Angel's Secrets ~ Fanfiction

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A View From Below (Part 3)
By Carla Kozak
©1998
writeangled(at)yahoo.com

Disclaimer: All of the characters from BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER are owned by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox Television and the Warner Brothers television network. I am merely a BTVS enthusiast who has woven these characters into a story of my own. The characters of Gavin Reilly and Siobhan are my own invention, but their destined lines of work are the brilliant creations of Mr. Whedon.
Author's Notes: I am no expert on the Gaelic language, but I do know that its unique spellings and pronunciations can be confusing. So for anyone who is wondering, the name Siobhan is pronounced "sho-VAHN."

. . .

"So there is some truth to repressed memory," Angel thought wryly, from his front-row seat in the vortex of Hell. "And I seem to have a history of falling for pretty slayers. And of failing them, too." He had been given such clear views of all the despicable acts of his vampiric life--but why had someone as significant as Siobhan been hidden in the recesses of his tortured soul?

More than two centuries after the fact, it was obvious she’d been a slayer. And what had happened to her? Angel and Darla had done a fine job of rampaging in and around Galway--she had rejoiced at what a quick learner he was. A slayer would have lost no time in finding them, but they had been left virtually alone to drink and kill.

But now, Hell’s demonic satellite dish was offering him another channel. Angel had a vision of old Galway again, and he could sense that it showed him what was happening elsewhere, while he was burying his head in Darla’s bosom and getting his first taste of blood.

It was in the graveyard, and Siobhan was there, facing away, but still seemingly aware of her surroundings. Her hair was tied loosely back in a ribbon; she wore his sweater still, and she held a pointed stick. She tensed, as she heard a soft footfall behind her.

"Is it my Angel?" she asked, not turning around.

A soft, honeyed voice answered, "I’m afraid it is not, Slayer."

Siobhan whirled around, instantly in a fighting stance. Instead of the handsome features of the young man she’d been expecting, she saw the pale, reptilian face and cloaked figure of the Master Vampire.

"I see that St. Patrick missed a snake," she said.

"Oh, I’m glad you’re one with a sense of humor, my dear," said the Master. "It’s so dreary to deal with the serious slayers."

"Believe me, I am quite serious about my duties," Siobhan said.

"Yes, I am aware of that. I’ve lost quite a few family members of late, and many of them were strong and experienced killers. You should be proud of your skills."

"Forgive me if I don’t mourn your losses," Siobhan faced the Master. "Nor will I mourn for you."

"You are very young. You’re strong, as you must be to fight vampires, all of whom are more vigorous than those humans who are without a slayer’s superior strength. But you have not dealt before with a Master, or his powers. You will find it an interesting lesson, though a short one." The Master’s face cracked in an evil smile.

"I learn quickly," Siobhan said.

"You do indeed. You would have continued to be a most successful slayer, perhaps one of the best, had I not made it my business to deal with you tonight."

"It’s so nice to hear compliments, but we really must get down to business. I am curious as to why I am in such illustrious company as yourself, but I’m happy enough just to have the chance to kill you." Siobhan shifted slightly, as the Master moved toward her.

"A chance is all you’d get, in the best of situations. And this is not the best, for you, my dear." He fixed his blood-red eyes on her. "You were expecting someone else to be here tonight."

"I was expecting vampires. You’ve more than met my expectations," Siobhan said.

"Expectations..." The Master drew out the word. "That is just why I had to be here. There was a tricky little hint of a prophecy mentioned in the Pergamum Codex. A silly thing, about a dynasty of Slayers...yes, not just one per generation, but a family of them, each one producing more offspring, spreading over the continents, doing away with our ancient Order. ‘As the Sun and the Darkness meet and are joined, so they will give rise to a Dynasty.’ I’ve learned to pay attention to such things, when I read them in the Codex. Of course, one must always interpret, and interpretations can be wrong, but best to be on the safe side, don’t you think?"

"I don’t have a clue as to what you mean," Siobhan said, "except for being on the safe side. That’s why I kill vampires. To keep us safe."

"And that is why I must kill you. That, and your hair. So like the sun--not that I’ve seen it in more years than you could count, of course. But that could be the Codex’s way of referring to a red-haired slayer. It was troublesome, then, to hear of you mooning about with that dark young man."

It was clear that he had startled Siobhan. "What did you do to him?" she whispered. "Is he dead?"

"Perhaps, my dear," the Master moved closer to her. "Or perhaps reborn. I gave the Lady Darla her choice in dealing with him. As she’s one to appreciate a comely man, I would guess that she will want him around for a long while."

Siobhan flew at him, ready with both fist and stake. But he stretched out his claw-tipped fingers, and she found she could not move.

"I told you my powers were great," he said. "You should be thankful. I am saving you the pain of slaying the man you love." He tangled his fingers in her hair, pulling her head back.

"It was nice knowing you," he said, "but it will be even nicer to say good by." He stroked her neck lightly, and then sunk his fangs into the white skin.

Though we share this humble path, alone,
How fragile is the heart.
Oh give these clay feet wings to fly,
To touch the face of the stars.

Breathe life into this feeble heart,
Lift this mortal veil of fear.
Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears,
We’ll rise above these earthly cares.

The scene shifted then, to Gavin Reilly’s house. The old scholar was bent over his books, in the light of a flickering candle. His quill scratched as he wrote out notes, or translations. Suddenly he sat up, quoting what he had just written. "‘and the Master will learn of the prophecy...’ Oh, dear God, no. Siobhan!"

He left the house quickly, moving with more strength and speed than he’d thought he’d possessed. The sun was rising as he neared the graveyard, just illuminating the small heap of her body lying between the stones.

The old Watcher knelt beside her, and cradled his Slayer in his arms. "I should have warned you about that prophecy. I should have found that passage long ago. I failed to protect you, my colleen. Forgive me." He saw a tear drop on to her cold cheek, though he did not know he was crying. Her lashes were so dark against her pale skin, and the sun’s first rays glinted on her coppery curls. A trickle of blood from her neck had formed a small, dark pool that stained the creamy, thick wool of her sweater.

. . .

Would I have been able to help her? Angel wondered. Was I meant to help her? Did I screw up my own fate, or was that, too, part of some damned enigmatic prophecy?

A dynasty of slayers...was he supposed to have joined his destiny with Siobhan’s, and fathered them? Helped to rid the world of vampires, instead of siring several? Obviously, even his seduction by Darla had been part of the Master’s plan. No doubt the strangers in the tavern were, too. Was it all due to words in a book?

There was some cold comfort in remembering that he had saved Buffy’s life by killing Darla, and had aided her when she sent the Master to Hell. When the Master sought to keep Angel from Siobhan, and gave him instead the immortal life of a bloodthirsty demon, even he had not read two hundred years into the future. And he had thought Buffy would be the key to his freedom, not his death. He’d merely bought himself, and his kind, some extra time. Interpretations can be wrong...

So, what am I meant to do with my immortality? Angel asked himself. Just now, he was as much a captive as the Master had been after that inopportune earthquake, and there wasn’t much he could do, except brood. Through fate or his own arrogance, he had been denied the chance at a normal life--if marrying and raising a batch of slayers, should that have been the case, could be considered normal. He tried to see himself in that life, but the 242 years since then had been devoid of such basic human needs, and he had blocked them out. Until he’d met Buffy, anyway, and after that, the idea of anything natural seemed even more out of reach.

I would have loved it, he realized. I would have loved to have been with Siobhan, and for life to have a purpose. I would have tried to be the kind of husband and father she and our children deserved. Hell, she would have seen to that. She wouldn’t have allowed me to fail.

But how does that help me now, except to give me more to regret? How does that help Buffy? Did the prophecy die with Siobhan, or was it still waiting to come to pass? Is Buffy a part of it? Am I? Buffy’s blonde hair, too, was like sun...and I’ve lived several lifetimes of darkness. But even if I could still father children, look what happened when Buffy and I...

I’m babbling, Angel thought. I’m sitting here in the mouth of Hell and I’m turning into a babbling fool. Even if I’m released from here, there won’t be any happy family for me to embrace. I’m not going to be a part of any prophecies. I’ve had two chances to become someone worthwhile, and I turned into a monster both times.

He gave voice to his thoughts. "Buffy, I know you can’t hear me. That’s what Hell is, it’s not being able to help the ones you love. But I’ve got to try. I don’t know what else to do. So just be strong, okay? You can do it alone. I know you want to hide, I know you’re hurting. I wish I could be with you, and show you how much I love you. I can’t, so you’ve got to get over me. Get past me. Do what you need to do. My part in all of this was always one big ‘maybe.’ But yours is real. Kill them, kill them all, and stay alive. Because I couldn’t bear to watch you die, and believe me, if it happens, I’ll be watching it."

Angel closed his eyes, though he knew that wouldn’t stop him from seeing. He wasn’t seeing Buffy, though, but a girl who had died long ago. "Forgive me, Siobhan," he whispered. "I broke our vow. I don’t know where you are now, but I would guess it’s in a better place than I. You owe me less than nothing, but if you can, look kindly on another brave girl who has taken up your cause. Do it for her sake, not for mine."

Was he praying? Angel wondered. And if so, who was hearing his prayers? Does anyone listen to prayers from Hell? He was isolated in the vortex; alone, except for the visions that haunted him. The only response to his voice was a dull echo that seemed to mock his helpless, solitary state.

"Is this how you felt, Siobhan?" Angel whispered. "All those years, knowing you were not in my thoughts, or in my heart? Did my love for Buffy seem to mock anything I might have felt for you?"

His eyes were burning, and Angel realized that tears in Hell are liquid fire. He was powerless to quench them.

"I deserve punishment, but you don’t, Siobhan. Buffy doesn’t, either. I know my promises have been worthless, but I’ll do anything I can to keep one more. Any good that I accomplish is an honor to you, any love I feel is with regret that you couldn’t share it. And I swear I won’t forget you again."

Cast your eyes on the ocean,
Cast your soul to the sea.
When the dark night seems endless,
Please remember me.
Please remember me.

. . .

Page 3 of 3
The End

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