Awwww, Lyra... That is very sweet. I love it.

Another chunk of Italy.

The Crusader's Kiss was an old inn which still had its attached stables, despite the value of land inside Roma and the scarcity of horses on the crowded streets. When the Scourge of Europe was looking for a Roman headquarters, lodging for their horses had been the first consideration. Any moral objections the landlord may have had to becoming permanent host to a gang of soldiers was quickly resolved by the glitter of gold, and he and Captain Angel quickly came to a mutually beneficial arrangement. A wooden mace carved above the front doorway served as the sign. Passers-by still occasionally came in for drinks and to listen to the tales of warfare, but the primary business was the care and comfort of the mercenaries who currently called the inn home.

"Gianni!" Angelo called as he pulled Guglielmo after him into the inn. "Wine for my besotted friend, here!"

The plump man behind the counter waved. "At once, Captain Angelo."

Angelo dropped Guglielmo into his chair at the long table in the back of the room, then took his own ornately-carved seat at the head. Across from Guglielmo sat a tall, thin, dour man in dark clothes. He was writing in a large book and counting various piles of coins.

"Is it settled?" he asked, not looking up from his work.

"Aye, Thomas, all's well." Angel accepted a large goblet of wine from Gianni, who placed one in front of Guglielmo.

Thomas Wyndham turned to another section of his ledger. "How much was the fine?"

"No fine. The Captain of the Guard was happy to let the matter go."

"No fine." Thomas considered first Guglielmo, then Angelo. "How many bodies did you two leave behind you?"

"It is not true that we kill somone every time we go out!"

"No, of course not."

"Everything was settled quite diplomatically and at no cost to ourselves." Angelo reached out for the nearest pile of coins.

A dagger appeared from inside Thomas' sleeve, then stabbed into the table between the stack of coins and Angelo's fingers. Thomas jotted a notation in his book. Guglielmo surreptitiously used a convenient cloth to wipe up the wine he'd spilled while fighting back laughter.

"Thomas," Angelo said carefully, "you do remember whose money that is, don't you?"

"Certainly, captain. And I'm sure you remember who manages the money and keeps your accounts straight." He reached to his left to a larger pile of coins, picked up several and handed them to Angelo.

"But it's all the same money."

"No, it is not." Thomas pointed to the pile Angelo had reached for. "This is the rent. That is the men's pay." He pointed to his left. "And that is the quarterly pay from our patron that I am still divvying up between the bills. You'll get your share when I'm done."

Angelo glared at Thomas, who ignored him, then at Guglielmo, who raised his hands. "That's why you hired him, Angelo. Plus he knows all the best weapons smiths."

Angel muttered a few moments more, then signaled Gianni for more wine as he watched Thomas count coins. "So what are we paying for rent these days?" he finally asked.

Thomas glanced at Guglielmo and winked very briefly. Every quarter it was like this: Angelo would bluster and complain, then he'd get interested in the minutiae of the business. Guglielmo picked up his wine goblet and headed upstairs. On the upper balcony he met Isabetta, Angelo's mistress. She was a tiny blonde who knew more dirty tricks with a dagger than Thomas did.

"If you're here, then Angelo's here," she said when she saw Guglielmo. "Are either of you hurt?"

Guglielmo sighed rather than protesting. "We're fine. He's downstairs watching Thomas count money."

Isabetta grinned. "Ooh, the money. I need a new skirt." She bounced down the stairs and over to Angelo's lap.

Guglielmo tried not to listen to the shrieking giggles when Angelo found her ticklish spot. Perhaps he ought to send a note to Nicoletta, see if she was available. Maybe she could bring some friends.

He froze just before he reached his own room. The shadows at the end of the corridor were moving, then they coalesced into the figure of a hooded woman stepping into view.

"Roxilana, you're not supposed to be here," he said. "You know how Angelo feels about gypsies."

Black hair, black eyes, lithe figure, but he'd as soon lay hand on her as declare the Blessed Virgin a strumpet at high noon in St. Peter's Square. Roxilana raised a graceful finger to her lips. "Our brave captain mislikes mysteries," she whispered. "He distrusts anything he cannot kill. But you love the things that lie behind the images, handsome Guillermo. You want to know why."

He was used to her cryptic words. She had been appearing in his life intermittently for the last seven years, ever since that night in Aragon when he'd let a running girl hide behind a wagon and he'd told the pursuing Spanish Inquisitors that he'd seen a Gypsy girl duck into an alleyway a hundred yards further on. He'd expected the usual tokens of gratitude. Instead of offering herself for his pleasure, though, she'd placed a fingertip on his forehead, smiled, and told him to beware of stone fences before vanishing into the shadows. Two weeks later, in a desperate battle with French forces, he and Angelo had been retreating down a village street. A stone fence had appeared, and Angelo suggested jumping it and circling around to come at the French from behind. At the last minute Guglielmo remembered the girl's warning and pulled Angelo further down the road. Within moments, French reinforcements appeared at that fence. Guglielmo credited better hearing for their escape.

"Why are you here, Roxilana?" he asked calmly. Sometimes she warned him about an upcoming battle, sometimes she only spoke of the commonplace.

Her smile was sly. "Isabetta wanted a love charm. I told

Her smile was sly. "Isabetta wanted a love charm. I told her she didn't need one, that her captain was loyal, if not completely faithful."

"I didn't know you knew Isabetta. Angelo won't like that."

"Does Angelo need to know?" Roxilana drifted past him, trailing a hand along his arm. She hesitated, then stared into his eyes. "Poor Guillermo. You are too generous with your heart. He will break it, the lovely boy."

Guglielmo resisted his first reaction. "You'd best go, before anyone else sees you." He nearly snarled at the look of sympathy she gave him before she disappeared.

I'm absolutely rolling with A Very Buffista Redball chortles, guffaws, and giggles.

It's very undignified. Hee.

Ooh, so good Connie.

Connie, I usually don't read historical AUs, but I love this one.

You know, there'd be discussion on the board for days...is it redball? Or red-ball? Maybe it's from the French... Thank you, Astarte.

What does Redball mean in this context?

So, there was this whole end of the world ficathon thing.

My assignment?

Pairing: Wes/Illyria (shippy or not) End of the world scenario: Illyria kills off humanity - lots of death and destruction. Wes... is kinda indifferent about it. Two requests: The line "I've got the magic stick" and Illyria in a better outfit than she has now. Written for: mimsilla

Title: Ashes Rating: PG-13 (violence and bloodshed)

I took some liberties with the request... (second post w/story to follow)

Twilight shimmers with the echo of day, and Illyria stands, fascinated by the dull glow of what was once -- according to the signs and markings that remain clinging to their poles and posts -- the corner of Hollywood and Highland. She has done this, brought this world to ruins. She thought it would be more satisfying.

Perhaps if she had intended it.

Walls and facades have crumpled into rubble, and the fires have reached the point where you cannot see the heat at all during the day. Only at night, when the half-breeds walk boldly, searching for food amongst the outlying encampments. She should not be here; Wesley has warned her that the survivors will not take kindly to her presence. Illyria knows his concern is not for her safety, but theirs. For one who seemed so ripe to leave this world, he seems unwilling to accept that what remains of it will soon wither and die.

She does not leave immediately, but chooses to crouch unnoticed near the lingering heat of the ruins. Rags, scavenged from the dead and draped around her shoulders, serve as adequate cover. Illyria watches a squabble over a loaf of bread too moldy to sustain them break out in one of the camps.

"Back off!" The speaker is no more than a boy, not even old enough to have begun scraping hair from his face. Beneath his arm, he holds his prize; in his hand he holds a metal bar taller than himself. "I've got the magic stick!"

Raucous laughter from his elders. "Ass end of a stop sign ain't no magic stick, kid." A sound of flint on metal, then a sharp explosion and sulpher fill the air, mixing with the child's moans of pain. "This, on the other hand? Might just be."

A gurgle of bloodied froth from the corners of chapped lips, and the moans cease. The child is better off this way. His suffering has been shortened. The one with the weapon will die in agony within the span of two days, as will most of the encampment; the muddied water they drink to stay alive will prove to be their death, and the handful that escape its ravages will soon wish that they had not been spared. It would be a kindness to massacre them.

She does not. There would be no point to it. Their lives and deaths do not concern her, and besides, she would take no pleasure in a fight so easily won. It would be over in seconds.

Wesley is sleeping when she returns, covered with a shroud of sheets on the shell's bed, the candles by which he was reading burnt almost down to nothingness. The smell of whisky is fainter now, overpowered by the smell of illness and despair, different notes than those she observed when she was first awakened. She runs her hand over his forehead, amazed that something so soft and fragile as man can be filled with such a hunger to survive. The skin is hot and slightly damp, the eyes that fly open at her touch unfocused.

"Fred?" So much hope in such a small word.

"You are unwell."

Wesley shudders back into awareness. "Illyria." He looks at her, taking in the clothing with a frown. "You've been out."

"I wanted to see." She takes in the room, carefully charting the curves of the walls. It remained intact when so much fell, yet she does not know why. Perhaps this is where she was when it happened. She has no memory of the event, just before and after.

"It wasn't your fault. You never intended for this to happen." Wesley speaks in soft reassurances that she does not need yet he seems compelled to give.

This is another thing he is unwilling to accept: the possibility that there was purpose to her actions, even if the purpose and the actions themselves have been lost in twists of time she cannot undo. "Didn't I?"

Without looking, she can feel him flinch, but he says nothing. Illyria listens to the ragged thickness of his breath. Smoke and sickness have filled his lungs, slowly smothering him. She observes him drifting in and out of consciousness, the slight shifts in breathing and temperature revealing his the changes in his state. Minutes pass, perhaps hours, before she speaks again. "It is beyond my power to restore you. You will not last more than a handful of days. Why does this fill me with regret?"

She does not expect an answer. Even if he were awake, she does not think he could tell her the reason, anymore than he could tell her the reason why the building they are in still stands, or why he alone survived, of all the vampire's people. She strokes his face again, and this time, his eyes remain closed.

Swiftly, she grants him the mercy she denied those at the encampment. One hand on either side of his neck, a quick twist, and it is over. She stays beside him until the last vestiges of heat have left his body.

Shrugging off the rags, Illyria rises and makes her way to the roof. Even with the glow of burnt-out buildings, the night is dark in ways it never was in the time between her awakening and the destruction. Stars shatter the sky, hairline cracks of light against the blackness. Over the smells of banked fire and decomposing flesh, the salt smell of the ocean whispers promises.

Once, her name caused armies to tremble and drop to their knees, and the very earth itself answered to her every call.

There are no armies left, her followers have long since crumbled to dust, and her name is just an echo that stirs nothing.

She has done this, made this world her own, and it changes none of those things.

Gathered coals, piled and fed, set the building ablaze, a flaring pyre that's soon reduced to smoldering ash.

This is her world, alone.