Morning After (ficlet, AtS, Darla/Angel(us))
This weekend, I took a break from Darth Real Life, into whose crushing arms I must presently return on Monday. In between crazy roleplay involving the kind of party where Jossverse characters meet Marvel characters, I got this week's theatrical_muse challenge written, which serves as a standalone. The challenge in question was "Morning After", which presented me with a problem, because I had already written about the most obvious candidate, aka Darla's pov on Epiphany, repeatedly. So I came up with something else instead. Spoilers only unto Prodigal in season 1 of Angel, for those on my list still catching up with the Whedonian oeuvre.
Morning After
The downside of slaughtering an entire village was the utter lack of personnel available to arrange transport the next day. She hadn't said anything during the night, watching the boy, allowing herself the occasional treat as well, but it had occured to her. Something else had, too; this circumstance would allow her to decide what to do with her new creation.
Siring him had been curiosity as much as anything else. He was beautiful, of course, and had that rage and attraction to brokenness underneath his skin as much as the blood she took from him, but that alone should not have made him more than a quick dalliance and dinner. It had been something in his voice, she decided, when he asked her to show him the world, that made her wonder what a demon mingling with this young Irishman well on his way to an early grave might be. Still, she had sired others before, either because the Master had ordered her to or because she felt like it, and had left them behind. He had a talent for spreading destruction and terror, and a fury far beyond what she had already deduced when observing him as a human. Enjoyable as that was, it could make him dangerous; he might get her killed when discretion instead of terror was advisable. It wasn't yet apparant whether he had the brains to know better.
She watched him sleeping while the sun rose. They were lying in the priest's house which had offered the last refuge for the villagers, until Darla, by then somewhat impatient, had demonstrated how one got around crucifixes and the problem of invitations. The blasphemy of celebrating his last kills by taking her there had entranced the boy, and since the curtains would shield them from direct sunlight, she had found it as good a resting place as any. Besides, the priest did have a horse; she would be able to leave once the sun set again.
Whether her new creation would was yet uncertain. She could draw back the curtains, hide in the shadows of the corners and watch him fall into ashes on the bed. Or she could stake him now, just as easily, and be done with her Irish adventure. Oh, his lies sound pretty when the stars are out, the maid at the tavern which had seen its last guest had said, but he forgets every promise he’s made when the sun comes up again.
The maid, of course, had not believed her when Darla had said this would not be a problem for her.
He opened his eyes then, and looked at her. "Do you know," he said, slight wonder in his tone, "you never told me your name."
"No," she said, still considering. "I did not."
His hands, huge hands, with fingers that were not used to work but were hard anyway, started to trace her breasts then, resting on the place where he had sucked his immortality. His immortality, which might or might not last.
"Tell me your name," he said, and she decided to put it to the test. She was the child of an age that believed in signs and oracles, and as she had taught him during the night, what they were informed everythign they would become. If he realized what her next words meant, she would keep him; if not, she would breathe in his ashes and take her leave.
"Tell me yours," she returned, smiling at him.
Of course, she had heard his name that was, loud and clear, when his family cried out for mercy, and before that from many a villager. He knew this. Did he also realize that as much as their human existence was the rough matter from which they were created, it was no longer who they were?
He was silent, his fingers continuing their dance on her skin. Then he did surprise her. He leaned forward and bit her again, unasked, uninvited, and without hesitation, drawing blood as ferociously as from any of his victims during the night. She felt her face change, and she took back what she gave. It was glorious. The blood of the mortal boy had been delicious; this, now, this, sated with victims and burning with her own fire... this was family.
"The fruit of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste brought death into the world," he whispered when they broke apart, and she was amused to her him quote that most faithful of poets, Milton, speaking of lost paradises. As she had not learned to read or write until well after her mortal death, she was also favourably impressed. "I'll be your Angel," he said, "and we will have that taste again and again, flaming swords or no."
He was young. So very young. And she had made her decision.
"I am Darla."
Morning After
The downside of slaughtering an entire village was the utter lack of personnel available to arrange transport the next day. She hadn't said anything during the night, watching the boy, allowing herself the occasional treat as well, but it had occured to her. Something else had, too; this circumstance would allow her to decide what to do with her new creation.
Siring him had been curiosity as much as anything else. He was beautiful, of course, and had that rage and attraction to brokenness underneath his skin as much as the blood she took from him, but that alone should not have made him more than a quick dalliance and dinner. It had been something in his voice, she decided, when he asked her to show him the world, that made her wonder what a demon mingling with this young Irishman well on his way to an early grave might be. Still, she had sired others before, either because the Master had ordered her to or because she felt like it, and had left them behind. He had a talent for spreading destruction and terror, and a fury far beyond what she had already deduced when observing him as a human. Enjoyable as that was, it could make him dangerous; he might get her killed when discretion instead of terror was advisable. It wasn't yet apparant whether he had the brains to know better.
She watched him sleeping while the sun rose. They were lying in the priest's house which had offered the last refuge for the villagers, until Darla, by then somewhat impatient, had demonstrated how one got around crucifixes and the problem of invitations. The blasphemy of celebrating his last kills by taking her there had entranced the boy, and since the curtains would shield them from direct sunlight, she had found it as good a resting place as any. Besides, the priest did have a horse; she would be able to leave once the sun set again.
Whether her new creation would was yet uncertain. She could draw back the curtains, hide in the shadows of the corners and watch him fall into ashes on the bed. Or she could stake him now, just as easily, and be done with her Irish adventure. Oh, his lies sound pretty when the stars are out, the maid at the tavern which had seen its last guest had said, but he forgets every promise he’s made when the sun comes up again.
The maid, of course, had not believed her when Darla had said this would not be a problem for her.
He opened his eyes then, and looked at her. "Do you know," he said, slight wonder in his tone, "you never told me your name."
"No," she said, still considering. "I did not."
His hands, huge hands, with fingers that were not used to work but were hard anyway, started to trace her breasts then, resting on the place where he had sucked his immortality. His immortality, which might or might not last.
"Tell me your name," he said, and she decided to put it to the test. She was the child of an age that believed in signs and oracles, and as she had taught him during the night, what they were informed everythign they would become. If he realized what her next words meant, she would keep him; if not, she would breathe in his ashes and take her leave.
"Tell me yours," she returned, smiling at him.
Of course, she had heard his name that was, loud and clear, when his family cried out for mercy, and before that from many a villager. He knew this. Did he also realize that as much as their human existence was the rough matter from which they were created, it was no longer who they were?
He was silent, his fingers continuing their dance on her skin. Then he did surprise her. He leaned forward and bit her again, unasked, uninvited, and without hesitation, drawing blood as ferociously as from any of his victims during the night. She felt her face change, and she took back what she gave. It was glorious. The blood of the mortal boy had been delicious; this, now, this, sated with victims and burning with her own fire... this was family.
"The fruit of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste brought death into the world," he whispered when they broke apart, and she was amused to her him quote that most faithful of poets, Milton, speaking of lost paradises. As she had not learned to read or write until well after her mortal death, she was also favourably impressed. "I'll be your Angel," he said, "and we will have that taste again and again, flaming swords or no."
He was young. So very young. And she had made her decision.
"I am Darla."