Title: Hesternus
Author: Scynneh
Rating: R- just so that no one whines to me about angst.
Improv: # 7: silver, hollow, fitting, wander
Feedback: scynneh@yahoo.com Yes, just tell me that I’m not forcing an innocent feline to read this alone.
Disclaimer: If they were mine, the Angelus and his lady would be taking Dru out doll shopping, followed by a nice round of Watcher Slaughtering. Alas, that is not to be.
Author’s Notes: Angel’s not evil (wahhh), Darla is a vamp, and she and Dru have snuffed Wolfram and Hart’s best. That’s about it. Oh, the title is Latin for ‘Of Yesterday.’
Dedication: To all the authors on Buffy Angel Improv who have taken the plunge and tortured characters beyond what has been dared, and done a damn fine job at it. I salute you.
January 2001
I was whole once upon a time.
Back when bustiers and garters were de riguer and carriages transported
the aristocracy to sumptuous banquets and society functions.
In those evenings, the air was full of nearly cloying salt and the stink
of countless unbathed human bodies. Among
those crowds, I moved at the side of my beloved, cutting the weaker breed from
whatever herd served our interests best.
Often, we found those lost ones to be the most appetizing; the desperation and overwhelming loneliness were an excellent chaser to pure helpless rage that could be savored only briefly before it fizzed over the tongue and the next vintage had to be sampled for potency.
But now, I am a husk of the Mistress I was; again stumbling aimlessly, my heart carved out of my breast, the blood of my lover mute to my cries. And once more, at my hip is a needy Childe who has not grown over much with the passage of time. I gave up playing mother having borne only my Favored Childe, and it was never part of my plan to be a wet nurse to another’s offspring, especially those of ‘the Scourge of Europe.’ But she is under my protection, and as tears soak my dress, they seem to moisten the same patterns that they did more than a century ago, when things were wrenched apart at the seams by the soiled hands of the Romany.
Still, ‘a Childe should never be left to cry’, as my mother was wont to say. Even though she was a poor example of hygiene and strength of the female character, she did know how to raise children, being as she had so many of them. I can remember the wails of one babe bringing a flurry of movement to the bed of the offending infant, and no matter what essential task she was engaged in, the time would be put aside to see to her brood. So, as I stroke mahogany waves, I find myself humming an old rhyme that Mama used to sing to us when the shadows on our shack grew serrated teeth and howled with the wolves.
And, gradually, sobs lessen, and she grows calm under my fingers. I stare up at the covered windows of our penthouse, at the silk bed curtains that shelter this haven we have for three, and can almost picture the scene splashed out on the sky outside like some lewd billboard on a warehouse wall in seedy London. I see the drama in my mind and close my eyes, tears falling without sound, prepared to carry out my duties; no matter how my heart begs to be taken back; to caulk up the chasm within me.
In the sky, the moon runs shrieking to safety, her opalescent skirts rippling plateado silk as she lifts them to avoid the clouds; barely escaping the heat of the vengeful sun.