Illyria looked at Connor. “You wish to go to Sunnydale. A place where you have never been, a place that you do not care about.”
“That about sums it up.”
“Why? You will be needed in the other city, the city where the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart are.”
“Well, yeah, I might be—but Spike’s needed there more. So I’ll help out by taking his place.”
“Yet you do not wish to leave your father behind.”
“He can do fine,” said Connor uncomfortably.
“Guilt reeks in the air around you.”
“Illyria,” started Angel, “this is not a good time.”
“This is not?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“I do not want to go back with you.”
“I know,” said Angel.
“I miss Wesley—the shell misses Wesley.”
“The shell? Wait, blue. You’re talking about Fred. Fred’s gone, remember?”
“I know. But there are fragments—the memories that made her Fred. The personality that made her Fred. That is all still here. The person that I was, that my shell was, mourns for Wesley. And I miss Wesley. I do not wish to return. But it’s what I must do.”
“That does about sum it up,” said Angel, giving her an odd look.
“When do we need to be there?” Buffy was all business; as long as she and Spike didn’t look at each other.
“In a few hours,” Giles told her.
“You know, for this last year, I haven’t missed these cryptic prophecies at all.” Buffy shook her head, a little saddened.
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