Wesley Wyndam-Pryce (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
prodigalwatcher) wrote2006-08-09 10:56 pm
prodigalwatcher) wrote2006-08-09 10:56 pm
Entry tags:
Artistic License - All My Sins Remember'd
Title / Prompt: Hallucination / All My Sins Remember'd
Character: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Warning: None
Pairing: None
Fandom: Buffy/Angel
Word count: 602
Rating: PG (for mention of violence)
Disclaimer: Wesley and other characters created by Joss Whedon and are property of Mutant Enemy Productions, and are used without permission.
One of the more interesting classes he'd taken while at Academy had been entitled simply 'Comparative Beliefs'. More than a simple historical or cultural survey, and with a broader scope than a solely organized religions, the professor had intended that the future Watchers would gain at least a basic understanding not only of what people believed, but why they believed.
Among the more esoteric-- and certainly among the least likely to be approved by Academy administration, had they been fully apprised of the situation-- exercises in which they participated was a Native American ceremony involving peyote. The young Wesley had very nearly gone straight to the Headmaster with the news, but stopped at the thought that such an action might severely impact his marks.
Under the hallucinogen's influence, Wesley had been convinced that not only had the walls begun melting, half of his classmates had started to spontaneously combust.
Later in life, Wesley had known what it was like to be so tired that his eyes had played tricks on him, and been duped and nearly duped by glamours and other magical illusions. He was a man, he felt, who had seen and done enough to suss out a hallucination when he saw it.
But that night, in the cold and clinging damp of the basement, shadows only deepened by the scant light, what he saw before him disturbed him to the very core.
Had he known the truth at the time, that her death had not been at the hands and fangs of Angelus' savagery, Wesley likely would still have done the same. There could be no chances taken. They could not afford to give Angelus even the slightest opportunity or advantage.
But as it stood, Lilah was dead-- very, very dead-- her throat had been torn, and the animal inhabiting his friend was found standing over her body.
Connor was right, of course. There was nothing else to do, and he was the only logical choice to do it. And so, Wesley found himself in the basement, axe in hand, looking down at the pale and waxen corpse of his former lover.
And at the same time, seeing her standing beside the table, wearing that impudent almost-smirk on her precisely painted lips, listening to her speak.
Why so glum? It is kinda what you wanted, isn't it? I mean, deep down. Me out of the picture—utterly, finally. You can't get outer than this. It makes your life simpler, doesn't it? Cleaner?
Even when Lilah herself had insisted that it was Wesley who had conjured her up, his own conscience and subconscious working together to form his thoughts and fears and rationale into her shape, he couldn't bring himself to believe it. If he accepted it, Wesley wondered, was it so very far a distance from there to being mad?
Had she-- he?-- been right? Did he just need to tell himself that he had done all the right things, fought the good fight even if he had failed?
Did he really believe that Lilah could never have been saved from herself?
You couldn't save me.
Was there something more he could have done? Did he once more come up short when someone needed him to be there?
Did he really mean to assuage his own fears about those questions?
Lilah hadn't given him any answers, at least none that even approached being satisfying. All she came to say-- all, it seemed, that he wanted to say to himself-- was that he'd tried, and there was nothing more he could do.
But that hadn't been true. He could at least ensure that Lilah would find something else, if not the redemption he'd wanted, then at last an ending.
"I'm sorry," he'd said, although if pressed, Wesley would never have been able to say with certainty what for.
Character: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Warning: None
Pairing: None
Fandom: Buffy/Angel
Word count: 602
Rating: PG (for mention of violence)
Disclaimer: Wesley and other characters created by Joss Whedon and are property of Mutant Enemy Productions, and are used without permission.
One of the more interesting classes he'd taken while at Academy had been entitled simply 'Comparative Beliefs'. More than a simple historical or cultural survey, and with a broader scope than a solely organized religions, the professor had intended that the future Watchers would gain at least a basic understanding not only of what people believed, but why they believed.
Among the more esoteric-- and certainly among the least likely to be approved by Academy administration, had they been fully apprised of the situation-- exercises in which they participated was a Native American ceremony involving peyote. The young Wesley had very nearly gone straight to the Headmaster with the news, but stopped at the thought that such an action might severely impact his marks.
Under the hallucinogen's influence, Wesley had been convinced that not only had the walls begun melting, half of his classmates had started to spontaneously combust.
Later in life, Wesley had known what it was like to be so tired that his eyes had played tricks on him, and been duped and nearly duped by glamours and other magical illusions. He was a man, he felt, who had seen and done enough to suss out a hallucination when he saw it.
But that night, in the cold and clinging damp of the basement, shadows only deepened by the scant light, what he saw before him disturbed him to the very core.
Had he known the truth at the time, that her death had not been at the hands and fangs of Angelus' savagery, Wesley likely would still have done the same. There could be no chances taken. They could not afford to give Angelus even the slightest opportunity or advantage.
But as it stood, Lilah was dead-- very, very dead-- her throat had been torn, and the animal inhabiting his friend was found standing over her body.
Connor was right, of course. There was nothing else to do, and he was the only logical choice to do it. And so, Wesley found himself in the basement, axe in hand, looking down at the pale and waxen corpse of his former lover.
And at the same time, seeing her standing beside the table, wearing that impudent almost-smirk on her precisely painted lips, listening to her speak.
Why so glum? It is kinda what you wanted, isn't it? I mean, deep down. Me out of the picture—utterly, finally. You can't get outer than this. It makes your life simpler, doesn't it? Cleaner?
Even when Lilah herself had insisted that it was Wesley who had conjured her up, his own conscience and subconscious working together to form his thoughts and fears and rationale into her shape, he couldn't bring himself to believe it. If he accepted it, Wesley wondered, was it so very far a distance from there to being mad?
Had she-- he?-- been right? Did he just need to tell himself that he had done all the right things, fought the good fight even if he had failed?
Did he really believe that Lilah could never have been saved from herself?
You couldn't save me.
Was there something more he could have done? Did he once more come up short when someone needed him to be there?
Did he really mean to assuage his own fears about those questions?
Lilah hadn't given him any answers, at least none that even approached being satisfying. All she came to say-- all, it seemed, that he wanted to say to himself-- was that he'd tried, and there was nothing more he could do.
But that hadn't been true. He could at least ensure that Lilah would find something else, if not the redemption he'd wanted, then at last an ending.
"I'm sorry," he'd said, although if pressed, Wesley would never have been able to say with certainty what for.