies a hand clasp away from her, his eyes open,
staring without sight at the alley that should have taken them all.
She is not sure why she is
alive.
She is also not sure when she
started to think of herself as she.
Was it Wesley's doing? Did
his pain—always battering at her—turn her from a god-king to this diminished
thing she has become? This thing that is some mix of Illyria and the Fred
creature? Illyria was a king. A god. Not a queen. Not a goddess.
Why did her Qwa'ha Xahn imprison her in this
feminine body? Why did he not give her the robust male body that would have
kept her a king? A body that would not now be lying in this alley, bleeding
from too many holes.
She listens, not moving, not
giving in to the urge to groan because her body hurts so badly. She listens and
hears nothing in the alley with her. Did they think her dead, too? Did the
enemies of Angel leave, victory theirs? Or are they standing now, waiting for
her to move, to give a sign that they should kill her?
She closes her eyes, waiting
out the demons that may or may not be all around her. In her time, she would
have killed them with merely a thought. In her time, she would have resurrected
Wesley, and used the dust of Angel and Spike to make them live again. She would
have reached out and touched Gunn, and he would have taken a deep breath, hymns
to her on his lips.
And then she would have
decided if she would kill them all herself for daring to be things she cared
about. Caring was weak. Caring was empty. Caring was...Wesley dying in her
arms. But that was not empty. The feeling in her at the moment of his death was
full, the grief so close and foreign that she thought she would vomit it up. Grief—she
does not like the taste of it.
She gags on blood, and rolls
away from the corpse that supports her as quickly as she can, ready for the
blow that must come now that she has shown her enemies she still lives. But the
alley is empty. Empty, but for dust washed away and Gunn's body. And the
corpses of demons—they took out so many before they fell. More than the Wolf,
Ram, and Hart expected, she thinks. More than she thought they would.
Not that it matters. The
demons would have kept coming if Illyria and the others had not fallen when
they did. Nothing would have stopped the evil. That is the nature of an
apocalypse. It does not stop. Although in Angel's world, it does. He thought he
could beat it. Just like the girl he and Spike both loved always beat an
apocalypse. In his world, until this alley, an apocalypse was something you
won.
Illyria pushes herself up,
fighting for breath as she uses muscles that would rather lie still in a pool
of blood-colored water. She considers dying. She is hurt enough to lie here and
let the night take her, let this rain be the last thing she ever feels.
But she finds she does not
want to die.
Groaning in pain, she rises. Her
leather armor is torn, blood seeps and trickles and streams depending on where
she looks. She is mortally wounded. Only...she is not quite mortal. So she lives.
She takes a breath. It hurts.
She takes another, and another, counting the hurt as the price of life. Of
choosing to go on. Even though she has no place to go and no one to help her. Even
though she is more lost than not in this world where vampires have souls and
die to save mankind.
The end of the alley is an
eternity away. But she is the king of eternity, and she will make it to the
street. She is almost there when she blacks out. She falls, lies at an angle
that strains her back in a way her back should never be strained. This is
wrong, to be so weak. She should give up. She should sleep.
But she forces her mind to
work. Forces herself to recite the many titles she earned when she ruled a
kingdom that would never end. The blackness recedes, and she pushes herself
back up, using the wall near her to steady herself.
She is a weak thing. She
should let herself die for that reason alone. To erase the shame of being
something hurt and small.
"My, God. Let me help
you." The voice sounds like her Qwa'ha Xahn, and she feels irritation. Mainly because the man who
wants to help her has not called out to her, but to some god she does not
recognize. Some god who has no place in a street so close to an alley where
evil triumphed.
The man reaches for her.
"Touch me and pay the
price in blood."
He pulls his hand back. At
her stare, and then at the strange, guttural sound she makes, he turns and
leaves her alone. Muttering something about her being crazy.
She is not crazy. She is just
not what this world expects. Knox knew that when he brought her here. When he
called her back to waking life. But he thought that
her kingdom had endured, that her army waited. She thought that, too. She
believed, and it may have been in part because her priest believed.
Her priest was useless. Her
priest gave her the body of a woman he loved. She knew his thoughts. Her priest
wanted to love her in a way a god-king does not love his Qwa'ha
Xahn.
Wesley loved her, she thinks. Only not as a god-king. More as this
strange hybrid she is now. She is a twisted thing, half human and half god, and
he loved her for being that. He loved her, but he hated her first—hatred so
strong she could taste it whenever he looked at her, whenever he spoke to her. He
loathed her for killing his heart. For taking Fred away. But she fascinated
him, too, and she used that once it was clear she needed him, once he killed
her Qwa'ha Xahn and took on
the role himself.
She knew that every time he
looked at her in the beginning, he saw Fred. But then he saw Illyria. Until his
end, when she gave him back the woman he loved. She wanted him to love her, but
she gave Fred instead. Because...
She does not love Wesley. Illyria
does not love. Illyria is revered but not loved, and he/she does not love. It
is not required. It is not welcome.
It is not her choice. She
would choose not to feel this grief if she could, but her choice is to live or
die, not whether she will love. And she would choose anything but this. Love
tastes like the sour sweat of burning Boraskin demons
who would not scream for her pleasure. Love tastes like the dance of Karkides before the plague storms blew in. Love is a mix of
offal and the finest wine.
Love confuses her.
She wonders if she will love
again. She wonders if she has ever loved. She wonders if she would wonder about
love if she were not so badly hurt.
She limps down the street,
holding her hand over the worst of the wounds. She can feel the sticky warmth
of red blood coloring her leather, soaking through it. It will make the leather
stiff, uncomfortable. Comfort never mattered to her before. Now...now, she will
need new clothing because comfort is no small thing when you are no longer a
god.
She takes a few more steps,
then realizes that someone is standing a few feet from her, watching her. She
looks up and sees the woman who served the senior partners.
"You're hurt." She
seems lost, this woman known as Eve. "Have you seen Lindsey?"
Illyria does not know where
Lindsey is. But she thinks that Angel has killed him. "I have not seen
him." She does not care about Lindsey. The creature means nothing to her,
and this woman even less. She takes another step.
"I can help you if you
tell me where he is."
"He is not here. He did
not stand with us." Did not fall with them. "That is all I can tell
you."
Eve's eyes leak tears. Her
smell changes from that of hope to despair. Illyria sees in her face that her
grief for Lindsey will change her. Will make her soft and hard all at the same
time.
"He is probably
dead," she tells Eve. "He is probably dead and you will never see him
again."
That is how Wesley is, after
all. Gone from her. Never to be seen. She will share the grief she feels. She
will share the bitter taste of lost love.
Is love ever anything but
bitter?
Eve moves close, taking her
arm. "I hate you all."
"Then do not help
me."
"Maybe I'm going to
deliver you to Wolfram and Hart." She walks, pulling Illyria along with
her. Her touch is not gentle, yet it is somehow comforting. "How did you
survive?"
"I am a god."
"You are nothing."
"Yes." She is a
god. And she is nothing. It is a puzzle she will have to solve later because it
takes too much energy to walk and think. "Will you turn me over to
them?"
"No." Eve pushes
her into a car that is parked badly, the front headed in, the back still in
traffic—if there was any traffic in this deserted area on this night of the war
between good and evil.
Is Illyria good, then? She
fought on the side of that, but is she that? She does not want to be good,
unless she is the one to determine what makes up good and what makes up evil. As
she used to do in her kingdom, when smiting those who did not make her smile
was a good thing.
Eve sighs as she backs the
car up, then drives away from the alley where everything that was Illyria's
world fell. Everything but Wesley, who fell first, lighting her way to this
alley. Making her want to fight. Making her want to kill.
Making her willing to die. Even
for these puny humans. Even for a world she detests.
Eve makes the car go faster,
the outside rushing by so quickly that Illyria feels sick and has to look away.
"Where are we going?"
"I don't know. Away from
here."
"I do not trust
you," Illyria says.
"I don't trust you
either."
That seems fair. Right
somehow in the ancient sense. They are not allies,
they are enemies. But enemies can run together, when there is a greater foe to
fight. "I am tired."
"Then sleep," Eve
says.
It is a good suggestion. Even
if Eve does not trust her and she does not trust Eve. Illyria knows her enemy
will not let anything harm her. She closes her eyes and sleeps.
##
Eve stands at the window,
letting the sun pour over her, wishing that Lindsey were
with her. But Lindsey's gone, and she has nothing left but the strange creature
who lies on the far bed of the little motel Eve stopped at once they were well
north of Los Angeles.
She is not sure why she's
heading north. She feels as if it's safer there. Although she may turn east at
some point—she feels it calling, too. They need to fit in, though. And there's
too much middle before they get to places where Illyria won't stand out. Cities
will work to hide a blue-haired former god-king who's prone to leather. The
heartland won't.
Not that Eve has been to the
heartland.
She hasn't been much of
anywhere. She was a creature of the senior partners. Then she was Lindsey's
thing. Now...now she belongs to herself.
She hears the bed creak, the
sound of springs giving as the light form of what used to be Winifred Burkle but is now an almost god-king
is eased off the bed.
"I am hungry." Illyria
sounds as if she still thinks she is a god-king.
"There's a donut on the
dresser."
Illyria doesn't demand that
Eve get it for her, and Eve turns to watch as she limps to the scratched piece
of furniture and grabs the donut.
"There's coffee, too. In
the bathroom." The kind from the little coffee maker they provide in these
places. Eve doesn't like these places. She'd rather stay in a fancy hotel,
where you call for coffee. Where they bring breakfast on a steaming tray full
of good things instead of making you walk to the office and grab what's left
from the box of donuts put out next to a bowl of half-ripe fruit. They call it
a continental breakfast—Eve wonders what continent they think would take credit
for such a lousy repast.
Illyria comes to stand by
her, setting her coffee down on the table. She still looks so much like Fred,
but lacks all the softness of the other woman.
The others were soft, too. Angel
and Spike, with their doomed champions' souls. And Wesley and Gunn. Even Lorne.
Soft and weak, and Eve wonders if he fought in the alley too. "Did they
all die?" Eve asks.
"Yes." Illyria
bites into her donut. It is chocolate with colored sprinkles and looks strange
in the hands of a creature who used to kill humans for sport.
"Even Lorne?"
Illyria takes a breath. "He
was not with us."
"But the rest?"
"They fell. They
died." Illyria turns the donut over, studying the unfrosted side.
"Do you care?"
Illyria takes a deep breath,
and Eve thinks she's struck a nerve.
She doesn't let up on
Illyria. "Wesley's dead, too?"
"Wesley died
first."
Eve looks away. Did Lindsey
die, too? Did he die first or last or in the middle? Did he think of her at
all? Did he care about her at all? "Lindsey...?"
"I told you. I do not
know his fate." Illyria reaches for her coffee.
"Did he love me?"
Eve says out loud, then closes her eyes. That should not have been voiced.
"He loved some part of
you. Something he saw in you that drew him to you. But it may not have had
anything to do with the real you." Illyria is squeezing the styrofoam cup, and Eve doesn't think she realizes it. Coffee
spills out, trailing over her hand. It's probably not very hot after sitting
for so long. Illyria acts as if she doesn't feel it.
And she's probably right
about Lindsey and love. He probably didn't love the real Eve.
"Did you love
Wesley?"
"I do not know."
"You're lying." Eve
turns back to the sunshine. "You love him still. You always will. He will
sit like a cancer in your chest until you die."
Illyria turns to her, and Eve
meets her eyes. "You are depressing," the once king of eternity says,
and Eve laughs for reasons she doesn't understand. "Why did you help
me?"
Eve can't answer that with
any certainty. Illyria repels her, but she feels some strange kinship with her.
She remembers what it was like to be newly created on this Earth. Unused to
humans or the way they thought or smelled or sounded. She's human, now. But Eve
didn't start out that way.
"I do not know that
Lindsey is dead," Illyria says into the silence, and it's as if she's
trying to give Eve some kind of gift.
But it's a gift full of
nothing. No meaning. Lindsey would be with Eve if he were alive, if only to
have someone to gloat to. He would need that—someone to listen to him tell of
how he beat Angel. Angel was always far more important to Lindsey than Eve was.
"He is dead, I think. And Angel killed him."
Or had him killed. Angel knew
how important he was to Lindsey. He might have done that out of spite—killed
Lindsey by proxy. Is that where Lorne went? Is that what Lorne had to do? Would
Angel do that to Lorne?
She thinks he probably would.
Angel was full of surprises—especially at the end. He was more willing to make
the hard choices than Eve had ever expected. Lilah tried to tell her that. Lilah,
who loved Wesley as much, if not more than this blue thing standing next to
her. Lilah, who was sent far away because the senior partners didn't trust her
anymore to deal unfairly with the Angel gang. Not when the stakes were as high
as they were going to get.
Eve was supposed to represent
the senior partners well. She was supposed to pay them back for her life. They'd
never counted on Lindsey. They'd never counted on her being human enough to
fall in love. Just like they'd never counted on a god-king fighting on the side
of good. "Why did you do it?" She asks as Illyria licks some of the
frosting off. "Why did you fight?"
"It pleased me to do
so." She puts the coffee down and runs her hand over the bandages that Eve
wrapped around her.
Eva wadded her torn and
blood-hardened leathers into a ball, crushing the armor tightly into the trash
can by the door. Illyria now wears soft sweatpants and a t-shirt that Eve
pulled out of her own suitcase for her. The clothes hang a bit on her. Eve is
small; Illyria is smaller.
Yet...Illyria survived. That
terrible, terrible fight and this small, whip-thin creature survived.
"Where would Wesley want
me to go now?" Illyria meets her eyes.
Eve shrugs.
"He would want me to do
good."
"Is that what you
want?"
Illyria doesn't answer. She
seems to be considering. Given her strength, the fact that she lives and licks
messily at a donut when she should have died during the night, she has much to
consider. Many options. Far more than Eve does.
Where can Eve go to be safe?
"Where can we do
good?"
Eve shrugs again. Then she
smiles. "Buffy's in Rome."
Illyria nods. "The
slayer." She purses her lips. It's the pretty "I'm thinking"
pout of Fred.
Eve feels a pang, even if she
never really liked Fred much. "What are you thinking?" she asks.
"Do you think Lindsey
would want you to do good?"
Eve doesn't think Lindsey
would care what she does now that he's gone. Lindsey was too self centered to think that life mattered once he was no
longer a player. "Probably not. But he's not here. I'll do what I
want." It's an odd concept. To do what she wants. She's done the bidding
of others for so long. "I will take you there."
"To the slayer?"
Eve nods. Buffy may kill her.
Buffy may take one look at her and run her through with the nearest pointy
instrument. But it is something to do—something she wants to do—and Eve
needs that. Needs a focus, something to live for. A mission—or just an errand. Besides,
she knows she can't hide from Wolfram and Hart. Not really. Not for long. But
maybe with Buffy and her people, she can find a home.
"We'll need some things.
We can get them in Portland." They're halfway there anyway. Well past San
Francisco. Eve was too scared to stop anywhere near that city—Wolfram and Hart
have a small branch office there. She's been there many times.
"I have never been to
Portland." Illyria says.
"You've never been
anywhere." Eve closes her eyes, leaning her forehead against the window,
letting the sun warm her. "We'll leave once you finish your
breakfast."
Illyria licks more of the
frosting off the donut. "Rome is an ancient city. Full of magic that may
be useful to me."
"Wolfram and Hart are
there, too," Eve whispers, wondering if her breath is fogging up the
window. Her breath—from a warm body with a still-beating heart. How long will
Wolfram and Hart let her live?
"They are
everywhere." Illyria's tone is dismissive.
"Yes. They are. And even
where they aren't, they have a very long reach."
"They are
inconsequential," Illyria says but this time she sounds a little unsure.
Eve finds that strangely
comforting.
##
Illyria feels the press of
Roman flesh against her and has to fight the urge to lash out, to maim and hurt
those who crowd her. Los Angeles was full of people, but they were spread out. This
city—it makes her skin crawl how close everyone is to everyone else, how many
people there are, hurrying and calling out words that made no sense to her at
first, although she absorbed the words into herself just as she did English.
And eventually the words turned into things that resembled language.
"Don't kill
anyone," Eve mutters.
"Can I hurt them?"
"Not if we want to get
to Buffy."
Illyria is no longer sure she
wants to get to Buffy. She is not even sure Eve will be able to take them to
Buffy. They have been looking all day, and the apartment that Eve says is
nearby is always over one street, or on the next block. Illyria is not tired,
but her spirit feels weary. And her wounds—healing now—itch as if the constant
press of people is an irritant to her system, not just to her mood.
"There. I think it is
there." Eve sounds like one of Illyria's courtiers fallen out of favor. Unsure.
Ready to say anything to keep her moving.
"You do not know where
the slayer is."
"I do." Eve bounds
up the stairs, catches the door as a young man comes out.
He looks at her suspiciously,
and she smiles at him. An open, uncomplicated smile that reminds Illyria of the
vampire secretary Angel tolerated. Harmony. Their betrayer. Or one of them, at
any rate.
The man's suspicion turns to
something more appreciative. Illyria can smell his arousal. Eve uses her power—what
little she has—to get him to blush.
Illyria wonders why this instrument
of the partners is so weak when the other liaison was so full of might. And so
full of the will to use it. Illyria can still feel his hands pounding on her,
his feet as they connected with her ribs. He nearly killed her. He hurt her
worse than the hordes of demons she fought in that alley did. Hamilton—she
wishes she had been allowed to kill him.
"Come on." Eve
motions her in the door.
Illyria takes the stairs
slowly. She does not believe this is where Buffy lives any more than the last
five buildings were. Her healing body will thank her not to have strained it
for nothing.
"See. Summers." Pointing
at the name on a mailbox, Eve leads her upstairs to a door at the end of the
hall. She knocks hard.
A young woman opens the door.
Illyria can smell the otherworldliness of her, mystical afterbirth steaming all
around her.
"You are a key."
The girl slams the door shut.
Eve turns and glares at her. "I
said to let me do the talking."
"But the girl is a
key." Could she get Illyria back to her home? Would Illyria even survive
in her home, diminished as she is?
"And it's obviously a
touchy subject." Eve frowns. "Buffy has a sister—that must be her. What's
her name?"
"Dawn." Illyria
remembers every conversation she has overheard or been a part of since she was
made manifest. The slayer has a sister who is named Dawn. But no one said she
was a key. Perhaps for very good reason. There was a time when Illyria could
have used her without a thought for her own safety.
"Dawn?" Eve calls
through the door, knocking again but softly this time. "Don't mind my
strange companion. We're friends."
"We are not,"
Illyria says as the door opens again.
"I'm not inviting you
in." Dawn folds her arms across her chest.
"We're not vampires."
Eve pushes past her. Illyria stands in the hallway, trying to see past the
green glow of the slayer's sister.
"I'm not the key
anymore." Dawn looks angry and a little fearful.
"You will always be the
key. But you may not unlock anything useful." Illyria, too, pushes past
her.
"Buffy!" Dawn
sounds frightened now.
A slightly shorter woman
comes out of the bedroom. Her power hits Illyria like the scent of roses and
carrion. This small, fierce thing is death and pain. Illyria smiles a real
smile for the first time since Wesley fell. "Finally," she says,
breathing in more of the slayer's essence.
"What the hell is
this?" Another slayer comes out from the other end of the hallway. She is
dark haired and tan skinned and does not smell like Buffy. She is death and
pain, too, but only a beginner.
She is with a redhead who
takes one look at Illyria and says, "Fred?"
Illyria accesses Fred's
memories. Willow—this one's name is Willow. Fred thought she was cute and
powerful. Illyria does not care about the woman's looks, but her power has
grown tremendously. She is strong—strong enough to send Illyria to any
dimension she wants. If only she knew of one where she could survive better
than here.
"She's not exactly Fred.
Kind of a long story," Eve says.
Buffy turns to Willow. "You
know her, too?"
"Nope." Willow
walks over to Illyria. "The new look...I'm not so sure about it."
"But you know it,"
Illyria whispers, seeing something flare in Willow's eyes, then they go
suddenly dark. She has a vision of the redhead with black hair, like the tar
river that winds though the Faleshik plain. She sees
veins all over Willow's face and hands, veins that spread and fill in her pale
skin like the small streams that run off the river when the mountains disgorge
the tar like blood from a dying thing. "You are a destroyer," Illyria
whispers.
Willow's eyes go back to
green. She looks startled. "Was, not am. I'm good now."
"You were a destroyer. You
forsook that path. Why?" Illyria cannot imagine turning her back on that
kind of power willingly. Even if she did something of the sort—but only to save
herself.
"She's more powerful
than ever," the brunette slayer says, pushing herself between them, and
Illyria understands that she is the sorceress's lover.
"What do you want?"
Buffy moves closer.
Illyria inhales again. "You
smell good."
Buffy does not say anything,
just stares at her. As if Illyria is taking up precious time, yet she can tell
from the way Buffy's hair is crumpled and sleep still lies in her expression
that she was napping.
"She fought with
Angel." Eve is watching Buffy carefully. "And Spike." She
smiles, and Illyria thinks it is a cruel look. She has more respect for Eve
suddenly. Goading a slayer this way is dangerous.
"What?" Buffy turns
to look at Eve. "Spike's alive? Was alive?"
"The final battle."
Willow sighs. "I told you I felt something..."
Illyria can tell she is lying.
The man-boy who came to get the demented slayer—he must have told the witch
that Spike lived, but not told the slayer. Perhaps Spike asked him not to?
Dawn swallows hard. She looks
at Illyria. "You fought with them?"
Illyria nods. "They are
dust."
Buffy punches her into the
wall. Illyria takes a moment to regroup before picking herself up off the
floor.
"I did not turn Spike to
dust." Although she did, once, over and over again in that timeline before
she was diminished by Wesley. Just before she nearly destroyed the world with
power badly contained in this body she does not like.
She waits to see if Buffy
will strike her once more. "Nor did I slay Angel. They died fighting. I
fought at their side and should have died, too. But I did not."
"Why not?" the dark
slayer asks.
Illyria decides she is
annoying.
"Because she's not Fred
anymore." Willow moves closer. "Who—what are you?"
Eve sighs. "Look, can we
go into the origins of bluebell later? We need sanctuary. Or we need to move
on." She looks at Buffy. "I've heard the Immortal lives nearby."
Buffy nods. "You're
welcome to him."
Illyria watches the slayer. She
does not seem bitter. The words are said matter of factly,
as if she does not care what the Immortal does.
"I'd rather have
you." Eve says, and Buffy's eyebrows go up. "I mean...not that way. I
don't really swing that way. But if you do...?"
Buffy's look gets even
stonier. Illyria reaches out, letting her hand fall onto the slayer's upper
arm. The muscles are so taut, and power streams off her and into Illyria,
filling her. Buffy turns her head, staring at Illyria, her look shocked.
"I take with no
permission," Illyria says softly, feeling her wounds healing faster.
"You fought with
Angel?"
Their eyes meet. Illyria sees
the pain of loss. Two losses despite the fact that Buffy asks only about Angel
this time. The slayer loved both the vampires. But Illyria answers as she was
asked. "He fought well."
"But he fell?"
Illyria nods.
Buffy does not cry, and she
doesn't pull away from Illyria's grasp. "We heard so many things the last
few days. Rumors, mostly. Nothing from anyone who really knew." She bows
her head. "He's dead," she says, and Illyria knows she means both of
the men she loved.
"He is dead." Illyria
wishes she had captured some of the dust when Angel and Spike fell. She wishes
she could give it to this powerful young woman who is letting her suck energy
out of her even though her heart is breaking.
"You came here
why?" Buffy finally pulls away. She turns to Eve, her posture one of a
hunting cat on the edge. As if she wants to make something—anything—pay for the
death of her vampires. "And who the hell are you?"
"She is evil." Illyria
stops Buffy as she takes a step toward Eve. "But she saved me. And she is
alone."
"Glad the gratitude
kicked in." Eve crosses her arms, a mirror to Dawn. She is trying not to
look frightened, but Illyria can smell her fear, and she thinks Buffy can, too.
"Wolfram and Hart wants us dead."
Buffy glances at Willow. "Call
Giles. He'll know what to do with them."
Willow nods and goes to
another room. Illyria can hear her talking. The dark slayer is circling them.
"Stop that," Eve says,
walking to the couch. "I'm no threat. Ask her, if you don't believe
me."
Buffy does look to Illyria
and seems satisfied by the nod she gets. She stops the dark slayer. "Kennedy,
leave her alone."
They have a stare-down, and
Kennedy lasts longer in the battle of wills with Buffy than Illyria thinks she
will. Finally looking away, the other slayer leaves the room, going to join her
lover, anger streaming hot in her wake.
"She will challenge
you."
Buffy smiles. "Been
there, done that. More than once, in fact." She moves away from Illyria,
her gaze thoughtful. "Take a load off."
Illyria is not sure what she
means, but then Buffy gestures to the chair. Illyria sits, intending to only
perch regally, but her muscles seem to betray her and she slumps, more tired
than she realized from Eve's endless game of "Find the Slayer."
They sit. And Buffy and Dawn
watch them. Willow comes back in, standing behind Eve, staring at Illyria. Kennedy
stays in the other room.
"You wish to know what I
am?" Illyria stares back at the witch.
"Shouldn't we save the
explanations for when Giles gets here?" Dawn sighs. "Is anyone
thirsty?"
Eve raises her hand.
"Anyone who isn't
potentially evil?" Dawn mutters.
Eve just laughs. "Who in
this room fits that description?" She crosses her legs, leans back and
closes her eyes as if she does not care that she is surrounded by potential
enemies.
A little while later, there
is a knock on the door. Buffy opens the door and lets a man in. Illyria stares
at him with little interest until he opens his mouth and says words she can no
longer take in because he says them with Wesley's way of speaking.
Buffy points, and he stares
at Illyria, frowning slightly.
"Wesley," Illyria
says. Not meaning to.
"Right island. Wrong
man. Just another watcher." Eve looks up at Giles, her smile more a smirk.
"I was the liaison to the senior partners."
"Was?" He seems to
move so carefully. Not as if he is afraid. More as if he is trying to hold back
a more dangerous impulse.
Illyria reaches out, tasting
his essence. There is darkness in this one. Far more than there was in Wesley. She
reaches farther and is surprised to see him turn around slowly, staring at her
in a way she has trouble deciphering. He knows she is reading him. He knows
what she is seeing inside him. And...he seems to not
care.
"You have killed,"
she says. "For her, your slayer, you have killed."
"We've all killed."
Buffy sounds bored. Like a god-king might.
Illyria thinks she could love
Buffy. Or maybe it is only that Buffy is the first thing that has felt like
home. Illyria imagines her on the battlefield. According to Spike, this slayer
led the others against the hordes of Turok Han. To do
that, to live...it beats a former god-king's trick of staying alive in an alley
by pretending to be dead.
Did Illyria really do that? Feign
death to escape it? She feels shame.
Giles moves closer to
Illyria. "You are...?"
"A pain in the
ass," Eve says.
"I am the ruler of all I
see." Illyria smiles for him. The way Wesley used to when he was being
sardonic. She sees recognition register on Giles' face. He knows the look.
"You were that, I
think." He shakes his head. "Buffy, a word?"
She nods and they disappear
into the room Kennedy still shelters in.
Eve turns to Dawn. "Where's
that drink?"
"As if." Dawn gets
up and joins Buffy and Giles.
Willow turns, leaning against
the window. "What happened to Gunn and Wesley and Lorne?"
"Wesley died before the final
battle," Illyria says. "Gunn during. They fought well. Lorne may
still live."
Willow takes that in. Her
expression is so sad.
"Why did they do
it?" Illyria leans forward, thinking this powerful woman who once
commanded death will understand and be able to explain.
"They were
champions," Eve answers for her, sarcasm splitting the word in half,
making it a weak thing. A silly thing. A futile thing.
"Did they accomplish
anything?" Illyria suddenly wants the answer to be yes.
Willow closes her eyes. "We
fight. We die. And yes, we make a difference just by having tried." She
takes a deep breath. "Is Fred inside you?"
"No. I am inside
her."
Willow looks hurt by the
answer. "You killed her."
Illyria decides now is not
the time to hide the truth. "I destroyed her utterly. Her soul is
forfeit."
Eve laughs. Both Illyria and
Willow look at her, and she stops smiling. "The soul is immortal and can
only be freely given to destruction. Fred's was stolen. It isn't gone. It isn't
lost." She leans back, closing her eyes. "It just isn't inside her
body, anymore. But Fred lives on."
"That is not true."
Illyria fears she sounds like a child.
"Oh, yes
it is. You can't work for the senior partners as closely as I have and
not get to know the cosmic way of things. Fred is a long way from lost. Why, I
bet she and Wesley are enjoying a tearful reunion even now.
What do you think, blue-girl?"
"Your pain is making you
cruel." Illyria looks away, but Eve's words stick in her heart like
swords. Is Wesley with his beloved? Will he even remember Illyria?
And why does she care?
Giles and Buffy come back in,
Dawn trailing behind them.
"It's too dangerous for
you to stay here. Not when we don't know who you really are, or if you can be
trusted," Giles says. "But we have a place you can sleep for a few
nights."
Illyria gets up, ready to
follow him, but Eve lazily opens one eye. "I know things you might be
interested in. Things that might keep all of you alive a little bit longer than
otherwise."
Illyria meets Buffy's eyes,
is satisfied to see something pass between them. Warrior to warrior. Ruler to
ruler.
"She has nothing to tell
you," Illyria says, suddenly not wanting to impose any longer on her
fellow warrior. Where she comes from, imposition is a form of weakness.
Eve turns to her. "Shut
up."
"We will go. There is no
room for us here." She looks at Eve. "Come."
"Dumbass smurf," Eve says as she gets up.
The words remind Illyria of
Wesley. She thinks Eve meant them to, even if she is unsure how Eve knew to say
exactly that.
"You will need us,"
Eve says, a bit of panic in her voice now.
Illyria reaches out, touching
her shoulder. "No. This is not our place."
"Speak for yourself, you
sick hag." Eve is backing away, as if Illyria's touch has burned her. Her
eyes are wild and she is staring at Buffy, as if she can force her to change
her mind.
"You aren't on our
side." Giles looks for a moment at Buffy, before turning to Illyria. "And
we don't know where your loyalties lie."
"They lie with
myself." She respects Giles' decision. Her choice for herself was to fight
with those who were good. But she may not make that same choice again.
She finds it hard to look
away from him. He is resolved and hard in a way Wesley wasn't. He has to break
the look between them. He has to be the one to turn away and lead them out of
the room.
"Thanks for
nothing," Eve says, her voice trembling a little.
This time Illyria does not
try to comfort her.
##
Eve paces around the rooms
the watcher left them in last night. They are in an apartment far from Buffy's.
Some sort of safe house, no doubt. Meant to protect both those given sanctuary,
and the friends and family of the slayer.
"You are accomplishing
nothing," Illyria says. She's sitting on the window seat, legs tucked
beneath her. Staring out at the Eternal City.
Eternal, that is, until
someone from Wolfram and Hart busts in and kills them both.
"And what are you
accomplishing?" Eve asks, moving over to see if Illyria is looking at
anything in particular or just being her normal weird self and staring off into
space.
"I am
regenerating."
She's regenerating in Eve's
favorite jeans and sweater. Eve came out from her shower to find Illyria going
through her suitcase.
"This will do," the
god-king said, taking the clothes into the bathroom with her—god-kings
took forever to shower. Eve's hair was flat by the time Illyria finally
emerged.
There's a knock on the door,
and Eve jumps. So, they've found them already. "What do we do?"
Illyria looks up at her as if
she's an idiot. "Open the door."
"And just let them kill
us?"
The god-king looks away. "It
is not them. It is the slayer."
Eve backs away. She doesn't
trust in Illyria's powers. Not now that she's less than she was. It could be
the Slayer. It could also be Wolfram and Hart's assassins.
Illyria gets up and knocks
her aside, pushing her into the window seat as she walks to the door. "I
saw her approach."
"Oh."
The door opens. Buffy has her
hand poised to knock again. She meets Illyria's eyes. "I know you were
expecting me."
"I was." Illyria
gestures for the slayer to enter. An oddly gracious movement of hand and head. "You
wish to know more of their deaths. You wish to hear every detail until your
body and mind and soul are filled with how it was for them."
Eve sighs. No one will give
her that for Lindsey. No one gives a rat's ass that she doesn't know how
Lindsey died, or when, or even if. Eve matters not at all in this equation.
Eve may never have mattered
to anyone. Not even to the senior partners, who made her so different from the
other liaisons. They made her weak and small and pretty. Fond of high heels and
silk dresses. Not like Hamilton. Not strong and fierce—and dead. Illyria said
that Angel told her he'd killed Hamilton. And Eve's glad. Hamilton was always
like the big brother from hell—sort of a given when you're talking about
Wolfram and Hart.
Illyria sits close to Buffy,
and as she tells her tale, the slayer leans in. Illyria has a photographic
memory, which makes for a riveting tale—if you're a slayer and have no life. Eve's beyond bored. She turns to the window, staring out at
the city that Lindsey once said he'd take her to.
Losing herself in the view,
Eve considers her next steps. She has no skills. No talents to fall back on. Unless
you count duplicity and the ability to hide the fact that she's working for
multiple sides? That could be useful. If she can bring herself to really live. Ever
since she signed away her immortality, Eve has done nothing more than hide in
Lindsey's apartment. The only time she ventured out was to find him. To not
find him. To never find him.
She puts her head in her
hands, blocking out the view, trying not to cry. She fails. The view's still
there, and her tears don't block it the way they should. The two women on the
couch ignore her. Illyria drones on about battles and valiant deaths. Buffy
says nothing.
Eve pushes herself off the
window seat and walks toward the bedroom. Ready to grab her things and leave
them both to their common cause.
"What can you do,
Eve?" Buffy's voice isn't mocking. It's a real question. "To help us,
I mean?"
Eve turns to look at her. She
shrugs. If she can't answer that question for herself, how can she tell a
slayer anything she wants to hear?
"She can dress well, and
blend with those you fight. She was privy to the inner sanctum of your enemy—or
one of your enemies." Illyria's voice hasn't changed from when she was
recounting the deaths of the hero-vampires. "She is a skilled liar, is not
afraid to meddle, and often has surprising insight and suggestions for dealing
with difficult situations."
Eve frowns. "Where are
you getting this?"
Illyria suddenly morphs, and
both Buffy and Eve draw back. The blue-haired god-king is gone; sweet, little
Fred sits in her place. Sweet, little Fred with the god-king's voice. "I've
observed you. Winnifred Burkle had even more
opportunities to do so." She turns back to Buffy. "She is often
annoying, yet she saved me for no apparent reason other than she felt sorry for
me—or perhaps kinship because we'd lost those we cared for. In that, she is
weak."
"Hey! Gratitude would be
nice."
"I am listing your
characteristics, not recounting my debts to you."
Debts? Illyria owed her for
more than one thing? That was interesting.
"She is willing to
engage the enemy. She will get as close as you need her to." Illyria's
voice has changed, become Fred's playful one. "Even carnally close."
Eve prays to all the gods
that Illyria will not tell Buffy that Eve had sex with Angel. Over and over and
over, even if it was mystically induced.
Illyria morphs back to the
god-king, then moves on. "She appears completely unskilled in combat. But
knows much in the way of magical references."
"Combat skills I can
fix." Buffy is staring at Eve as if she's had a chance to sleep on her
decision to cast them out and regrets it.
"I too can bring much in
the way of skills." Illyria's staring at Buffy as if she would like to
devour her. Yet Eve thinks it's neither a predatory look nor a lustful one. It's
more as if, for the first time, Illyria has found a kindred spirit. Former
god-king, former cheerleader and popular girl. Both changed by circumstance. Eve
supposes it fits.
Maybe Illyria can start
borrowing Buffy's favorite outfits now?
"You can't stay with us.
You'll have to stay here. But you can help us with the slayers." She's
looking at Illyria. Then she turns to Eve. "And you can help Giles. He'll
be by to get you later."
"Joy." But Eve
feels a surge of relief.
Until, that is, Illyria turns
to her and says, "If he thinks you are evil, or that you will hurt Buffy
and the others, he will kill you."
"Thanks for that,
bluebell."
Buffy gets up. She barely
looks at Eve. "Illyria, we have slayers coming in all the time. With
languages we don't understand. I'm thinking English is not your original
tongue?"
"You are correct. Nor is
Italian, but I can speak it now. I absorb language."
Eve nods. Girl has talents in
that area, that's certain.
"That could be
useful," Buffy says.
"I speak ten languages
fluently," Eve says, holding her hand up as if in school. She makes the
gesture vaguely sarcastic, feels a need to challenge Buffy even if it's both
stupid and ungrateful when the girl is giving them a shot.
"I'm sure Giles will be
thrilled to hear that. Especially if some of them are musty, old things found
on the scrolls and books he likes so much." Buffy walks over to Eve, and
Eve has to fight not to shrink back. "Let's be clear. Giles is very dear
to me. If you so much as look at him wrong, I'll kill you."
"Like you killed
Glory?" Eve knows it's dangerous to push her. But she does. "Oh, wait.
You let her live." Even if Giles didn't. Even if Giles killed the boy
who'd housed Glory. Eve knew that was what Illyria had been referring to last
night when she met Giles.
"I was younger,
then." Buffy leans in, her hand darting out faster than Eve can track,
fastening on her neck, pulling her up, Eve's feet dangling a bit off the
ground. "I'm not young, anymore. I'm not merciful, either. We clear?"
"Clear," Eve
manages to cough out. But she thinks Buffy is lying. A hardened Buffy would let
them leave, would have kept them cast out. This woman finding them a place—she's
not hard. She still believes in something.
Eve wonders what that's like.
All her life, she's never believed in anything. Except for Lindsey, who didn't
come back for her.
Buffy lets her drop, is
turning before she can see that Eve has landed on her feet.
But Illyria notices, and she
has a little smile on her face. Eve thinks they are both the kind who land on
their feet.
She realizes Illyria just
saved her life. One less debt. How many more are there?
"Illyria, come with
me," Buffy says.
"Don't get that sweater
all bloody," Eve says.
Illyria just smiles. Ferociously.
Buffy grins at the expression, feral in her own way. Eve has the impression of
two tigers, walking off into the urban jungle.
"About your
hair..." Buffy says as the door closes.
Eve takes a deep breath. She
walks to the window again, staring out until the phone rings. Thinking it must
be Giles, she answers it.
"Ciao, bella." It's a woman—a bit scratchy and far away. Italian
from the sound of it. Husky, breathy, sensual. Eve knows who it is. It's Ilona—Wolfram
and Hart has found her.
"What do you want?"
"Ah, you want to cut to
the chase, eh? All right, then. No formalities. You are wonderful at
double-cross. We want to make use of that. Consider it payment of an old
loan."
"Consider me declaring
bankruptcy. All debts are forgiven." Eve feels her heart beating madly. She
has never, in her life, stood up to anyone when it meant she might suffer in
some way for it. She's skulked and schemed, but outright defiance? Never.
"You are saying you will
not work for us? You know the price will be very high for
non-cooperation."
"I don't care." She
slams the phone down.
The door opens, and Giles
walks in.
The dark-haired slayer from
last night is with him. She is holding a cell phone. She smiles—and it's the
first real smile Eve has gotten from anyone since she arrived at Buffy's place.
"I used to be big into
drama." Kennedy says that in the Italian voice of a hellish Sophia Loren.
"A test." Eve would
probably test herself, too, if she was in their place.
"We had to know." Giles
is looking at her with something akin to pity. "And you passed. Good for
you."
"Why not just tell your
precious slayer that I failed? I probably will. I'm not used to being
good."
He laughs. It's very British.
Understated. Just a little puff of air as he looks down in amusement. "I
knew someone else like that. A former vengeance demon."
"Yeah? How'd that end
up?" But Eve thinks she remembers the demon. If it's Anyanka
he's talking about then...
"She died saving the
world," he says.
"I'm not going to die
for you people."
"I imagine she would
have said the very same thing."
There's a moment where Eve
feels something inside her settling down. She's afraid it's the part of her
that needs a purpose other than herself. The part of her that's always at
someone else's beck and call. But maybe this time, in the service of good, that
part of her will be a strength and not a weakness?
"Are you done with
me?" Kennedy sounds bored. She picks a piece of lint off her shirt. Eve
notices she's really well dressed.
"Where did you get that
sweater?" Eve asks.
"A little boutique near
the Forum. We get a discount. The woman who owns it is an ex-watcher." Kennedy
cocks her head, studying Eve. "Maybe if you work out, and Giles says not to
kill you, I'll take you there." Her smile is feral, too, but in a
different way than Buffy's or Illyria's.
Eve feels sort of at home. "I'll
hold you to that." Not that she can afford much. Wolfram and Hart have
frozen her assets. She looks at Giles. "We do get paid, right? Unlike the smurfette, I am not doing this out of the goodness of my
heart."
"We're not even sure
there is any goodness in your heart," Giles said, taking her arm and
waving Kennedy off. "And we'll discuss the creative ways we've found to
finance our operation once I'm sure I can trust you."
His touch is warm, and Eve
thinks he knows she's craving that touch. She's been on the run with a demi-god
who thinks an apocalypse equals big fun and speaks strangely. Someone as
seemingly normal as Giles, with a gesture as seemingly normal as his
gentlemanly escort, is soothing.
She knows it makes him more
dangerous than all the rest. Something else in her settles down. Probably the
part that needs to know whom to serve. Needs to know who's the alpha in the
room. Illyria found her alpha in Buffy. Or at least the counterpart to her own
annoying macho-ness. Eve thinks Giles is more her speed. Brains, charm, and
just enough darkness to make the transition bearable as she tries to move from
agent of evil to agent of good.
Lindsey must be spinning in
his grave.
Eve smiles as she lets Giles lead her to her new life.
Let him spin.
FIN