Categories > TV > Buffy the Vampire Slayer > Black Angel's Wings
He watches the stars. His gaze follows invisible lines to form pictures, creatures that inspired writers of old to bring their stories into form, make them into songs to listen to in times of distress or inspiring wisdom with the power to change the world. He follows the gleaming light of the eternal companions till there is nothing but the milky emptiness that precedes the coming dawn, questions their knowledge, waits for an answer that he knows will never come.
The stars are beautiful, he thinks. Full of everlasting beauty, though as deadly as a secretly given poison. They show you a world in peace, harmony reached through silence, but nothing is as it seems. The night cannot exist without noise, without its predators that clean the streets of those unworthy the guilt their remnants may inspire when found, of those that seek the danger in their pursuit of pleasure and thrill. A predator, following not only instinct but the wise teachings learned in a time long gone, can find enough to feast without endangering the balance, this fragile equilibrium of things that to disturb is as dangerous as kissing the sun's smiling face in the moment of night's death.
The awaking light begins to hurt his eyes, makes them sting with the promise of protective tears that will only fall when he deems the moment right. Dark glasses, hiding his visual sensory organs behind shadows soothingly placed between his gaze and the world, seem to become a necessity again if he so wishes to function according his standards while others cover in fright behind locked doors and hope the day will never find them.
The girl is not asleep. He can feel her watching him, following his motions, measuring them against every memory she has of this vessel known in books as a demon's host but in reality as nothing but his own body, and finding him lacking. Perfect in all expectations she has of him, but still lacking something she can't grasp, can't understand what is missing that makes him so different from the dear friend that left her months ago.
In this moment he pities her. Honours her wish for knowledge, wisdom in the eyes of harsh daylight, but pities her nonetheless because he cannot give her what she seeks, cannot answer her silent plea for an explanation of what changed. Cannot help her because the same need to ask that haunts her mind disturbs his thoughts as well.
~ ~ ~ * ~
She knows he can feel her eyes on him, knows that it doesn't disturb him one bit to be seen in the way she sees him right now. In earlier times when found in such a situation he would put on a show for her, make her giggle in embarrassment like the big brother she has always known he is to her till she would turn around and give him the privacy he needs to finish what he began. Now there are no jokes, no frighteningly accurate stories of true or imagined adventures, nothing but a silent man accepting her gaze like it is her place in the scheme of things to look upon his unclothed form.
He is doing some kind of kata, an unfamiliar form of fighting technique that seems to require a sword, but as there is no bladed weapon at hand he used a long metal rod for his training. Strange to think that he never trained before, never used any of the traditional ways to keep his body in shape. Didn't he once tell her that his kind doesn't need these things, that they only need a workout every once in a while to keep muscle memory intact?
She ponders the thought while the vampire begins dressing, though to call what he does dressing would be the same as calling a masterpiece like the Mona Lisa simply a pretty picture. There is a science to what he does, a systematic ritual he obviously knows by heart but seems to never have performed before as he stops sometimes to think about one thing or another. How he wraps the light brown, sand coloured she corrects herself, bandages around his body is an art in itself, metre upon metre of the material vanish in an intricate crisscross that hides even the tiniest pieces of skin from view. Everything but his head. Next come trousers, the black jeans he cherishes so much, boots and a t-shirt. Somehow it looks ridiculous to see his mummified arms come out of the tight shirt. She has to keep herself from laughing, does she not want to disturb his concentration. Now comes a knee-length wraparound tunic with a wide cowl that when worn properly could keep his face in shadows on even the most windy of days. Gloves and his leather coat complete the ensemble.
Impressive, most impressive, she thinks with a hidden smile as she quotes a movie villain and is stricken with terror at the same time because he opens the doors to his crypt wide. She is nearly at his side, prepared to slam the door shut and smother any flames that may have come to life due to his short exposure to sun light, when she realizes that nothing happens. No smoke, no wincing exclamation of pain suppressed because of pride, nothing but a leather clad hand reaching up to tuck the cowl deeper in his face and some hidden bandages over pale skin, to make the shadows that guard him more powerful.
"Come, my princess. I believe this is no place for a young lady." And this is another point to add to her growing list of strange things that make her friend someone completely different and still the same black knight she always knew. The voice, this dear instrument that is able to growl menacingly and quote ancient poetry in the most silken of tones at the same time, is not used in a way she remembers. The carefully constructed accent that was supposed to hide some secret she never was able to pry out of him has vanished completely, only to be replaced by something foreign sounding. Something she has heard before, if only in a poor copied way now that she's listened to the real thing.
Without thinking about the consequences she takes his outstretched hand and walks with him over the threshold separating darkness from light, only knowing that whatever new secrets her friend may protect are not hers to keep. When the time comes for her to get her answer she will be prepared to hear them, even if she won't like what she will learn. Patience was never a virtue she followed easily, but for now she will have to let it guide her way.
The stars are beautiful, he thinks. Full of everlasting beauty, though as deadly as a secretly given poison. They show you a world in peace, harmony reached through silence, but nothing is as it seems. The night cannot exist without noise, without its predators that clean the streets of those unworthy the guilt their remnants may inspire when found, of those that seek the danger in their pursuit of pleasure and thrill. A predator, following not only instinct but the wise teachings learned in a time long gone, can find enough to feast without endangering the balance, this fragile equilibrium of things that to disturb is as dangerous as kissing the sun's smiling face in the moment of night's death.
The awaking light begins to hurt his eyes, makes them sting with the promise of protective tears that will only fall when he deems the moment right. Dark glasses, hiding his visual sensory organs behind shadows soothingly placed between his gaze and the world, seem to become a necessity again if he so wishes to function according his standards while others cover in fright behind locked doors and hope the day will never find them.
The girl is not asleep. He can feel her watching him, following his motions, measuring them against every memory she has of this vessel known in books as a demon's host but in reality as nothing but his own body, and finding him lacking. Perfect in all expectations she has of him, but still lacking something she can't grasp, can't understand what is missing that makes him so different from the dear friend that left her months ago.
In this moment he pities her. Honours her wish for knowledge, wisdom in the eyes of harsh daylight, but pities her nonetheless because he cannot give her what she seeks, cannot answer her silent plea for an explanation of what changed. Cannot help her because the same need to ask that haunts her mind disturbs his thoughts as well.
~ ~ ~ * ~
She knows he can feel her eyes on him, knows that it doesn't disturb him one bit to be seen in the way she sees him right now. In earlier times when found in such a situation he would put on a show for her, make her giggle in embarrassment like the big brother she has always known he is to her till she would turn around and give him the privacy he needs to finish what he began. Now there are no jokes, no frighteningly accurate stories of true or imagined adventures, nothing but a silent man accepting her gaze like it is her place in the scheme of things to look upon his unclothed form.
He is doing some kind of kata, an unfamiliar form of fighting technique that seems to require a sword, but as there is no bladed weapon at hand he used a long metal rod for his training. Strange to think that he never trained before, never used any of the traditional ways to keep his body in shape. Didn't he once tell her that his kind doesn't need these things, that they only need a workout every once in a while to keep muscle memory intact?
She ponders the thought while the vampire begins dressing, though to call what he does dressing would be the same as calling a masterpiece like the Mona Lisa simply a pretty picture. There is a science to what he does, a systematic ritual he obviously knows by heart but seems to never have performed before as he stops sometimes to think about one thing or another. How he wraps the light brown, sand coloured she corrects herself, bandages around his body is an art in itself, metre upon metre of the material vanish in an intricate crisscross that hides even the tiniest pieces of skin from view. Everything but his head. Next come trousers, the black jeans he cherishes so much, boots and a t-shirt. Somehow it looks ridiculous to see his mummified arms come out of the tight shirt. She has to keep herself from laughing, does she not want to disturb his concentration. Now comes a knee-length wraparound tunic with a wide cowl that when worn properly could keep his face in shadows on even the most windy of days. Gloves and his leather coat complete the ensemble.
Impressive, most impressive, she thinks with a hidden smile as she quotes a movie villain and is stricken with terror at the same time because he opens the doors to his crypt wide. She is nearly at his side, prepared to slam the door shut and smother any flames that may have come to life due to his short exposure to sun light, when she realizes that nothing happens. No smoke, no wincing exclamation of pain suppressed because of pride, nothing but a leather clad hand reaching up to tuck the cowl deeper in his face and some hidden bandages over pale skin, to make the shadows that guard him more powerful.
"Come, my princess. I believe this is no place for a young lady." And this is another point to add to her growing list of strange things that make her friend someone completely different and still the same black knight she always knew. The voice, this dear instrument that is able to growl menacingly and quote ancient poetry in the most silken of tones at the same time, is not used in a way she remembers. The carefully constructed accent that was supposed to hide some secret she never was able to pry out of him has vanished completely, only to be replaced by something foreign sounding. Something she has heard before, if only in a poor copied way now that she's listened to the real thing.
Without thinking about the consequences she takes his outstretched hand and walks with him over the threshold separating darkness from light, only knowing that whatever new secrets her friend may protect are not hers to keep. When the time comes for her to get her answer she will be prepared to hear them, even if she won't like what she will learn. Patience was never a virtue she followed easily, but for now she will have to let it guide her way.
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