Pieces of Silver
Author: Ares
Livejournal
Pairing: B/A
Rating: PG
Written for IWRY Marathon 2011
Word Count 1550
Disclaimer: Joss’ toys not mine.
Thank you, Jo, for the awesome beta.
Summary: The title says it all.
**
Pieces of Silver
Judas Iscariot sold his Master, and his soul, for thirty
pieces of silver. One would have thought the Son of God was worth a whole
lot more than thirty pieces of gold, let alone miserable, stinking silver.
Angel thinks Judas was screwed. No, doesn’t think,
knows. But then, if God is all knowing, it stands to reason that Christ
knew all about it. Christ knew He was going to die, and He allowed it to
happen. Isn’t that predestination? God and His Son ruined a man so that His
plan could come about. Therefore, Judas had no choice in the matter. His
free will had been taken from him. The Gospel spouts that Satan entered
Judas, causing him to betray Christ. If it had been God’s plan, surely the
Devil hadn’t had a hand in it. And, as God the Father is all about forgiveness and love,
Iscariot’s soul would be redeemed, would be welcomed into Heaven and not
end up in the ninth circle of Hell Dante wrote about. Angel has been to
Hell, he hadn’t seen Judas there. Therefore, Judas had to have gone to
Heaven. Angel hopes with all his being that this is so. What hope for a
monster like him if Judas was not redeemed? Angel had no free will when his soul disappeared into the ether, can not
the same rule apply? But he knows this isn’t true. He is a demon with a
soul chained to him. They make the sum of him. Angel. His laugh is bitter.
The Body, the Demon, and the Soul. Is he the Antichrist? His victims would
say so.
Thoughts circling round and round in his head, Angel is
certain he’s been screwed, and royally.
He gave up every scrap of happiness he would have had with
a girl so that she wouldn’t have to die. It was all lies. She lay buried in
the dirt, worms and decay rotting her body. He had bought her a mere few
months. If he could he would rage at the Powers That Be. No, he decides, not
them, their agents, the Oracles-that-couldn’t-even-see-their-own-demise,
but they are long dead. He wonders if any replacements have taken their
place.
Angel should have known better. He’s been around a long
time. Gift horse, springs to mind. He, like the Trojans, fell for it hook,
line, and sinker. There’s
always a price and he thought he’d paid it. Again, he should have known
better. His slate will never
be clean, no matter the number of souls he saves. The only consolation he’d
had was that Buffy went where all slayers go when they’d been hacked down
in the prime of their lives.
He reflects on the words the male Oracle had spoken.
“The Powers That
Be? Did you save humanity? Avert the Apocalypse?”
He should have paid more mind. He’d had no idea that
Shanshu existed back then, and the Oracle’s oblique reference had escaped
him. Doyle had had another vision and he,
foolish human that he had become, had dashed off to see to it. The Powers are a sneaky bunch. They
let it be known that he was no longer a champion by allowing him to face
the Mohra with the frailty of his humanity. And he hadn’t liked it. He
hadn’t liked the fact he lay quivering on the floor, helpless and beaten.
Buffy had saved him, as she had countless times before. Back then, back in
Sunnydale, he hadn’t minded, had even welcomed it. He had known that he was
capable of returning the favour. He had saved Buffy’s life a time or two.
Pride cometh
before the fall. He is a
prideful man. He, like Iscariot, had scooped up the pieces of silver,
believing he was doing the right thing. He told himself he was giving up
his humanity so that she could live. Deep down inside, he knew there had
also been another motive, a selfish motive, that had moved him. He relied
on his preternatural abilities to help the helpless. If he remained human
he wouldn’t be able to save anyone, let alone Buffy. On second thought, Angel doesn’t know what Judas would
have been thinking. But how arrogant Angel had been to think that he had
any control over destiny, his or hers. At least Iscariot had been found
hanging from a tree, having committed suicide, if the Scriptures were to be
believed. Angel refuses to lie down and die, and because of his
stubbornness, his existence brings misery and mayhem to the world. His
mistakes get people killed. People he loved have died. They were people who
loved him back. His chest aches, tight from remembered grief.
He blinks up at the night sky. It’s dust in his eyes,
not tears, he tells himself. The time has long-passed for tears. The night
air carries the scent of dawn. He has about thirty minutes before the sun
rises. The sky is beginning to lighten into greys and purples. The stars
are slowly disappearing, winking out of existence before his eyes. It’s a
special hour of the morning. That in-between of night and day that Angel
loves so much when colour begins to seep back into the world. No longer
safe behind necro-tinted windows, he’s unable to bask in the sun’s glowing
warmth. He can look out at the world and marvel at the colours of the day,
but to step into it is death.
Angel heaves a sigh. Not long now. He’d rather stay in the world, despite his
mistakes, despite his guilt. Fate is a bitch, he thinks, The Powers That Be
its master. Buffy came back from the dead, a miracle, a travesty, Willow’s
will. Had the Powers been manipulating events? Had they kept their promise
to him? Was that what the Oracles had seen for the future? It made his head
spin. He, of all creatures, knows the gift of forgiveness. He has no right
to ask for such. When it comes to Buffy, he cannot forgive what Fate has
done to her. Ripping her out of Heaven and fleshing her rotting bones,
making her continue on with the good fight when she had been finished, when
she had had her reward, was the travesty.
His bitter laugh is a whisper on the breeze.
It’s so quiet Angel can hear dust falling. There’s an
eerie lull, like in the eye of the hurricane. Angel knows that any storm
coming his way will find him gone. His friends are dead. Around him there
aren’t enough demon carcasses to pay the price of it. The horde from Hell
has passed on by, parading back to where they had come. The dragon he had
thought to kill had looked down on him with a strange glint in its eye. Was
it pity? Angel does not know. What he does know is the weight of the
building collapsed over him. He’s pinned to the ground: he’s helpless to
the dawn’s terrible light. The creature could have taken his head. Instead,
the dragon had flown away, leaving him to his fate. Angel waits for the
day. Fifteen minutes, he calculates. His lips form a smile. It’s
bittersweet. The smile pulls at his cheeks. His eyes brim over, tears
washing away the dust and blood. He hopes, no he prays, to a God that
forgives anything Man will do, to look upon his soul and grant him peace.
It’s the best he can hope for.
The lull is shattered by the sound of sirens in the
distance. Too late, he thinks, and doesn’t notice a footfall close by.
“If you’re thinking of getting a tan, you’ve got another
think coming.”
Angel’s trapped beneath rubble, his head and shoulders
the only part of him visible. His head he can move about an inch.
“Buffy?” he asks, desperate to see. Is he hallucinating?
Has the sun risen already and he’s burning up, his brain playing one last
trick on him?
“You remember my name, do you? But you don’t remember to
call me when you’re about to start a war.”
“Finish it,” he says, not even sure he’s actually
talking to Buffy. Perhaps she is a figment of his imagination.
“Oh, Angel,” she says, and crawls over the cement and
stone so that she can touch him.
He sees her, the most wonderful creature in the world.
Her hand is warm on his face. Buffy’s eyes are shimmering pools of liquid.
“You’re here,” he whispers.
“Where else would I be?” Concern mars her face. Her
voice is a gentle hum. She kisses him. He thinks God has answered his
prayers. He’s in heaven.
Buffy pulls back and begins to strip off her jacket.
“We’ve got to cover you up.” She places her jacket over
his head and shoulders. He inhales deeply. Buffy’s scent fills him.
She calls out. “Willow! I’ve found him. We need blankets
and a tarpaulin. Hurry! There’s not much time.”
He feels her weight settle over him, her body a shield.
Softly, she says, “I won’t let you die, Angel. Not
again. Hold on.”
Angel closes his eyes. Perhaps he was wrong about the
Powers That Be. Perhaps there is a design in all of this. Perhaps the
pieces of silver were golden after all.
End
October 2011
AN
I used Jo’s rosebud prompt ‘pieces of silver’ as
inspiration for this story. Thank you, Jo. It worked perfectly.
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