The Fell of Dark

SUMMARY: Angel has a midnight visitor who sounds strangely familiar.....
DISTRIBUTION: Are you kidding? Why would anyone *want* this? So, no, please, until I get a nice beta to shred it for me.....
SPOILERS: Set immediately after "Hero" in Angel, so fair warning.
PAIRING: Um, none. Well, sorta Angel(us)/other, but probably not. And sorta Doyle/Cordelia friendship. But probably not. Look, it's late and it's very weird, okay?!
RATING: R to protect the puzzled.
NOTE: Irish and Latin translations are at the bottom. Sorry to be awkward; I'm just killing time and cleansing horrid plot bunnies. If I hadn't written this, I'd have had to write a ten-part story instead.... there, aren't you glad you bore it out just this once? ;-) Well, I'd say feedback was welcome, but.... oh, what the hell. I know it sucks, but I'd be happy if you point out *which bits suck the most*, so I can avoid them in future. ;-)

"Two hundred years, more or less....." His words came back to mock him. One hundred and ninety nine, to be exact, and quite a few days more. Was it really two hundred years since he'd opened his eyes that first time? The fell of dark greeted him, as tonight, and he'd smiled, then. Smiled, as he would later weep.

Later.... Was two hundred years later enough? Someone seemed to think so. He hadn't had a minute's peace so far this evening. At first it had sounded like a whisper. Then a child's winding toy, playing its insipid melody over and over again.

He didn't sweat. He was a vampire; vampires don't sweat. What they do, though, is something similar to sweating - their sweat glands, when stimulated, produced the only liquid available.

The voice had been there for the last three nights. Even Doyle had heard it when he had last been over. The next night, Doyle was - gone.

Had Cordelia heard it when she had been here, after Doyle...... went away? No. If she had, perhaps she would have joined him. Why was Angel hearing it? And why had Doyle shivered so?

"I don't know you," Angel muttered angrily, grabbing his pillow and pulling it over his head. "Go away, Anna na mBreag; I don't know you."

There was a laugh at this, like a wind chime had been softly sent a-tingling. {{Angelus.... I'm not lying, Angelus.... I've come back from the druim abha....}} The window was thrown open angrily, the net curtains flying inwards immediately.

Angel paid no heed. He kept his pillow over his head resolutely, as if it could protect him from an angry ghost. "Go away, Anna na mBreag.... I didn't kill you. I don't know you. Go away....." His fist clenched into the soaked cotton. The bedclothes were flung all about him, half-off the bed and dripping with blood.

The windows shattered like ice with an ear-splitting shriek, showering the room with a deadly frost. {{Angelus Mor Owen, look at me, you thrice-damned coward! LOOK AT ME!}}

Nearly night-time again. Angel sighed wearily and pulled his T-shirt up and off his alabaster form. Discarding it uncaringly on the nearby chair, he threw himself down on the bed and regarded his room wearily. {{There was a time,}} he thought matter of factly, {{when sundown was my cue to go out and save the world...}}

Angel sighed again and fell backwards on the cold sheets, closing his eyes to the harsh light streaming in over his head. He felt on his left side and flicked the light switch, opening his eyes again to complete darkness.

One week since his ghost had decided to say something other than his name. One week since his ordeal had begun in earnest. Ten days since the ghost had first made an appearance, and eight and a half days since Doyle had - gone.

Eight and a half days, as well, since the agency had been shut down temporarily to make time for Cordelia to mourn. Six days since he had caught her with the pills. Two days since he had given her up to a nameless counsellor to try and keep her alive these first, worst few weeks.

A small tear, tinged red, trickled down his cheek slowly, coming to rest on the corner of his mouth. His lips parted to allow his tongue to snatch it away.

He shouldn't have had the opportunity to, really. It was daytime. But with Doyle gone, and Cordelia taking - an extended sabbatical, there was no one there, was there? Doyle had been right. {{What difference can one life make when I've saved so many....}} And the cleaning lady had been no more. Stuffed into a nearby dumpster, she would be discovered in a few days. Then, a nice young woman in a blue uniform and carrying enough firepower to put up a good fight against a Third World army would knock on somebody's door. A middle-aged man would answer, maybe; perhaps there would be no man there, just an eight year old kid with a runny nose and head lice. He'd look at the nice young woman in the nice blue uniform and wonder if she was here to take his dad away.

Then the nice woman would tell him they needed to talk, and that little kid would be crying for days in the room he shared with three of his siblings.

There wasn't even bitterness there. Not really. He'd been numb, silent, unthinking. {{Another one...}}

And, in a little while - just past midnight, probably - his nightly visitor would return, and carry on screaming abuse at him. Well. Perhaps he deserved it.

Was his ghost that of one of his victims? He wouldn't be too surprised. He'd killed so many, he couldn't remember them all.

He'd remember *her*, though, wouldn't he? His fall from grace. With her greasy hair and her small cheap handbag with twelve dollars thirty eight cents, yes, he'd taken that, hadn't he? Like a scavenger, he'd taken that, and taken her small bracelet too. Not gold; just gold-plated, guaranteed to leave a green band around your wrist as you wore it. Why wasn't her wrist ringed, then? Perhaps this had been a special occasion. She'd dressed up so the angel that took her could have a pretty trinket to carry off, like a poacher would steal the pelt.

And he wasn't a hunter anymore, was he? He was a poacher, sneaking about where the prey would be safe.

{{Are you there, Anna? Are you there to curse me again? I've been cursed before, you know...}} His eyes opened to the play of moonlight across his ceiling. His bedclothes - changed and washed each day - were once against pristinely white underneath him. He was pretty sure that he had already left a man-shaped blood stain soaked into them. By morning, the entire bed would be crimson. {{Are you there, Anna?}}

There was a soft whistling as his window was opened. He'd had the glass replaced; after that first tantrum, Anna had refrained from destroying anything else.

{{Just my mind...}} Now fully awake and expectant, he anchored himself to the bed with sweaty fists and gazed stubbornly above, refusing to look to where the books were being pulled off the shelves to fall over on the floor. {{Ah, Anna. Knew I count on you to mess *something* up.... now, aren't you going to say anything? That I'm a coward? A braggart? An unbaptized bastard? That I'll burn in hell? But I've been to hell, Anna,}} his grip on the bedclothes intensified, {{and I think I liked it. I knew almost everyone there..... we all go to hell, you see, because we're all sinners in one way or another. And I met all those dead by my hand, and we had a party with hot pokers and chains and blood. It was oh so *me*..... yes, hell was nice.}} His nails ripped through the flimsy cotton to dig into his flesh, leaving small crescents all over his palms. {{Still want me there?}}

Angel took another drink from the bottle and turned off the TV with an air of finality. "Is it time yet, Anna? Time? I'll be right down, if it is, you see.... I'm sorry I couldn't get down last night, Anna." He gestured towards the bottle. "See, I didn't have this bottle with me last night. But tonight, I do!" He saluted the air with the green bottle, raising it to his lips to take a large gulp.

The chime sounded almost sad. {{Angel..... you lying coward, that's been in your cupboard for three nights, now. I may have no English, but I can see like yourself.}}

"Ah, but can you?" Angel stared at the empty space in front of him with narrowed eyes. "Can you really, Anna? Because, see, this is my problem. I had this here bottle for, oh, three nights, like you said. But, see, you're Anna na mBreag, so does that mean that I've had it for a longer or shorter time?"

The spirit laughed and closed the living room windows. {{Angelus.... get up to the bedroom.}}

"You seducing me, Anna?" He squinted at his open bedroom door, then shrugged. Walking carefully - the floor seemed uneven - he made it to the bed and flopped on it heavily, closing his eyes and taking another swig. Most of the contents of the bottle ended up on his face.

The spirit took the bottle away. {{Perhaps....}} Cold hands unbuttoned Angel's shirt and pressed palms against his chest.

She smiled. {{I know...}} She kissed the side of his chin with a closed mouth, just pressing her cold lips to the even colder flesh beneath her. {{I can warm you up.....}}

He laughed at the cliché. "Yeah, Anna na mBreag, I bet you could. Anna na mBreag, Anna Chatach...." His hand reached up to tangle in her hair. "Pretty Anna Chatach..." His eyes were still closed. "Who are you, really...."

Her lips curved into a smile against his chest. {{I'm not Anna na mBreag.... I'm here for the truth, Angelus....}}

"I don't remember you...." He arched into her touch. "And I'd remember you, Anna...."

She laughed breathlessly, her mouth still firmly closed. {{Are you sure?}} She pressed flat palms on his chest again, stilling his answer. {{Never mind that now.}} She kissed his mouth chastely. {{Tell me why, Angel....}} She kissed the tip of his nose, then his closed eyelids, one by one. Dark lashes ticked her lips and tried to make her mouth open. She pulled away resolutely. {{Why?}}

"Why you're Anna Chatach, or why you're Anna na mBreag? Because it's so, Anna. God wished it so." He pulled her head up to kiss her cheek. "And because I wished it so."

{{No - not why me. That, God wished.}} She shook her head; curly wisps flickered against Angel's bare chest. {{I will not question. And yes, you killed me, but God wished it. No. Not me. I want to know - why you? And why - her? Why not another?}} She reached over to pluck the bracelet from the bedside table where it had lain for the last three nights. It's presence had infuriated her into yanking all the sheets off the bed from under Angel's tense form. Now, the pseudo-gold links rested in the hollow of Angel's throat, staining the flesh all the more quickly with the help of the thin layer of crimson sweat it found there. {{Why her?}}

"Because," Angel answered sleepily. His speech was slurred; the hand tangled in her hair was still at the nape of her neck. "Because she was someone. Because no one knew it, but she meant something to someone."

"Mmmmmmm....... I don't know. Doyle na mBreag, perhaps?" He almost laughed; the sharp sound caught in her throat and refused to emerge. "Yeah..... God's vindictive that way. Took him away not because of that, but because we forgave him that.... Doyle Chatach. Druim Doyle." He smiled. "Druim Doyle went a-walking to the tobair and never came back, never came back, never came back...."

There was a choking sound; almost a sob. "And the very next day, there was Doyle na mBreag there instead, merry and gay.... tulach Doyle..... aei....."

Cordelia walked out of Saint Teresa's psychiatric ward with a clean bill of health. She also walked out with a resolution to do herself harm at the earliest given opportunity, but the inadequacy of the medical service at public hospitals is quite another story entirely.

Perhaps she would have lived through it; perhaps she would have returned to Sunnydale and cried and killed some vampires and moved on.

Instead, she went to Angel's apartment. Shivering in her thin summer dress, she found the door unlocked and cautiously slipped in, her ledger book held against her like a shield. Pages torn out of ancient leather-bound books carpeted the blood-soaked floor.

"Angel....?" She went to the bedroom door, hand resting on the handle but not turning it. The door opened of its own accord.

Cordelia looked inside, just the one time, then swiftly turned around and marched out. She walked out of the apartment, down the street, across the busy cross-roads and to the beach, where she went to visit the pier.

When Angel was eventually discovered, savvy police officers chalked up the death to a vampire, and put 'psychologically disturbed killer' on the casebooks. Then they zipped the body up and took it away. Not that there was any point in taking the body at all - after all, what would you want with the body of a perfectly preserved 20-something male, perfect in every respect except for the singular lack of blood?

The ghost watched the police officers go, a bit sadly. The door swung closed; there was the sound of police tape being pulled across it, and then abruptly, she was cold.

She sighed and leaned back into the embrace, allowing herself to drift out from this horrible place. She'd been glad to leave it; had hated coming back. Except Angel. Oh, he had been worth it....

"Do you think Cordelia was necessary?" Warm lips - still not cooled - nuzzled her neck. "She was so *alive*....."

"But you're not...... and you can't be together like that, can you? She'd go insane....." Her eyes gleamed darkly, matching the sparkle from her left hand. A tarnished claddagh ring, centuries old, caught the light of the police-cars parked outside.. "Like me."

Doyle moved a hand up to cup her breast. "Anna Johnny Owen, you're impossible! Now I know where Angelus gets the brooding from....."

She smiled but said nothing, impatient. Brushing him away, she followed the body to where it was finally buried, stone crucifix keeping it in the ground. A blond girl wept at the grave, comforted by an invisible hand.

Anna na mBreag, clad in darkness, awaited her child with bright eyes. "I hope you like hell, my darling," she whispered to his deaf ear. "It's what you wanted, wasn't it? -- and what mother can refuse a birthday wish?"