Part Thirty-two: Instant Replay
There was a whirlwind of colors surrounding him, an ephemeral light that seemed to grow and then contract for an instant, and then, suddenly, he was somewhere else. He knew it was Los Angeles the minute he hit the pavement—the chemical-scented, polluted air, the distant tang of salt. He knew where he was, but couldn’t identify the source of the rumbling thunder that seemed to echo from everywhere.
Then he looked up, and saw an army of monsters approaching from all directions, as above swooped enormous, reptilian wings.
“Well,” I don’t know about you,” said Angel, in front of him, “But I kind of want to slay the dragon. All right. Let’s get to work.”
“They are alive here,” thought Oz. Angel and Spike he knew, the other two had to be Gunn and Illyria. Spike was battered and bleeding. Gunn looked like he was about to collapse. They didn’t realize they’d been fighting this battle, over and over again, for months. And as soon as that observation crossed his mind, another one did, also—a sweeping feeling of déjà vu.
“Whoa, let’s do the Time Warp again,” said Oz, the memory of living this scene before playing at the corner of his mind. It was like the old days, when he could almost remember what happened when he was the wolf.
“Angel!” shouted Oz, before the vampire leapt into battle. Angel turned and looked at him.
“Oz,” he said. ‘Hey.”
“Hey,” said Oz, feeling himself synch already back into the rhythm of the last time he’d had this conversation, if indeed, he’d only had it once. How many times had he been living this moment over and over?
“Look, Angel,” said Oz. “I don’t have much time. This isn’t Los Angeles, we’re trapped in a loop in time, and Wesley needs to stop it before it destroys the universe. Get it?”
“Uh, guys,” said Gunn. “The Army of Darkness is on the march.”
“Don’t fight them,” said Oz. “Illyria, back me up on this. Have we lived this moment before?”
Illyria stared at him like he were some sort of talking insect, and Oz’s blood chilled just looking at her.
“Yes,” she said, after some contemplation. “Yes, we have been dying here for months, over and over again.”
“Well, lovely then, Queen Smurfette,” said Spike, “and we’re going to die again if we don’t get ready to fight.”
“No!” shouted, Oz. “We need to get out of here, back to the real world. Wesley said …”
“Wesley is dead,” said Illyria.
“Uhm, hello!” said Spike. “The forest is on the move, and MacBeth’s a wee bit uneasy right now.”
“Yeah, he’s dead,” said Oz, “but he’s back somehow. Look, I don’t know the details. He said I wouldn’t be alone. He said … “
“I recognize this place,” said Illyria, looking up at the sky. “We are within a fragment of my own lost power.” She turned and stared into Oz’s eyes “We are stranded in a fragment of myself.”
“That’s about the size of it,” said Oz.
The horde of monsters was nearly upon them, the dragon swooping above. It reared its head and a column of flame erupted. Illyria gestured and the blaze was blocked by a wall of energy. Another wave of her hand, and the approaching bests were frozen in time.
“All right!” shouted Spike. “Now all we need to do is hang tight until teen wolf figures out how to get us home.”
Angel was silent, his brow furrowed.
“Better do it soon, Oz,” he said, understanding falling upon his face.
“Yes,” said Illyria. “I am drawing power from the fabric of this pocket dimension. But that accelerates its destruction, which in turn…”
“Could end the world,” said Oz. “Right. No pressure.”
Spike doesn't have much to do, here, so I at least try to give him good lines...
ETA: Upon reflection, not at all unlike a lot of episodes of Angel last season...
Some B&A schmoop, for this week's Open on Sunday drabble, topic being Gifts:
Media Vita
In the cool night air, they sit beneath a tree. This graveyard, where both of them have spent so many nights in blood and torment and battle, watched so many turn to dust, is quiet, tranquil.
"Buffy..."
She still can't believe he came, but here he is, sitting beside her once again, the lover who could never be, the deeply loved. She says nothing. Her eye wants to travel to that new patch of earth, beneath which Joyce rests.
"I wish-"
"You're here." Her eyes are damp. His presence, at this moment, is a gift from above. "It's enough, Angel."
Part Thirty-three: There’s a thousand things I want to say to you…
In a temple housing slivers of the souls of dead gods, Amy finds herself shedding much of who she once was. The spells are difficult—big magic, bigger than she’s accustomed to. She watches Willow across from her, watches how easily she adjusts to the lines of energy crisscrossing the room. Amy is struggling to keep up, pushing her mind and spirit further than she’s ever gone. She dare not move, but out of the corner of her eye, she sees Ethan, Giles and Wesley, and for a moment, she wonders how they can possibly pull this off. Sometimes, when she looks the right way at people, she can see their auras—she imagines Willow can do this, too—and she can see the taint of enmity and distrust that radiates from these men. Giles is leaning against the wall, arms folded. Once in awhile, Amy sees him look over at Wesley, and she can’t tell what’s in that look—Contempt? Regret? Giles is a cipher to her, Wesley more so. Only Ethan makes sense—his petulant reluctance, his open disdain for all of them. That she understands. That makes sense.
Amy takes a breath and returns her attention to the spell. She should clear her mind, concentrate on the invocations slipping past her lip. These aren’t words she was ever taught, she realized. They just seem to come to her unbidden.
Willow is beautiful. Amy can’t help but notice the way the energy pulses through her, the way the current seems drawn to her. The two of them are now a circuit, bound, and if only for this one moment, Amy can see why everyone loves her so much. In this one instant, Amy loves her herself, and she wants to cry, to hold her and take back every shred of harm she’s done to this woman. Instead, she clenches her teeth, and extends her mind into the ether.
Justine marvels at how quickly Faith seems to have taken charge of their small party, and envies the confidence the woman exerts, the sheer overwhelming power of her. Doc and the boy, Xander, are still out there somewhere—still powerful despite the loss of his pawns. Wesley is out there, too—his ghost, anyway. She knows now she didn’t kill him, that he somehow survived and died later, but still … She did what she did from what she thought was love, but now she wasn’t certain. She didn’t know if she’d do it again. She wasn’t certain if she wanted to be forgiven, and the lingering question—why is she here—chills her to the bone. Is this his forgiveness? Or his revenge?
She looks at Connor, this boy whose life she stole wholesale, and knows that her crimes are something that can’t be redeemed. Some things taken can’t be given back. Not this boy’s life; or her twin sister, now dead for years at a vampire’s hand; or Holtz’s family, dead at Angel’s. She looks at Faith, and sees something she could become, but how can she get there when she’s surrounded by ghosts?
Oz waits patiently and silently. Outside the field Illyria has erected, a mob of monsters waits to destroy them. Everyone is pensive. Spike keeps saying things, but Oz isn’t really listening. Angel is silent and grim—and until this moment, Oz has never really taken stock of his odd relationship with Angel. They’d never been tight—he was more of a friend of a friend, and then he was an enemy, and then a friend again. It amazed Oz how quickly those roles could shift, but then, he had a monster inside him, too, so who was he to judge? Spike was much the same, he figured, although he’d never really known Spike as anything but an enemy. All three of them, thought Oz, driven by love to tame their inner beasts, and all three of them losing out on love despite it all.
Willow was out there, somewhere—he didn’t know if Wesley had managed to free her and the others yet. But Oz knew Willow was his past, and that’s not a place you can live. Ironic, he thought, considering the circumstances—here, in a place where time was lopped eternally, until it eventually broke. Oz had learned to love watching the moon rise—he looked forward to seeing it again.
And Wesley (continued...)
( continues...) watched, and what his thoughts were, no one could divine, his eyes watching intently as the energy swirled around two young women, and the veil between worlds began to thin.
