Angelus after the soul. PG-13, written for Magz and fondly dedicated to her.
Flames
A blank page to write his story on… A blank slate to start anew…
Was it too much to ask? He had no right to ask anything of anyone, of
course; but that didn’t prevent Angelus from wishing and hoping, as he
sat on the cold hard stone floor for hours without end.
Perhaps, just perhaps, if he stared long enough into the depths of the
fireplace the flames would burn everything inside him and give him the
peace he ached for more than he even craved blood. Burn his past as it
had burned William’s, slick flames licking at pitiful lines, blackened
paper crumbling to ashes. Cleanse him from the inside out, banish his
demon and make him pure again – can I even be pure again after
being tainted as I was? At times, I swear I can feel the weight of the
demon on me, can feel it moving under my skin, and even bloodying my
flesh does not appease the feeling.
But the fire… To erase the images of torture and the countless,
nameless victims that had fallen to him. Destroy everything he had
been, everything he couldn’t be anymore, not now that he could see,
could feel, down to his bones and his very soul, what terrible,
unforgivable things he had done. Erase, also, these other images, these
other faces that, contrarily to the others, had names. Why remember
when he had lost them as surely as he had lost his passion for carnage?
Why couldn’t he leave them behind as he had left his killing ways, shed
them like a skin he had overgrown, and shed the demon with them.
And even more, why couldn’t he have stayed with them?
Without even realizing what he was doing, he reached into the flames,
reached out for the penitence and absolution the shrill voices in his
skull demanded so loudly, so persistently that he could hear nothing
but them. The pain was immediate and searing. Coming back to his senses
long enough to understand that he would soon be ashes if he did
nothing, he tried – really tried, God only knew how much I try but
is trying to be good ever going to be enough after succeeding so
gloriously at being a demon for centuries? – not to move. A quick
death, although not a painless one, to be devoured by this human-made
fire before he could burn eternally in Hell – even if I repent,
please father in Heaven, only see how much I do, isn’t it enough to
really repent? But he didn’t deserve painless, quite the contrary, so
it would be fitting if…
He couldn’t. Instinct took over when his will faltered, and he jerked
back, stifled the flames with the coat he had taken off earlier. Lying
on the ground in a crumpled heap of pain, he focused on the ache that
was obliterating everything else.
Everything except…
Were those their voices? Their laughs? Darla’s cold laughter,
Drusilla’s insane giggling, William’s deeper rumble… Could they really
be there? They must have joined me, forgiven me for running away, for being so weak, for being different from them, now.
Maybe they would all stay together. They would help him – to do good?
To hunt? To die? – and he wouldn’t be so dreadfully alone again.
Vampires weren’t meant to be alone, not any more than human were, and
solitude tortured him as much as his soul did; sometimes more.
The flames of the fireplace made shadows dance around him, and his
companions, his family seemed to step in and out of the darkness,
making him dizzy with their movements, confused with their laughs. But
above all, for the first time since it had happened, since that
wretched night where everything had changed and darkness had become
frightening, blood had changed into death, making him warm.
Sitting up, he tried to catch their attention. He knew, deep down
inside him where the madness had not completely taken over yet, that
they weren’t really there. In all likelihood they had left Romania long
ago, and as planned had descended on Rome like the birds of prey they
were – so beautiful and graceful even in the dance of death, arms
encircling their victims like wings folded around them before they took
flight again in a quiet flurry of feathers. But he couldn’t have cared
less. Even if they were only shadows, even if they were killers and he
wept as much for their crimes as he did for his own, he needed them.
Who, better than them, knew what he had done, what he was capable of?
But also who, any less than them, could understand the scorching burden
of a soul?
It didn’t matter anyway. Shadows or not, they refused to look at him even as he pleaded – begged,
I never begged, I was the one who made others beg for me, but never,
not in a hundred years, not in a thousand would I lower myself enough
to beg, and yet there I am, crying at the feet of ghosts – for
their attention. A word, a look, anything at all would have been better
than this, better than this cold wave settling again on him, bonds of
ice chaining him to himself.
It finally sank in that he was hallucinating and that no one was there,
however much he wished they were. The realization chilled him more than
the memory of his bloodiest crime ever would. Guilt, however maddening,
was something he was slowly growing accustomed to. Loneliness however…
He had nothing to give, and yet he would have given anything for a
companion, for someone who would understand that sometimes he just
needed a presence to anchor him to the world.
He remained curled on the floor long after the flames had vanished, trying to recall the illusion and the warmth it had brought.
Maybe he could find them. Maybe he could try… Even lying to them and to himself had to be better than this.
~the end~
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The characters and names used in these stories do not belong to me. All copyrights remain with Fox and Mutant Enemy. No profit is made from this fanfiction.