Pride

PRIDE


I'm becoming really addicted to author's notes. I'm sorry about that - no, I'm not, really. I just like sharing. Skip them if you like - if you do, you'll miss stuff, but that's up to you.


Feedback: Pretty please. Send it to thelibrarian2003@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Wish as I might, most of these characters aren’t mine. If they were, I’d look after them better. The ones you’ve never heard of? They’re mine. No money will ever be made from this fic.
Distribution: The Angel Texts http://www.octavesoftheheart.com/angeltexts/ ;
Angel Elders; Blood Roses. You want it? Really? Gosh. Just tell me where it’s going please.
Spoilers: BtVS seasons 4/5. AtS seasons 1/4. Do not get me started on who sired Spike – it’s exactly as it says in this story.
Rating: NC17 for a bit of sex, a couple of bad words, a bit of torture and some violence. Angelus is here, right? Some of the thinking is from a demonic point of view and it’s, well, demonic. Oh, and there are some character deaths. Sort of.
Content: B/A/A(us) Alternate past reality leading to an alternate future, which is where we began, in ‘The Nature of the Beast’, and continued in ‘To Kill A Cat’, ‘Tyger, Tyger’, ‘Cometh the Hour’ and ‘Lionesses’.
Summary: In ‘Cometh the Hour’ we left Angel on a hillside waiting for the sunrise. This is what happened next. It might help you to read the previous stories in this cycle first, but it probably isn’t essential.

The story is told from several different points of view.

Author’s notes

Some people like to see these notes at the beginning, and some people like to see them at the end. They’re here. You choose when to read them. If you don’t read them at all, you’ll miss stuff, but that’s up to you.

1 Because this series is changing the events of the past, and because the inertia of narrative history is trying to tie knots and carry on, you can expect to see artefacts, and events, and perhaps meet people, in unexpected times and places. The timeline is fractured. If you don’t like it, that’s fine. Just make it your turn to write something for the rest of us to read.

2 Pride: noun & verb
Noun
1a - a feeling of elation or satisfaction at achievements or qualities or possessions etc. that do one credit.
2 - a high or overbearing opinion of one's worth or importance.
3 (in full, proper pride) - a proper sense of what befits one's position; self-respect.
4 - a group or company (of animals, esp. lions).
Concise Oxford Dictionary

3 String Theory
This is really true. If you don’t believe me, look it up. I don’t think the physicists have caught up with parasite universes yet, though.

4 Mass Extinction
A regular, if thankfully infrequent, event in Earth’s history. Five Mass Extinctions are known. The best-known was that at the boundary of the Cretaceous and the Tertiary periods, 65 million years ago, which saw off the dinosaurs and allowed mammals to evolve into the many life-forms, including ourselves, that we see today. The largest, though, was the extinction at the end of the Permian era, 225 million years ago, in which 95% of all marine species and 70% of all land families were lost. Just remember that for a family to be lost, every single species in that family must die out. That truly was a mass extinction. It normally takes 1-2 million years for Earth’s fauna and flora to recover its diversity after a mass extinction. After the Permian, it took 10 million years. It really is fascinating stuff, if slightly scary. Wouldn’t want one of those extinctions to happen again, would we? Would we?

5 Acathla
‘There is no weapon to replace Acathla?’ Check out ‘Lionesses’ if you haven’t already read it for the relevance of this.

6 Palestrina
Aurelius’ lost soul mate. See ‘Lionesses’.

7 Ma’at
An Egyptian goddess, personifying the concepts of truth, order and balance, of the right way of doing things.

8 Calling queen
A femaat iat in heat. If you live with, or near, one you know that the term is exactly right, particularly at 2.00 am.

9 Gebel el-Arak knife
A 5,500 year-old ivory and flint knife, currently in The Louvre. See ‘Lionesses’.

10 Obsidian
Obsidian is natural glass that was originally molten magma from a volcano. The fracture surfaces can be sharper than a razor. This had obvious advantages for our Stone Age ancestors, who used obsidian extensively for tool making. It is chemically similar to granite, which was also originally molten. Technically obsidian is not a true "rock." It is really a congealed liquid. Obsidian scalpels are the sharpest in the world, and plastic surgeons rely on them more and more for operations where scarring must be minimized.

Flint, which was the original blade of the real knife of Gebel el-Arak, is quite different. It is formed by silica, dissolved in seawater, settling into spaces in limestone. Where does the silica come from? From the skeletons of sponges – sometimes, the nodules of flint even contain a fossilised sponge. Isn’t that weird? Like obsidian, flint was a highly prized tool-making rock. Agate and chalcedony are forms of flint.

It seemed to me that an obsidian blade, from the fires of a volcano, might be more effective against The Beast than a sedimentary rock from the bottom of the sea.

11 The Albatross
See Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’.

12 Orpheus and Eurydice
Orpheus was the son of Apollo and the Muse, Calliope. His father taught him to play the lyre and he could charm anything – absolutely anything – with his music. He married Eurydice, but a year and a day later she died. Orpheus determined to bring her back from Hades, the Underworld. He charmed his way past Cerberus, the 3-headed watchdog and Charon, the ferryman of the Styx. Even Hades cried iron tears and granted Orpheus' plea that he be allowed to take Eurydice back with him, provided that he promise not to look at her until they reached home. Orpheus played and sang while Eurydice followed but, overcome with fear, he turned back to see if she was there. She was. She instantly faded away to become once again only a shade. When Orpheus tried to re-enter Hades, his way was barred. He never got her back.

Operas, and other things, have been written about it.

13 Lot’s wife
Lot was a resident of Sodom, and being a good man was allowed to escape its destruction, with his family. They were instructed not to look back. Lot’s wife, though, could not resist, and was turned into a pillar of salt. The story of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah is a very…robust…tale, and well worth reading again. Find it in Genesis 19: 1-27

14 Theseus and Ariadne
In Greek mythology, Theseus went into the Labyrinth (the palace of Knossos) to slay the Minotaur (the offspring of Pasiphae, wife of King Minos of Crete, and the Cretan Bull). Ariadne, daughter of Minos and Pasiphae, fell in love with Theseus, and when he promised to marry her if he returned alive, she gave him a ball of thread so that he could follow it back out. He slew the Minotaur, followed the thread back out, then sailed away and abandoned Ariadne. Nothing new there, then.

Mythology is wonderful – all human life is there.


PRIDE


The sixth story in ‘The Nature of the Beast’ cycle.


This story is for Chrislee, at Octaves of the Heart, who gave me a website of my own. Thank you, Chrislee. Read her fiction – you’ll love it. http://www.octavesoftheheart.com/

***************
At the end of ‘Cometh the Hour’

Buffy
I see by the lightening sky that it is almost dawn. And then I know true terror. I only thought I’d known it before. I feel him. I feel my sweet, gentle Angel. I feel the iron grip he has on my demon lover, who is begging, pleading and raging. Who is crying. And Angel is saying goodbye.

He is saying goodbye and it is nearly dawn, and I don’t know where he is, and I cannot reach him. I feel my scream echo through the bond. “NO…!” The sun lifts above the horizon. The rest is silence.

Angel
I have felt her for days, trying to soothe me, to reassure me. Her kind and generous spirit opened itself to me, but I could only ever pollute it. There is nothing good to be got from me or from my worthless carcass. So I ended the connection. I will open it one more time, to say farewell, and to let her know that she will be troubled by me no more. At least my ashes can fertilise next year’s wildflowers, here where they overlook the city that she once lived in. That’s the only good I can ever hope to come to. So I will sit on this hillside, and welcome the sunrise. I will not have long to wait.

**************

Now

The brightest intellects in Physics today have concluded that, in String Theory, they have the much sought after Unified Theory of Everything. String Theory requires that there be eleven dimensions. We see three of them – these we know as, breadth, length and depth, or words to that effect. The fourth one is time. Six of the others are small and curled up on themselves, so that we cannot see them. But the eleventh? Ah, the eleventh; that is a dimension in which universes are carried on membranes, or branes, drifting around and perhaps colliding with each other from time to time. They think that may be how the Big Bang happened.

And this, indeed, is the nature of the beast, that universes are carried in stately patterns around their dimension, a saraband of star systems, a pavane in the cosmos. These universes do not connect; they cannot be felt or seen, since they are in a different dimension, yet they may be only an inch away. If we could only reach out and touch them…

They are parallel universes, many much like ours, and yet, there are some that have learnt other ways. Or perhaps they never moved on from their primitive beginnings. Who knows? They are not just parallel universes, they are para-universes. Parasite universes.

And just as the cosmos as we know it has an order, a rhythm, of planets sweeping around suns and of suns circling galaxies, so there is a rhythm to the dance of the branes, and their freight of matter. Every so often, as branes circle around they bring universes into contact. Bring them into a position in which a parasite universe has a chance to feed, to stock up on resources for the next long hunger. To find new hunting grounds. When that happens to our universe, no planet or star is safe, not even whole galaxies, and Earth suffers a Mass Extinction, a Great Dying.

In another place, another dimension, perhaps, an indistinct figure, a creature of smoke and mirrors, examines the gaming pieces on the ornate board in front of…him. It. Let’s call it ‘him’ as a matter of convenience.

He picks one of the pieces from the board, a fearsome warrior, his face as stern and grim as an angel, his body that of a winged lion. It had been standing next to the figure of a woman, her hands resting on a sword, a victor’s chaplet of leaves around her head.

He places the warrior amongst a clutter of other fallen pieces, and, sorting through the pile, he picks up a new one. A male, with battle-scarred and broken wings, his sword held easily in one hand. As he peruses the new piece, contemplating its placement, perhaps, another comes to join him. The newcomer is as indistinct as he, but this time a creature of mists and rainbows, with crystalline edges sparkling in an unseen sun. He points to a square far from the figure of the woman, and his seated companion obediently places the piece.

The creature of light asks, “There is no weapon to replace Acathla?”

The reply is a shrug. Probably.

“Are they strong enough yet?”

The creature of shadow has no face as we would define a face, no features to give expression to his thoughts, yet he smiles, a small feral smile.

“No.”

**************

‘And nothing to look backward to with pride,
And nothing to look forward to with hope.’
Robert Frost
‘The Death of the Hired Man’ (1914)


January

Sunrise seems to be such a long time coming.

I can hear them all, screaming for vengeance. All the ones I have killed, maimed, tortured. All the families I have left bereaved of husband, wife or child. My soul can never be free of them, even in the afterlife. They will be my Furies throughout all eternity. I hear them in my mind, and always will, but there are others, too. Others whom I only hear in my blood.

And oh, I can hear her, fused into every cell of me, wrapping her thoughts around me like the warmth of the morning sun, trying to stop me, telling me she loves me. Loves him. Weeping for loss of us. And I can hear him, raging, begging, weeping. Nothing will change my mind, though. Not even her. The world will breathe easier without me. I am a vicious, unredeemable demon. There is nothing of humanity in me – the Judge told me so, remember? Having my soul back doesn’t change a thing. It only gives me the strength of purpose that I need to bring an end to this farce that has been my life. She will find someone better. Someone worthy of her. That can never be me.

I can hear the others, too. Those demons with whom I share blood, so many of them, evil like me. The call of some is stronger than others. The Aventi, that shamefully bonded master and childhmedhmed, my latest childe, whom I was pleased to call Bariel after one of the rulers of the guardian angels. Another unconscionable fit of whimsy. I make my apologies to those three; say my farewell. Even though they cannot hear the words, they can feel me, sense something. They seem sad. I don’t know why that should be.

Dru is catatonic somewhere. Her voice in my blood is just a litany of pleas.

Will is pacing like a caged lion. He wants to tear something apart, and he doesn’t know whether it should be himself or me. But I know.

Estevan, Thomaso, Bariel.

Dru.

Spike.

Buffy…

My sad little pride. Buffy will care for them. And the others.

And Aurelius. I know him now. I should have recognised it before – all that time I was with him, and my mind skirted around it. But I know him now, him and his soul. Did he try to beat the demon out of me? I don’t know, but I should have let him kill me. It would have been more merciful.

Not long now. I can see the sky lightening. Once, such a long time ago, it seems, I was given another chance, a chance to redeem myself, a chance to save the world. But everything comes in its own fashion. I can and will save the world. Save it from me. My death will do that. There can never be redemption, though. That was just smoke and mirrors, a palatable lie. There will only be punishment. Forever. Does that work for you?

*************

My name’s Whistler, and I’m in a bit of a rush, so do you mind if we talk as we walk? Or run. Running would be better.

I’m on my way to a case right now, a really important one. I’ve been assured that I shall be in a world of pain if I fail this one, and I believe it. I believe it absolutely. This case? He should have been here *months* ago, but things went very wrong. Now it’s a case of tying knots and carrying on. I think it was the Duke of Wellington who said that about the Battle of Waterloo. Pretty appropriate for me today as well. If I’m too late, all I’ll find is ash. If I’m not too late, it still might not be any better. He’s one stubborn demon.

It’s dark as Hades up in these hills. The darkness before the dawn, you know. Moon’s gone down, sun’s not up yet. Makes sense. Thank the Powers for demonic eyesight, or I’d be stumbling around all over the place. Ah, there’s a dark-looking huddle that could be him. Just where he was supposed to be.

I get messages from the Powers, you know – I’m their errand boy, I suppose – but normally all I get are vague instructions that could use 30 pages of interpretation and commentary. Not this time. The message I got was very specific and very, very clear. Oh, and very, very late. I know he’s really important, I just don’t know who to, or why. Still, at present that’s not my problem. My problem is much more immediate and it will be hauling its ass over the shoulder of yon high eastern hill any minute now, giving us a definite rosy-fingered dawn and one very crispy vampire. What, not up on your Shakespeare and Homer? Kids today! What? Even Angel’s a kid to me.

Nearly there now.

“Hey, Angel. How’re you doing?”

Okay, so it’s not my best line, but I’m a little out of breath. And ideas. And time. I’m coming up behind him, and he turns round, very slowly.

“Whistler.”

His expression is as grey as his face. He looks worse than he did when I found him in 1996. Much worse. He doesn’t say anything else, just turns back around and looks at the skyline that will mean his death. The inky blue darkness there has already turned to a lighter turquoise.

“Angel, man, why don’t we get out of the sun and talk? If you really want to end it all, you can still do it tomorrow. The sun isn’t going anywhere.”

“I’m not a man.”

Oh, for goodness sake!

“Angel, I’ve been sent to help you fix what needs fixing. Come on, man, not everyone gets personal service.”

Nothing.

“Angel, the sun is going to be up any minute. Talk to me!”

Nothing.

“You want to die as a nobody then? As someone who was too weak to make a difference? Or as someone who didn’t give a shit?”

Nothing.

“Look, it’s awfully hard to have a meaningful conversation with a pile of ash. Can we continue this somewhere else? Like I said, there’s always tomorrow to do this.”

Nothing.

The eastern sky contains colours now, purples and pinks as well ae pae pale grey of clouds across the horizon. Each cloud is limned in silver, illuminated by the approaching sun. There’s something romantic, even mythic, about sunrise, as if that simple event, that simple driving away of the shadows of night, could also wipe away all our doubts and fears and troubles; as if it could bring new hope to blighted lives. Just now, it’s an extremely unwelcome ball of flaming gas, bringing death and destruction in its wake. And a world of pain for me.

Any second now, and the topmost sliver of sun will clear that hill. I look around for what I need. It’s there almost at my feet, but I try again.

“Angel, do you think that you’ll get any peace in the afterlife, if you go like this? Do you think this will make it all better? What are you looking for?”

And as the very first sliver, the thickness of a fingernail, tops the shadow of the hill, he answers.

“I’m praying for oblivion.”

Okay, I can do that.

That’s when I hit him, hard, from behind, with the rock that I have picked up. Twice, just to be sure. He’s sick and weak, but it still pays to make sure. The line of light is racing down the hill, now, almost faster than the eye can follow. It will be here, on our hill, in the blink of an eye. I just have time to pull the blanket out of the satchel I’m carrying, and roll him in it. A quick fireman’s lift, and we’re off to the Powers’ contingency plan, a culvert in the hillside.

I can’t resist muttering, “Angel, I really don’t have time for this suicide crap.”

When we get into the culvert, I find a nice dry spot – well, as dry as it can be in a culvert – and rig up the chains I also have in my satchel. Like I said, it pays to be sure. I’m going to have to leave him here alone for a while, because I had no time to get supplies, and I can see that this guy is starved. Perhaps he’ll feel better when he’s eaten. Well, we can only hope.

There, manacles nice and secure, and we have one chained vampire. Sleep tight, Angel, I’ll be back soon.

*************
continued in chapter 2