Chapter Three- Dinner and a History

"People are trapped in history, and history is trapped in them..."- James Baldwin

Dana carefully patted her hair and straightened her royal blue sundress (She smiled again at the irony... it was why she had bought it in the first place) before she softly knocked on the door. His scent filled her nostrils, making her grip the Chinese take out bag a little harder.

She sighed. `Like a bloody schoolgirl', she thought...

Angel opened the door, regarding her with undisguised distaste.

"What do you want?" He snarled.

She smiled brightly at him. "Hello, Sunshine. I thought we might have some dinner," She held out the bag to him like an offering, "and talk awhile."

Angel stood staring at her for a moment. He wasn't at all certain that he wanted to spend any time with this woman. But in the days that had passed since her first visit, he had been unable to think about anything else -- his worry pre-empted even thoughts of Buffy, which had almost been a sort of relief. He had prowled the streets for days (nights...), looking for signs of the society Dana had described to him, and obsessing over what she had said about his destiny. He didn't think she meant him any harm, but that didn't make him any less nervous. What he needed was some answers... and she, apparently, was there to provide him with some.

"Fine. Come in." Not that he could have stopped her, anyway.

She *was* rather a spectacular looking woman -- dressed elegantly but without presumption, and with obvious wealth and taste. Long, thick auburn curls flowed easily around her shoulders, and sparkling royal blue eyes seemed to laugh even when she did not. She entered the apartment with apparent confidence, and looked immediately comfortable among a century's worth of artifacts. To think, she was older than the eldest of them...

He motioned her to the couch, where she sat, and moved to the kitchen. When he returned with a fancily bottled quart of blood and two glasses, she was arranging a heaping plate of General Cho's chicken, fried rice, and egg rolls on the coffee table.

"General Cho's..." he commented, "My favorite."

"I know," she replied, "There was no General Cho, really... this dish was created by a servant woman name Po, long before even I was born..."

He blinked, unprepared for small talk. She patted the seat beside her.

"Sit," She invited, smiling flirtatiously.

He chose to sit in the chair directly opposite her, and filled his plate. Dana was amused by his childish refusal, but held her tongue. Angel ate slowly, in silence. She mostly watched him, sipping on the goblet of blood she poured for herself. She always found the affectation of eating by vampires to be sadly pathetic and funny at the same time. Many of the souled did it, perhaps as a means of assuring themselves that they *were* somehow still tied to their humanity -- literally, comfort food. Some, of course, did it for social appearances. Some just enjoyed the taste. Whatever their reasons, Dana found it a waste of time and energy, and very rarely ate.

She took another sip of blood wine and commented on its quality. "It's very difficult to get a hold of stuff this fresh and rich... is it pig?" He glared at her, unanswering. "I bought a farm a few hundred years ago for this very purpose. Although, I understand it produces a hell of a sausage, also. But anyway, this is nice."

"Thank you," he replied with forced sincerity.

Dana set the goblet down and watched him with continued interest, waiting for him to be done pretending to be fascinated by the rather ordinary meal. He finally was, took a sip from his glass, and set the goblet and plate back on the table.

"I imagine I'm safe in assuming that you didn't rent a movie..."

She laughed, "Touché! You assume correctly!"

"Then you must be here for something...else..."

"I am. You must have a lot of questions... concerns... and in due time I will do my best to address them all. But my primary purpose is to invite you to an event."

Angel frowned. "Event?"

"Yes!" She chirped brightly, "The Spring Ball! Every year the council holds an *enormous* revel, where everyone dresses up in the costume of their mortal time-period and dances and drinks and just generally raises hell -- so to speak -- until dawn. I thought you might like to go."

"What made you think that?"

She pouted a little, "Now Angel, don't be such a brat. I know you are dying of curiosity, and the Ball is a perfect opportunity to introduce you to our society and to the Council. It would be an opportunity for you to see that I'm not just making this all up...Besides..." she took another sip from her glass, "When's the last time you got to wear a frilly cravat?"

He remained un-amused. Who *did* this woman think she was, bombarding him with cryptic messages about his fate, then inviting him to a fancy dress party?

"I don't miss cravats. Or breeches, for that matter," he informed her.

"Oh, don't be silly, my sweet. You don't have to miss them to wear them! It'll be fun!"

He thought for a moment, watching Dana carefully as he did so. The opportunity to see what this society she spoke so highly of was all about was difficult to pass up. But he had become suspicious by nature over the centuries, and thus was forced to consider the possibility that by accepting her offer, he could be wandering (dancing?) into a trap... for himself, and perhaps for Buffy as well.

"Maybe," he finally replied, "But I'm wearing a tuxedo."

She grinned widely, a mouth full of perfectly straight white teeth. "Wonderful! You've made the right choice, I promise! Now..." she patted her lips and wiped her hands with a napkin, "As a reward, I will tell you all about me -- if you are interested."

He was.

*****

"I was born over 500 years before the turn of the millennium... the first millennium, that is... to a house of nobility in what is now Scotland... well, as noble as the people in the Highlands of that day ever got... My mother was a clan healer -- what now would be called a Witch -- and my father, its War Chief. I had more or less a normal life, training to take after my mother as priestess, marrying the man that I loved and..." She hesitated for a moment..."having children. I lived like every other Highland Witch lived in those times until I was 27 years old; an old lady, by the standards of the day.

Then, a plague hit my village... some precursor to the Black Death, I imagine. With all of my power, all of my knowledge... despite all of my will, the entire village was wiped out, save me. I have no idea why I was spared, and you can imagine my pain, then. I was not dead, but I might as well have been, as sick as I was in spirit. I had lost my faith in the powers of the Goddess and nature...I renounced my vows as priestess. I left Scotland and traveled to Great Britain, which was still mostly Roman at that time. I wandered the streets of Londonium, mumbling and cursing and smelling horribly... just generally making a nuisance of myself.

That was when my sire found me. Albianat was a spectacularly fancy and exceedingly evil gentleman. He took me in off the streets and made me his personal chemist and sorceress. He brought me volumes of ancient books from around the world; exotic spell-makings of which I had only barely read; he fetched wizards and witches to be my tutors, and hired storytellers, who wove tales I could barely understand, let alone believe. But Albianat made me learn them all... experiment, read... And I was merely a ghost in the world; in no condition to question. Quite frankly, I didn't care to what end all of this work he foisted on me was for. That was when I first encountered the Books of Be'lheran. They read like incredible fairy tales... albeit pretty dark and dismal ones... They were full of miraculous spells, stories of knights and ladies and all manner of evils, not the least of which were vampires, (I didn't know until well after then that Be'lheran himself was a vampire; one of the First Ones) as well as goblins and demons and fairies of all stripes. I was immediately obsessed with them... all 175 volumes. Of course, Albianat intended that to be the case -- he himself was obsessed with their magicks, but possessed neither the skill or the patience to study and make use of them.

I never spent much time thinking about how odd my master's life was... believe it or not, he did not turn me for nearly 3 years while I lived in his house. He slept by day and reveled like a true glutton by night -- debauchery doesn't BEGIN to cover it. I knew prostitutes and travelers came to his palace and never left. I saw courtiers day after day for weeks...months... then one day they would disappear without fanfare or further comment. But I never wondered why...I didn't care about his parties or his friends -- I usually sat in some dark corner of the room with a candle, or next to the fire, with one of the Books... deciphering them, for they were in an ancient, archaic language...memorizing them, experimenting with some small magicks and glamours from their pages...

And in that time a new day will rise upon the race that unites the people of the blood and the people of the sun...and their leader shall be a mortal god... a man of both races and neither...the issue of a reluctant ancestor; neither dead nor undead, but yet not of the living...

She remembered the first passage clearly. Of course, speaking it to him was out of the question.

"I accepted his gifts and sometimes his embrace...I felt I had already lost my soul, and so cared little for its vessel. When he turned me -- a gift for my 32nd birthday -- it was of little consequence. We traveled the world together for 5 centuries... more marvelous butchers you have never seen... and I am well aware of your reputation, Angelus. We traveled, studied and hunted in all the places Be'lheran wrote about, including the "New World", which hadn't even yet been discovered by European mortals. We were in the Middle East in the time of the Great Exodus, and made a home in the land of the Goddess Inanna... The priests and priestesses there were more advanced than any magickian today can imagine... it was the home of Be'lheran himself, one of the First Ones, now seen by these people as god of the underworld... the one who brings eternal life...eternal bliss..."

She chuckled at the irony.

"The first vestiges of the Souled Council resided there... they were children of the First Ones... the Second Ones, I guess...

They possessed magicks like none I had ever even imagined... they knew the true nature of the Be'lheran Scriptures; what the soulless would unleash upon the world... they developed curses and blessings and spells that could eradicate evil with a simple touch. They hunted the soulless, taking them into their society and restoring their souls, if possible, killing them, if not. They soon learned of me and my master... we were the cruelest of hunters, after all, killing all species, often times for sport. We stood trial before the Elders, and were found guilty of atrocities beyond bear by a tribunal of our "peers"... They executed my Sire straight out. Sent him to eat daylight, as it were. But one of the Council thought another punishment more suitable for me... one that would make better use of me than to turn me to dust...

They restored my soul."

Angel's eyes grew wide. She knew, then. She must know the pain.

"As I said, such magicks were common, then... I learned that there were actually more souled vampires than demons, at that time, thanks to the work of the Council. And they were incredible scholars -- they had the missing volumes of Be'lheran's prophecies...fifteen or twenty of them, I think... I took vows to study the volumes and help the council better understand what was to come... of course, riddled with guilt as I was..."

Angel wasn't convinced she was "riddled" with anything...

"I felt it was my duty to save the world. I thought Be'lheran knew how to make that happen. I became a priestess once more, spending my days in the catacombs studying the verses, and my nights watching the revelry and soul-work of the Oldest Ones.

It was then that the Slayer Prophecies came to my attention. Be'lheran wrote extensively about what he called the Days of the Bloody Sun... at least, that's the closest thing to a translation I could ever come up with. Anyway... they were days when many things that were taken to be normal or true would suddenly end or change... Revelations kind of stuff -- lakes of fire, babies with two heads..."

She looked hard at him. "Vampires loving Slayers and vice versa... All hell would break loose, and all heaven would come forth to battle it.

That's where I first read of you... I was fascinated with the story of your deeds, yet to be done -- heroics still a millennium in the future. The story of your life moved me -- brought me to tears more times than I can count -- inspired me. I helped to found the new society and the first official Council -- I worked to build a world worthy of what was to come... of what you would bring forth.

But, as in all things, great evil grew alongside our great good, and in the 8th or 9th century, the temple where we resided was sacked by an army of demons, vampires and otherwise. The Council Elders were murdered or scattered to the winds. Much of their knowledge lost or destroyed..." Dana smiled sadly. "I was again lost in the world, alone. But, you see, Now I had the books in my head," She tapped her temple. "And I knew other devotees of the prophecies existed in the world, so I spent the intervening six centuries looking for them... studying, practicing, seeking out more answers... I found the sect, ironically enough, in my homeland. I lived with them, studying, for three hundred years... we worked to rebuild the temple of the Souled. Of course, it became much less religious during that time, changing with the same secular tide of the rest of the world. Our numbers grew... and grew...

It seemed the Soul Magicks were not as lost as we had once thought. Shamans in every culture possessed them, as did some tribes of Gypsies, some ancient orders of Witches and sorcerers, even a few High Magicians and Spiritualists. And they all seemed quick to restore souls to vampires and other soulless beasts. Quite a mess sometimes, actually... Plus, as years went by, we discovered there were other ways a vampire could regain... or retain, her soul.

It's interesting. It seems that the blood-bourne virus that carries the demon into the vampire's victim is *absent* from some lines of vampires. That is, a vampire never *loses* its soul to begin with! These, of course, are rare because, as you can imagine, there is hardly a souled vampire who bites live humans...

In other types, it seems that there is a resistance, in the victim, to the demon virus. The demon tries to possess the shell, and fails. Most of these victims die, but some do survive and become people of the blood -- vampires -- without ever losing their soul...

And of course, there were hundreds of spells, curses, blessings and rituals that allowed the soul to be tossed about like a baseball. As the ages passed, the knowledge was once again mostly lost except to those of my order. You are the last Souled vampire, transformed through magick, that we are aware of... the rest of the magicks not in our possession died with the orders, families and clans that practiced them. Even the curse that restored you was lost."

"But Jenny..." Angel objected... pain shadowed his face as he remembered... the sound of the snap of her neck... it was loud, sharp, and fresh, as if it had only just taken place. Jenny had found the magick.

"Was *given* the magick. It's rare that such a thing is done... we have discovered over the centuries that such a thing as restoring a soul to a monster, is cruel punishment, fraught with difficulties and unreliable, to say the least. We only give the magicks under extraordinary circumstances."

Angel blinked at the realization, "You?" he asked, "You gave Jenny the spell?"

Dana nodded. "Much to the consternation of the Council. I am forbidden from interfering with your destiny." She snorted disdainfully, showing exactly what she thought of that stance...

Angel held her in his penetrating gaze for several minutes. How is it, why was it, that this ancient woman was so concerned with his fate?

"But I digress," she continued, "Eventually, there was a sub-council in every major city in the world, and millions of souled ones... I moved to Los Angeles before it was even called that... I came here and became a Cattle Rancher and a rather successful Madame."

Angel looked surprised and more than a little amused, in spite of himself.

"Don't look so shocked. There seem to be more souled vampires among prostitutes than any other demographic, for some reason... like every other blood-bourne disease and variant... a street walker is easy prey for a hungry vampire."

He knew all too well... he saw their faces, by the hundreds, in the tortured recesses of his memory. The last... the smoking hooker in that Sunnydale alley...

Dana looked at him with great sympathy, reaching across to gently pat his knee, then went on.

"I have been the Prelate of the West Coast council for one hundred and some-odd years. I have been here waiting for you... waiting for the events to come to pass that would put all of our destinies in motion. And so they have, with some exceptions, and so we are here... in the first days of the Bloody Sun."

She sat back, crossing her legs, satisfied. When Angel said nothing for several minutes, she rose.

"Well, it's late. I should be going." Dana waited for him to move... to get up, to look at her, something... but he did not. "I'll send my tailor around tomorrow night. The ball is on Friday. I will send my driver to fetch you, if you decide you want to go. I'll see myself out," she said, and left.

Chapter Four- Angst and Brooding

"The now, the here, through which all future plunges into the past..." - James Joyce

He stared at the door long after Dana had closed it behind her, with a casual wave and the rustling of skirts.

None of the last few hours seemed real to him in any way... which only stood to reason, considering the break in the continuity of his existence the last five *years* had been. The first time he set eyes on the Slayer, he had known his life would never be the same, but he had had no *idea* at the time how radically she would change him.

And now this... all of what Dana had just told him... these prophecies involved Buffy, too. It seemed that no matter how far away he went from her, no matter how much time passed between their meetings, their destinies were bound together by a power he could scarcely begin to understand. She was in his blood, after all... their souls and essence were one. He wondered what Buffy had to do with this Souled Council Dana spoke of. What was the prominent role the two of them were to play in the destiny of these creatures? He felt dizzy from the implications... there was too much he just didn't understand.

But he bet that Dana did. If she had been studying him and Buffy for a *thousand years*, then he was willing to wager she knew a *lot* more than she was telling him about a *lot* of things. After two thousand years as a Witch, it was more than likely she knew a little bit of everything.

He needed to know more. He needed to find out if she was what she said she was and if any what she was telling him was true.

That many thousands of years... hell, ANY thousands of years... was impossible for him to fathom. What must it be like, to watch a thousand generations born, live, and die? What must it feel like to watch entire cultures, entire peoples, entire civilizations, rise and fall and turn to dust?

He moved around the room, touching his things, staring at sketches he'd made... of Buffy, of Sunnydale, of her friends... their eyes were full of life and hope, their faces smiling, glowing with the sheer joy of youth.

Angel couldn't remember what being "young" felt like, anymore. He always associated youth with being carefree -- having the freedom to make mistakes, to be stupid and silly and impetuous -- but despite his apparent youth, it had been many ages since he had been without care... or had much freedom at all. It was ultimately what kept he and Buffy apart... his *difference*... his inability to even *pretend* to have a normal life, which he knew was exactly what Buffy longed for. Every particle of his being longed for her, and he felt the cleaving pain that often came upon him when he considered their being apart.

But, he was cursed, after all. No reason to believe that could ever allow for anything positive to happen to him. Each moment of his life was haunted by some regret or another -- some sin from which he could never escape; never find forgiveness or absolution -- the ones who could offer it were all dead by his hand. When he had a soul, it was tortured, as it should be... he longed for the pain, cultivated it, nurtured it, knew he deserved that and more. When he didn't have a soul, well...

He just didn't care.

He sat down on the couch and swung his legs up to recline, picking his glass up again. He sipped on it slowly, relishing the warm rush he felt as the blood oozed down his throat. There were little pleasures, he had to admit... even if they were ones that reminded him of the animal at his core. Those pleasures were few and far between, but they kept from stepping out into the sunrise every day. Buffy had been one of those things... the greatest pleasure of all his existence. She had *literally* kept him from stepping into daylight, more than a few times. Even now, when most thoughts of her made him wince from the pain of her absence, still she was what kept him going. Maybe he couldn't be by her side, but he could still fight to keep her and those that she loved safe and alive.

`Dana kept mentioning me and "My Slayer"...' The thought interrupted his brooding... He couldn't help but wonder in what direction knowing Dana could lead him. He originally had thought his destiny would be to give his life fighting by the Slayer's side... for a while, he thought loving her, as well. Over the past two years his focus had again shifted -- he knew that after all they had been through, their love was simply not meant to be... there was no way to get beyond all that had passed between them -- he had betrayed her again and again... killed her, essentially... stolen from her, tortured her. And realistically, she had wounded him, too... he realized that resentment was irrational... Buffy would never have hurt him if she didn't have to. There was too much about their lives, about their destinies, about their natures, that just didn't match.

What it all boiled down to was that there was so much standing between them, even their love couldn't seem to overcome it.

But now, he was beginning to feel unsure, again. He began second-guessing his decision to leave Sunnydale -- to leave her behind. Dana had somehow made his life with Buffy seem possible again, with her talk of their entwined destinies. The love he had for Buffy, his devotion and adoration for all that she was surged through him, pulsing with her essence through every cell of his being... if he had a living heart to pump her blood through his veins, he had no doubt they would be pounding. If he was a mortal man, an ordinary man, he would spend his whole life drowning in this joy, this perfect contentment.

But his spirit plunged again as he remembered... the last time he touched her, he'd almost killed her. She sacrificed herself to save his life, and he had almost taken hers in return. He remembered her face when he'd turned and walked away... he remembered crying all the way home, and for days afterward...

He was no mortal man... he was the walking damned. His perfect joy, when he'd had it, had caused more pain than a being could possibly atone for.

He choked back an unexpected sob. His contentment killed. His love brought horror and abject sorrow to those he felt it for. He cried out, falling once again, for the millionth time, to his knees. The room filled with the echoes of his agonized keening.

"God, I'm sorry!!!" he cried, "I'm so sorry!"

The feelings of his soul were a weapon. He could never hope to love Buffy the way he wanted to... in all the ways a mortal could love... they could never share an existence... a life, together.

But Dana's story offered him another hope, as well. Perhaps he couldn't live with the love of his life, but at least he could *have* a life... with people who were like him -- perhaps, understood him -- all around. At least he didn't have to suffer alone, in silence.

Again, though, he remembered that he had no evidence that any of what the Witch was telling him was true. To find out more, he would have to let down his defenses; climb out of his solitary lair and play along with her.

*****

She was whispering in his ear...

"I love you... my Angel..." she gasped.

He pulled her closer to him, let her warmth fill him... he could smell the living blood pounding through her veins... his hunger felt like ecstasy.

He sank his fangs into her throat... she cried out. Then she screamed.

*****

He woke early that evening, the dream fading quickly as he regained consciousness. It wasn't unusual for him to have nightmares about the moment he drank Buffy... but more often than not they were nightmarish, inconsistent, muddled and confused with other moments in their relationship.

He found, that he was more excited than he had expected, or was prepared to be, considering the last few days' lack of good sleep. It wasn't healthy to have hope, when you were him. He slid into some baggy, soft silk slacks and a snug black tee shirt and stretched out on the couch where so much had transpired last night.

And now, today, there was a letter from Buffy in the post. He tore it carefully with a brass, sword-shaped letter opener. The paper matched the envelope -- a pale pink parchment with a border of darker roses & thorns, silver moons and stars-- and at the top, a golden foil sun with "BAS" stamped in it. He traced the letters gently, imagining, almost, that what he caressed was the fair, soft rose of her cheek...

`Dear Angel:

Angel... still your name is the most beautiful sound I ever hear...

How are you? Things are sameold-sameold, here... school, slay, school, slay...'

It was the same letter she always wrote, saying the same things. Twice a month, like clockwork, he got to feel alive again -- close to her -- if only for a few minutes... for a moment, he got to be part of her life.

She always followed the same pattern: a greeting, a brief statement of the depth of her love for him, then a rundown of the latest school project, demon slayage, or Scooby Gang happenings. Every now and again, a photocopy of some piece of poetry or literature she had discovered accompanied the letter... sometimes a photograph, or a cassette tape of songs. Angel and Cordelia would meet on occasion in that Italian place on Third she liked so much, and Angel would read her the middle bits -- especially the ones about Xander. He did it for Cordelia's comfort, knowing she still missed him... despite the fact that thinking about Xander made him grumble.

And at the end? At the end was always a little something, a line or a reminder that he was not alone in his pain:

`I think about you every time I see a sunrise. I think that the same way that you will never see another sunrise is the same way that I will never hold you close to me again. They both tear me up inside. My heart shatters with the thought of it. But... it doesn't matter... mine is already broken, I guess...

Always,
B. `

The letters had stopped automatically making him cry a long time ago, but the rending pain that came at the end was always the same. He missed her.

After that initial shock of hurt, though, he would sometimes smile. He was still alive, and it was still because of Buffy.

There was a firm, but hesitant, knock on his door. He approached with caution, but less tension than he had felt in days.

He opened the door to find a small, fat vampire standing there, arms filled with bags and cases.

"Hello, uh, sir, uh... Mr. Angelus..." the short man said, bowing as if to royalty. Angel flinched at the gesture, "I'm her honor's tailor, sir...Brinks. My Lady sent me to fit you for the Spring Ball."

Angel motioned him in. The vamp followed the sweep of his hand, taking in the roomful of antiques with reverence and interest as he moved into the sunken living room.

"I understand you have opted for a contemporary classic look." He check out Angel's build and facial structure, "Shame-- I place you in the 18th century, sometime, yes? Irish. Kilts and blouses, maybe? Mm. Mmhm," he nodded.

Angel cringed under the scrutiny. "I prefer something a little more subtle." He said, meaning both the tux and the treatment.

The vamp was unruffled... his initial nervousness seemed to fade quickly... what was the hoopla about? This was just a boy, not the King of the Prophecies... not some horrible mass murderer... and certainly not the father of a new universe for all of them!

"Of course, my lord." Brinks said, bowing again, disappointed.

Angel sighed, and settled in for a long evening.

*****

When the little vamp was done and safely on his way, Angel took his new tux to hang in his bedroom.

The last time he had worn a tux had been to Buffy's prom...

He could hear "Wild Horses" in his head. He could smell the shampoo in her hair, the salt of sweat on her skin, the musk of a hundred living, breathing, seething teenagers in all their glory...

He flinched, snatching his hand away from the tux as if it had bitten him.

He shook his head in disbelief -- what was he DOING? Why was he getting all dressed up to go out to a party, for chrissake? What was the point? Even if there were people like those that Dana described, what would make him think they would welcome him? His lover and he were murderers of their kind -- they didn't work to reclaim vampire souls, they only destroyed vampire demons. Why should this society accept him when it was clear nothing but pain followed him wherever he walked?

He saw Buffy's face again... her face the first time they met, the first time he told her he loved her... her face when they made love... when she saved him from final death...during their last dance and their last glance, on Graduation Day.

He set his jaw. Any chance that existed for he and Buffy would be found at the Vampire Ball.

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