"Victory" - ATS fic by rawles
Title: Victory
Author: rawles
For: voleuse
Rating: G
Fandom: Angel: The Series
Character(s): Illyria
Summary: The greatest fall the farthest. Vignette.
To never die and to conquer all, that is winning.
When Winifred Burkle was twelve years old, another child, for whom she had great affection, snubbed her and thus set off an outpouring of grief that lasted for three weeks. It was beyond insignificant, a vague memory of the short-lived feelings of an utterly destroyed member of a parasitic race. It was a symptom of how far she had fallen that Illyria paid it any notice at all. It flitted through her mind, as many of the shell's memories did, like tiny insects too small to interrupt her thought processes, but just large enough to provide a distraction if she wished it. Before, she would never have wished it.
When Illyria died it was not unexpected. She was a ruler, God-King of many dimensions, and always at war. She knew that some day her enemies might have the wherewithal to band together to destroy her. Just as she knew that no such attempt would ever be permanent. She existed to reign over lesser beings--all beings were less than she--and nothing so petty as death would stop her for long. Illyria merely slept, and knew that she would awaken soon enough. She could never have imagined that the sludge beneath her feet would rise up to cover the entire world, or that she would have occasion to do anything but wipe it away, her insides seizing in disgust at the infestation only momentarily before cleansing it from what belonged to her. But nothing was as it should be. The Old Ones were banished, the half-breeds and their food roamed freely, and her kingdom and her armies had all turned to dust.
Illyria remained, alone, with the walls of her shell, the structures of this new world, and this one universe all bearing down on her. Her despair welled up inside her, festering with a feeling so foreign it took her a moment to understand what it was: impotence. She had to seek the aid of a human, one filled with bile, love, hatred, violence, and grief. The grief offended her most. He presumed to feel the same things that Illyria felt for the loss of her divinity over the loss of something so trivial as another human. The sameness was disconcerting, but Illyria had farther still to fall.
Her kingdom and her worshippers were already gone, so all that was left for them to take was her self, her power, and they did. It was degrading, insulting, to be less than she ever was, but she had endured for millions of their years and she would endure for millions more, because that was the only way for a ruler to rule. And she was a mightier ruler than all others. She could bide her time and live this irritating and pointless existence thrust upon her until she could be returned to her full glory. In some moments, she even found amusement in the shell's tiny court of worshippers, all now bound to Illyria, whether they realized it or not. But her boredom was a trap. Illyria delved into the emotions of the lesser creatures more and more often.
She attempted to understand, to explore them, and to feel, each such experience perpetuating another. It was unbecoming and, so shamed by all that had happened, she sometimes questioned whether whatever it was that she was becoming was worthy of regaining all that she had lost. Illyria had allowed herself to compromise, because she, unfathomably, needed her patheitc, little court, and boredom made her willingly poison herself with the lesser incarnations of emotion with which humans were forced to suffice, like Wesley and the poison he ingested. More sameness. She even honored them with names. And grieved for their deaths. The doubt was strongest then, as she told the human what he wanted to hear and found herself indulging in the same presumption that had offended her before: to act as if a human mattered.
When she found herself fighting with the rest, she knew it was not only because it assisted in the destruction of more of her own enemies, not only because she craved violence, but because they needed her, as well. Compromise, symbiosis, was for the weak, but it contributed to her survival. That was the only important thing, that she survived to reclaim what was hers, by any means necessary. Weakness during an infinitesimal period in her long life could not possibly taint her forever, as long as it ensured that she still had forever to live. Still, her existence stretched out before her and the lure of the distractions that buzzed about in her mind did not wane. Those clinging bits of the shell enduring forever, Illyria recognized that, like all those without equal, when she finally lost, it would be a defeat of her own making.
Author: rawles
For: voleuse
Rating: G
Fandom: Angel: The Series
Character(s): Illyria
Summary: The greatest fall the farthest. Vignette.
To never die and to conquer all, that is winning.
When Winifred Burkle was twelve years old, another child, for whom she had great affection, snubbed her and thus set off an outpouring of grief that lasted for three weeks. It was beyond insignificant, a vague memory of the short-lived feelings of an utterly destroyed member of a parasitic race. It was a symptom of how far she had fallen that Illyria paid it any notice at all. It flitted through her mind, as many of the shell's memories did, like tiny insects too small to interrupt her thought processes, but just large enough to provide a distraction if she wished it. Before, she would never have wished it.
When Illyria died it was not unexpected. She was a ruler, God-King of many dimensions, and always at war. She knew that some day her enemies might have the wherewithal to band together to destroy her. Just as she knew that no such attempt would ever be permanent. She existed to reign over lesser beings--all beings were less than she--and nothing so petty as death would stop her for long. Illyria merely slept, and knew that she would awaken soon enough. She could never have imagined that the sludge beneath her feet would rise up to cover the entire world, or that she would have occasion to do anything but wipe it away, her insides seizing in disgust at the infestation only momentarily before cleansing it from what belonged to her. But nothing was as it should be. The Old Ones were banished, the half-breeds and their food roamed freely, and her kingdom and her armies had all turned to dust.
Illyria remained, alone, with the walls of her shell, the structures of this new world, and this one universe all bearing down on her. Her despair welled up inside her, festering with a feeling so foreign it took her a moment to understand what it was: impotence. She had to seek the aid of a human, one filled with bile, love, hatred, violence, and grief. The grief offended her most. He presumed to feel the same things that Illyria felt for the loss of her divinity over the loss of something so trivial as another human. The sameness was disconcerting, but Illyria had farther still to fall.
Her kingdom and her worshippers were already gone, so all that was left for them to take was her self, her power, and they did. It was degrading, insulting, to be less than she ever was, but she had endured for millions of their years and she would endure for millions more, because that was the only way for a ruler to rule. And she was a mightier ruler than all others. She could bide her time and live this irritating and pointless existence thrust upon her until she could be returned to her full glory. In some moments, she even found amusement in the shell's tiny court of worshippers, all now bound to Illyria, whether they realized it or not. But her boredom was a trap. Illyria delved into the emotions of the lesser creatures more and more often.
She attempted to understand, to explore them, and to feel, each such experience perpetuating another. It was unbecoming and, so shamed by all that had happened, she sometimes questioned whether whatever it was that she was becoming was worthy of regaining all that she had lost. Illyria had allowed herself to compromise, because she, unfathomably, needed her patheitc, little court, and boredom made her willingly poison herself with the lesser incarnations of emotion with which humans were forced to suffice, like Wesley and the poison he ingested. More sameness. She even honored them with names. And grieved for their deaths. The doubt was strongest then, as she told the human what he wanted to hear and found herself indulging in the same presumption that had offended her before: to act as if a human mattered.
When she found herself fighting with the rest, she knew it was not only because it assisted in the destruction of more of her own enemies, not only because she craved violence, but because they needed her, as well. Compromise, symbiosis, was for the weak, but it contributed to her survival. That was the only important thing, that she survived to reclaim what was hers, by any means necessary. Weakness during an infinitesimal period in her long life could not possibly taint her forever, as long as it ensured that she still had forever to live. Still, her existence stretched out before her and the lure of the distractions that buzzed about in her mind did not wane. Those clinging bits of the shell enduring forever, Illyria recognized that, like all those without equal, when she finally lost, it would be a defeat of her own making.