Epigoni
by P.H. Wise
An Angel crossover fanfic
Chapter 4 – The Late Great Winifred
Disclaimer: I don’t own Angel. I don’t own Stargate. Please don’t sue me. This story contains spoilers for the final episode of Angel.
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I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Down Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat -- and a voice beat
More instant than the Feet --
"All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.
Strange, piteous, futile thing.”
- from ‘The Hound of Heaven,’ by Francis Thompson
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Illyria, whom last we saw bound up in Faith’s ungently strong embrace stood now upon a grassy knoll alike in character to the far side of that Pylean gate through which Angel, Wesley, Gunn and Lorne had passed in search of their lost Seer; a sense of peace hung all around, as sunshine filtered through the branches of the nearby trees alighting scattered and broken upon the ground in ever shifting patterns of light and shadow, warmth and cold.
No sooner had she recognized the place on which she stood than another appeared at her side; soulful brown eyes and gently waving hair announced the woman far better than any trumpets or heraldry. For Winifred had come, and now before Illyria stood with an accusing look and anger in her countenance.
The god-king laughed, and striding forward thrust her hand, each finger curled and held rigid in ungentle hooks, into the soft flesh of the all too human Winifred. And though her hand clenched round Fred’s human heart, and blood spilled forth, the pain of it was not Fred’s, but her own. A shock of agony went through her, and she looked down and marveled at the sight that met her eyes; no mark found its place on Fred, and no bloodstain, but upon Illyria’s chest sat now a horrible, gaping wound from whence issued her life’s blood in a great torrent.
Fred raised an eyebrow.
Her eyes wide, and clutching at her wound, Illyria fled.
She fled her down those labyrinthine passages of her ancient mind. Yet ever and anon was she pursued, the great Old One by the human shell. Under other circumstances, she might have laughed, and then turned to casually disembowel the presumptuous human who dared pursue her. Yet she had tried that here already. It hadn’t worked. And when she had struck Fred, she herself had felt the pain.
She hid beneath glaciers that rippled with insensate lust. She took shelter in opaline towers as high as small moons. Yet not even smoke and half-truths, nor torment and unnamable beauty could shelter her here. Illyria fled, and Fred followed.
They raced across the stony paths Fred’s memory of a family trip to the Grand Canyon, over all of the bumps and shatterings of Fred’s ill-fated relationships, and even into Illyria’s greatest triumphs. Yet even there, with all the world bowing before her, with gods falling down in abject worship of her greatness, Winifred Burkle was close behind.
“I wear the cheese!” a peculiar little man, with slices of cheese spread out across his face, called as she passed him, “The cheese doesn’t wear me!”
Pylea stretched out before her, and the cave, and the second cave, and even unto Fred’s death. It did no good.
Panting and weary, Illyria found herself once more upon the cold metal roof of the abandoned warehouse in Colorado Springs to which she had followed the Slayer.
Winifred Burkle was waiting for her.
“You will not escape me,” Fred intoned, her voice cold and pitiless as the frozen south, where many ruined cities of the old ones yet lay buried beneath the polar ice. For all that the image before Illyria looked like Fred, it wasn’t her.
Illyria met Fred’s gaze as best she could. It took her several moments to gather up courage enough to speak. “Are you Winifred Burkle?” she asked in a defeated voice. “Is this my punishment for destroying you? To be haunted by your pathetic spectre until the end of time?”
Fred arched an eyebrow. “Am I Winifred Burkle?” she asked. She laughed, but there was no warmth in it. “No. That would be you. Perhaps.”
Illyria’s puzzlement very nearly overwhelmed her fear of the figure before her. “What?”
“Do not make the same mistaken assumptions that your human friends made.”
Illyria narrowed her eyes. “Winifred Burkle is dead,” she said, but her tone was almost pleading. “Her soul was consumed by the fires of my resurrection.”
Fred nodded. “Yes.”
“You speak in riddles.” She shoved down the horrible sense of vulnerability that she felt and glared at Fred, hiding once again behind the image of the invincible god-king. “Bleat at me no longer, phantom. You are dead, and this shell is mine.”
But Fred only laughed again. “Why do you insist on making the same mistaken assumptions that your human friends made? Answer me this. You have the memories of a scientist. When something is consumed, what happens to it?”
“It becomes a part of the creature that consumed it. The nutrients are drawn out and put to use, and the waste is expelled.”
“Yes.”
“I do not see how this related to the subject at hand.”
Fred nodded patiently. “You will. Consider this: the soul of Winifred Burkle was destroyed, yes, but only in the sense that it ceased to exist as Winifred Burkle.”
And all of Illyria’s defensiveness and anger fell away. She spoke, then, and her voice was soft, and full of vulnerability. “What do you mean?”
`“Old Ones don’t have souls, Illyria.”
Shock washed over Illyria like a lightning storm. Her mouth went dry, and she found that she could not stop swallowing. “What?
“You heard me.”
“I am not Winifred Burkle.”
Fred shrugged. “You could be. That choice is one of the possibilities open to you, certainly.”
Illyria sank to her knees, no longer able to contain her shock at this pronouncement.
“You need to decide what you’re going to do with your new life, Illyria.”
Illyria shook her head. “I’ve nowhere to go. My kingdom is dead.” She spoke softly. “Long dead. There’s so much I don’t understand. I’ve become overwhelmed. I’m unsure of my place.”
“Yes.”
Illyria was silent for a few moments. And then she asked the only question that could be asked: “How?” It came out in a near whisper.
Fred’s icy manner evaporated, and it was as though night had become glorious day. A light seemed to grow around her, growing ever brighter until it burned like the sun... and somewhere in that light, she smiled.
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Illyria awoke with a start. It was dark, but she was not alone. She was lying in an uncomfortable bed that squeaked when she moved. She sat up and looked about. On a small dresser next to the bed lay a clock displaying, “4:00 AM” in red. She was in a cheap hotel room, and her companion’s gentle breathing was the only sound.
Her companion – Faith – lay sleeping on a foldout bed immediately to the right of Illyria’s bed, with blankets pulled up comfortably around her, concealing her nudity from Illyria’s view.
She looked down. She had reverted to the Burkle persona at some point during the night, and her armor had modulated itself accordingly. It now appeared as a set of comfortable pajamas with a cartoon bunny rabbit design. The little rabbits reminded her of Feigenbaum, and for a moment, she wondered what ever had become of the master of chaos. He’d been in her dorm room at UCLA before she’d been sucked into Pylea, but she hadn’t seen him since then... Illyria shook her head faintly. Her second experience of sleep since her resurrection had obviously affected her mind. She could only hope that she would recover whatever damage had been done. She didn’t normally need to sleep, for Fred’s brain had been liquefied by her resurrection; she had no brain that needed rest.
She was becoming distracted again. She frowned, sat up in bed, and turned to consider the slumbering Slayer.
Faith.
Why would she have brought her here, to her hotel room?
Illyria did not understand.
Fred would have. Fred... to find her place... the god-king grew thoughtful. Fred’s parents might understand. But it would break their hearts to learn it. She hadn’t wanted to see them weep before, and she wanted it even less now.
“Is there anything in this life but grief?” she mused quietly.
As if coming from a great distance, Wesley’s voice answered her. “There’s love. There’s hope... for some. There’s hope that you’ll find something worthy... that your life will lead you to some joy... that after everything, you can still be surprised.”
Illyria’s eyes widened. “Wesley?” she asked, searching about for the source of his voice.
“Wha...?” Faith asked, sitting up in bed. She glanced at Illyria, then at the clock. She groaned. “It’s too early for this.” And without another word, the dark slayer put a pillow over her own head to muffle any further noises, and went back to sleep.
She shifted out of the Burkle persona.
No. Wesley could not have spoken.
Wesley was dead, and the dead do not speak.
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Groo grimaced.
Pylean warriors were trained for endurance, it was true, but this was getting him nowhere. He had been hiding in an out of the way supply closet for almost four hours now, and still it was not safe to leave. Still he heard the regular footfalls of guards pacing up and down the hallway outside. He had thought that the clothing he had taken from the parasite’s host would have proved an effective disguise.
No such luck. The first guard to come across him had immediately raised his rifle. Groo had quickly disarmed the man and rendered him unconscious, and now said guard was bound and gagged in a storage room down the hall. That had been five hours ago.
He supposed that this... whatever it was would go into an uproar once the guard was discovered, and before that happened, he needed to get out of here.
There was a strange device attached to the clothing that he now wore. As for the clothing itself, it was ill fitting, pinched him in uncomfortable places, and he suspected that it was giving him a rash on his arms.
Not for the first time, he studied the little keypad device that hung on the wrist of the clothing he had taken. This was getting him nowhere, and he needed to do SOMETHING. So... he began tapping random keys on the keypad.
At first it was just to amuse himself. But then, about an hour into it, just as he had finished typing in yet another combination of keys, the keypad vanished, as did the wrist it was connected to.
To say that Groo was surprised by this development was quite an understatement. Only his long years of training as a warrior prevented him from jumping several feet into the air (a move which would have been very bad in the enclosed confines of a supply closet). When he had recovered from his surprise, he realized that it wasn’t just the keypad and his hand to the wrist: his entire body had disappeared. He felt his cheeks and nose to make sure they were still there. Then he patted down his chest and legs. OK. So he wasn’t incorporeal. Just invisible.
The Groosalug smiled. He could deal with invisible.
He opened the door of the supply closet and stepped out into the open.
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When Faith finally awoke, she found Illyria standing at her bedside, watching her with a vaguely interested look. She looked up at Illyria. And then she did a double take, and sat up with a start, the blankets falling off of her and exposing her nudity as she did so.
“Jeez, Blue, were you tryin’ to take years off my life?” she asked grumpily.
Illyria tilted her head slightly, her movements still strange lizard-like for all that she had regained Fred’s memories. “No. I only wanted to see how long you would continue. You lay there for hours making noise with your nose.”
Faith climbed out of bed and glared at Illyria as she quickly headed for the shower. “I don’t snore.”
Illyria smiled ever so faintly.
Faith said nothing; the significance of Illyria’s joke making was lost on her. As she turned on the hot water and stepped into the stream, she grew thoughtful. In truth, she wasn’t really sure what she was supposed to do with this... thing. Illyria. Being in this situation made her angry. She wasn’t the one who should be doing this. ANGEL should be the one doing this.
But Angel was dead.
And that made her angry. She was angry with Angel for dying, with herself for not being there to help him, but most of all, with the Scoobies for, as she saw it, abandoning Angel when he’d needed them most.
She hadn’t fully recovered from the injuries that Illyria had inflicted upon her. For all that the Scythe’s energies unleashed by Willow at the Hellmouth had increased her powers, after that fight with Illyria, Faith felt as though she had gone several rounds with the Beast. She took a few minutes to get clean, and then shut off the shower, dried her hair, brushed it, put on her makeup, and got dressed.
Illyria was still waiting for her when she stepped out of the bathroom.
“You hungry, Bluebird?” Faith asked as she grabbed an apple from the room’s refrigerator.
“I do not require sustenance as you do,” Illyria said.
“Bitchin’,” Faith replied. “That’d have to be useful. But don’t you miss food, sometimes?”
Illyria’s expression softened ever so slightly. “Only very recently.” Only since she had regained Fred’s memories, and among them, memories of the taste of food.
“Can you eat, though? I mean, if you wanted to?”
“I have never tried.”
“Huh.”
Once more, that sense of awkwardness washed over Faith. Angel should be the one here doing this. He knew Fred. He knew Illyria. She’d met Fred, but she’d hardly been friends with the woman, and now here was this creature that may or may not be Fred... what the hell was she supposed to do with Illyria?
“Got any plans?” Faith asked.
Illyria nodded. “I have been ruminating on that question for most of the morning. I believe I should go south, to Texas, and meet my shel... Winifred’s parents.”
Faith winced. Sure, that’s what every parent wanted showing up on their doorstep: the thing that killed their daughter. Well, she wasn’t entirely sure about the Fred being dead thing. She’d seen no small part of Fred in this creature... whatever. “That’s probably not the best idea. Most parents don’t react too well to learning that their daughter is dead. Look, I’ll tell ya what, Bluebird. I’m heading off to St. Louis to deal with some old French vampire who thinks he can run the city. You could come along. Carnage, mayhem, you could really get your ughh on. What do you say?”
Illyria shook her head, and it seemed shockingly human for one whose movements were typically inhuman. “The intricacies of Saint Louis are meaningless to me. I MUST visit Winifred Burkle’s parents. If I am to find my place in the world and begin a new chapter in my existence, then I must first end the previous chapter, one way or another.”
Faith shrugged. “Hey, I’m five by five either way.”
Illyria nodded. “Then we are agreed.” She turned to go.
As Illyria opened the door to the motel room, Faith couldn’t help but feel a wave of relief. She hadn’t wanted to bring Illyria along, but had felt obligated to do so anyways. Still, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for Fred’s parents. She didn’t envy them what they were about to go through.
Just as she was about to step out the door, the Old One turned, and looked back. “Faith,” she called.
Faith looked up.
“Thank you.”
Faith smiled, and then rubbed her aching jaw. Damn but that girl had packed a mean punch.
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The Groosalug stalked silently through the halls of the SGC, ever in search of some way to escape from the mountain. The guard that he had tied up had yet to be found, but every moment he was stuck here, he knew his time was growing shorter. And yet, much to his increasing vexation, he simply could not locate the exit. He wandered corridor after corridor, checked door after door, and none of them led to the way out.
To make things worse, he was growing very, very hungry. They had not fed him in the time he had been a prisoner here (which, he suspected was more due to their not knowing what kinds of food he could eat than anything else). He had not eaten since that fateful night in Los Angeles when he had discovered, much to his horror, that he had arrived too late.
Too late.
That he had missed the great battle of his time.
That those who controlled the Wolf the Ram and the Heart on Earth had been completely destroyed, and he hadn’t been there. Hadn’t been able to avenge Cordelia, and had not been able to fight at Angel’s side.
Yet once more, self-pity threatened to swallow him, and likely would have, had he not at that moment scented the smell of roasting meat coming from down the hall. He sniffed. Yes, that was definitely some sort of meat.
He turned and followed his nose.
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Jack O’Neill sat in the SGC cafeteria, enjoying a bowl of red jello in the company of Teal’c. Things had been very chaotic lately in the wake of that human Goa’uld fiasco, and between that, and the events in Los Angeles, AND with the new President about to be sworn in, they were soon going to discover whether or not they’d be keeping their jobs. But those were things to worry about after dinner. Here, now, all he had to worry about was Teal’c blasphemous embracing of those damned newfangled Star Wars movies.
“You’re killing me, Teal’c. You are killing me.”
Teal’c gave Jack a speculative look. “In what way have I caused you harm, O’Neill?”
“How can you POSSIBLY like the new Star Wars movies just as well as the old ones?”
“They are tales of grand adventure, and triumph over adversity.”
“Yeah, but they’re not the old ones!”
Teal’c raised an eyebrow. “I was not aware that the value of a movie was directly proportional to its age, O’Neill.”
“I didn’t say that!” Jack insisted. “It’s just... ok, look, Teal’c. The new ones aren’t anywhere NEAR as good as the old ones. That’s just the way it is!”
“I disagree.”
Jack took an indignant bite of his jello.
As they argued, over on the counter where the food was laid out, a small bit of red jello floated up off its bowl and disappeared.
“What are we arguing about?” asked Daniel Jackson as he strode in through the doors of the cafeteria.
Teal’c and Jack turned to face him questioningly.
Daniel shrugged. “I could hear you yelling from down the hall, but I couldn’t make out what you were saying,” he offered by way of explanation.
“Teal’c here is under the DELUSION that the new Star Wars movies are just as good as the old ones.”
Daniel blinked. “Actually, I like the new ones as...”
Jack cut him off. “See? Daniel agrees with me.”
“Um, actually, Jack...”
“Aht!” Jack said, holding up a finger.
“I...” Daniel began again.
“AHT!” Jack insisted, cutting him off once more, finger upraised.
Daniel sighed. “Yes, Jack. I agree with you wholeheartedly.”
Jack smiled smugly. “See? Daniel agrees with me.”
Teal’c was nonplussed.
It was then that two bowls of jello and a plate full of fried chicken floated past their table.
Jack, Teal’c, and Daniel turned and stared at the floating food as it made its way towards the door, and then exchanged nonplused glances once it was gone.
“That’s... odd,” said Jack.
“Indeed,” Teal’c replied.
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Now, with access to Fred’s full memories of life as a human, Illyria realized that there was an easier way to get to Texas than walking. Unfortunately, it meant being in a small, enclosed space for several hours. But this was important enough that she was willing to brave even the terror of the enclosed space if it would get her where she wanted to go. So she’d tracked down one of the more hostile local demons, killed him, and taken his money, which she’d used to pay for a bus ticket.
Now, using her Burkle disguise, she was on her way home.
Or at least, on her way to Fred’s home.
As the winter landscape rolled away outside the windows of the bus, she tried to distract herself from the strangling feeling of being in such a tiny space by attempting to figure out what, exactly, she was going to tell them.
It didn’t help.
Her fingers clenched around the headrest of the seat in front of her, and very soon, had dug deep furrows therein.
Time passed, and soon, she had left the mountains behind her. The snow faded into the rainy Texan landscape. It wasn’t usually rainy here, she knew, but that was irrelevant. What WAS relevant was the walls closing in aroun... no, what was relevant was that she would soon be meeting with those same people that she had deceived not a month before.
Fred’s mother – Trish - had sensed that something was wrong. That she seemed different, somehow. Roger had passed it off as their little girl growing up.
Illyria shook her head. Well, she had. She’d died and grown up into a great big, scary Old One.
All too soon, she reached the journey’s end.
She was glad to be off the bus, but not so glad to be within walking distance of the home that Fred had left behind so long ago.
She walked down the old muddy country road. It was quite a contrast from the last time that Fred had been here; the sky had been blue and clear, then, and the world had been considerably brighter.
And much less complicated.
The old neighborhood hadn’t changed much. The Newmans – the Burkles’ closest neighbors – had repainted their house, but they still had the same old whitewashed fence out front. Children played in their yard. Fred had once had a crush on Bobby Newman, and briefly, Illyria wondered if those were his spawn playing in the rain, flinging balls of mud at one another and laughing delightedly. A new generation of humans loosed upon the earth. But she would have no part of that. Her reproductive organs had been liquified right along with most of her other internal organs, and all of her spawn from her days as the ancient god-king were long dead, although occasionally she saw a human with some deformity that reminded her of them.
They were irrelevant. Certainly, she hadn’t loved them. Old Ones didn’t love.
She wasn’t a typical old one anymore, though. Fred had always thought that it was a little strange that Spike and Angel were always calling themselves Vampires With Souls, as if it were all one term, but here she was, in almost exactly the same position as they, and now, Illyria understood.
She was an Old One with a soul.
The very idea was repellant to her. Old Ones did not HAVE souls. Old Ones tore apart the lesser, ensouled creatures and watched them bleat out their pathetic pleas for mercy for the sake of their own amusement. Old Ones shattered sanity. Old Ones destroyed souls, severing them forever from the both the possibilities of salvation and of damnation, casting everything that makes a person who they are into the great screaming abyss of Oblivion.
Yet SHE had a soul. It burned like a fire in her belly, drawing her back, making her human, and compelling her onwards.
She kept on through the pouring rain, and suddenly, there it was. A little faded, but still painted yellow and white, with fruit trees growing in the yard, and smoke rising from the chimney.
Home.
It struck Illyria with an unexpected kind of forcefulness. As an Old One, she had never known such concepts, yet her human body provided her with a wealth of emotion and memory at the thought. Warmth on a cold night. Playing out in the yard with Bobby Newman and his friends. Her mother picking her up and holding her close after she’d fallen and skinned her knee. Gathering round the table at Christmas and Thanksgiving, surrounded by loving relatives. Trust. Life. Love.
So it was that Illyria, dressed in her Burkle persona, walked up to the door of the Burkle home.
She’d intended to transform back to normal at this point, but now that it came down to it, she found that she couldn’t bring herself to do so. Soaking wet, she raised her hand, and knocked twice on the door.
The sound of her knocking was like the stroke of doom.
Roger Burkle answered the door.
Father.
Dad.
Daddy.
Memories of his warmth and his strength, always there for her, always loving, always supportive, rose in her mind unbidden.
Roger’s eyes widened at the sight of his daughter standing on the doorway looking like nothing so much as a drowned rat. “Fred?” he asked in surprise.
“Hi daddy,” she whispered.
End Chapter 4
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Feedback is most definitely welcome – particularly constructive criticism. Nothing makes me happier than to know what specifically you (the reader) liked, what you didn’t like, and (most importantly) why.
Next: The Importance of Being Doyle
Author’s notes:
Anyone who can correctly guess who it was in Illyria’s dream gets a cookie.
