Jock O' Hazeldean By Kuzibah

Disclaimer: The character of Angel and situations relating to "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the WB Network. No ownership by the author is implied. Grr. Arrgh. Follows �The Hydrogen Jukebox� Archive- Sure, but email me and let me know where it�s going. Feedback- Absolutely. *********************** Why weep ye by the tide, ladye? Why weep ye by the tide? I'll wed ye to my youngest son And ye shall be his bride And ye shall be his bride, ladye Sae comely to be seen But aye she let the tears down fa� For Jock O'Hazeldean Central Park, NYC- 1968 Angel lay on the top of one of the enormous boulders beside the horse-path, out of sight of the hundreds of young people, the flower children, who were holding a �be-in� all around him. It was late, many hours past midnight, and though most were sleeping on blankets or on the ground, a few still stirred, talking or singing, or engaged in more intimate pursuits. Below him, in the shelter of the overhanging rock, a girl sat idly strumming her guitar, and talking softly to a boy. Angel could not see them, but he listened to her soft, earnest voice, so passionate, yet so innocent. He suspected the boy�s motives were not so pure. �Sing for me,� the boy said, his voice entreating. �Sing a song of love. A sad song.� The girl giggled, and fumbled on the strings until she found the chords. She played the song once through, and Angel stopped staring at the dim stars above him, and turned his attention to the tune. It was familiar to him, somehow, and fluttered at the edge of his memory, like a bird outside a window, struggling to be let in. The girl began singing, and Angel�s heart lurched. He did know this song, had once known it intimately. Once it had been entwined in his mind with comfort and love. It seized him, awakening long-buried sorrows. His mind slipped back to a place so far behind him, he had forgotten the last time it had touched his memory.  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Curnallon, near Galway, Ireland, 1732 The boy ran up the manor's main staircase, laughing merrily. He reached the hall and cast about wildly, looking for a suitable hiding place, then scurried under a large chest on tall legs. His mother followed a moment behind, ascending the staircase gracefully, her skirts carefully lifted. The boy peeked out, thinking how like a storybook queen she looked, before ducking back again. She reached the hall herself and walked slowly towards where the boy was concealed. She opened a closet door, examining the interior carefully, then continued on. As she passed by the chest, the boy put his hands over his mouth, stifling a giggle, but it appeared she had not heard him as she glided serenely past. Then suddenly she spun about and dove under the chest, grabbing the boy and pulling him out. "I've found you," she cried. The boy shrieked with laughter, and his mother tickled him madly, until he lay gasping and helpless on the carpet. She sank down beside him, spreading her skirts about her, and the boy put his head in her lap, still panting. She stroked his long hair, which was wild and tangled over his shoulders, smoothing it down and arranging it. "My precious treasure," she said softly, then began to sing a soft air, a favourite of hers from her own homeland across the channel. The boy stroked the finely woven linen of her skirts, curling against her, wishing this moment could go on and on, that he and his mother could fly away like the faeries to a realm away from that of men, away from� The front door slammed open, and a rough, brutish voice the boy knew all too well called his mother�s name. The woman leapt to her feet, the quiet contentment of a moment before gone as though it had never been. �Straighten your clothes and hair,� she said, �and come down directly.� And arranging her own skirts, she descended the stairs. She came before the owner of the voice, a dark, rough man, so unlike her own fair delicate form, and curtsied low. �I bid thee welcome, my lord husband,� she said. �Where is my son?� the man demanded, impatient with her mannered pleasantries. �He is coming,� she said, stealing a glance over her shoulder to the hallway. The man grunted. �Off mooning over some silly book, I expect,� he said. �Bunch of useless nonsense. I swear, you�re making a fool of the boy.� At that moment the boy in question came down to join his parents, his face burning with anger at the way this man, this ape, really, dared to speak to the fine lady that was his mother. But his father barely gave him a glance, only said, �my boots are on the front step. Have them cleaned and polished by dinnertime, or it�s the strap for you.� The boy looked to his mother, but her eyes were to the floor. �Well,� said his father, �what are you waiting for?� And the boy hurried out the door. * * * * * * * * * * * * Curnallon, Ireland, Spring 1739 The boy�s mother lay upon her bed, two heavy feather-mattresses tucked around her to keep off the chill she felt almost constantly now. She had been weak and ill for many months now, wasting of a disease the doctor said he did not think he could cure, and which his treatment would only make worse. Her fate, he said, was now in the hands of God. The boy went to Mass every morning, remaining on his knees long after even the priest had left the sanctuary, praying for her recovery. And he spent as much time as he could, as much time as his father would allow, by his mother�s side, reading to her from her bible, and from the books she loved. He came to her now, several sheets of paper rolled in his hand. �Good morning, little angel,� she said when she saw him in the doorway. He entered slowly. She seemed to tire so easily these days, he didn�t want to excite her. �What do you have for me,� she asked. �The songbirds have returned to the garden,� he said, handing her the papers, �I know you couldn�t see them, so�� She unrolled the sheets, and smiled. �These are beautiful,� she said, �these are the swallows, are they not. You�ve put in such marvelous detail, I can almost see them flying under the eaves. I can almost hear their cries.� She paged slowly through the drawings, smiling and complimenting each one. �I will put them on my bed-table.� she told her son, �then when I miss being in the garden, I will look at them, and it will be the same as if I were there.� She touched the boy fondly on his cheek. �I will bring you flowers soon,� the boy said. �They are only little buds now, but soon they will bloom, and I�ll have cook give me a glass to carry them up.� �My dear little boy,� she said. �I worried that you would be a lonely child, so much younger than your brothers and sisters. But your generous heart makes me proud.� The boy said nothing, only lowered his eyes, trying not to cry. At that moment his mother was seized with a coughing fit, and she raised her handkerchief to her lips. The boy tried to ignore the drops of blood that spattered the starched white linen when she lowered her hand. �Father should send you to London,� he said with sudden heat. �He should send you to a surgeon.� �I don�t believe that would be of any help,� she said sadly. �He acts like he doesn�t even care,� the boy went on. His mother took his chin and raised his face. �Look at me,� she said, holding up her left hand. �Do you see this ring?� The boy knew it well. �Of course,� he said. �Your father gave me this ring on the day we were married,� she continued. �Do you see the crown?� �Yes.� �And what have I told you it stands for?� �Loyalty,� the boy said, his voice low. �And you see,� she said, �it tops the heart, which is love. A marriage is made of love, that is true. But it is also made of loyalty and faithfulness and duty. Your father may not have been the first in my heart, but I became his wife as duty to my family, and I serve him faithfully as a wife. And he serves me faithfully as a husband. I could not ask for more. He  has been a good father to you. He has provided well for you, and he deserves your respect. Always remember that.� The boy�s face burned with shame. �I will,� he said. His mother sank back onto her pillows, her strength clearly spent. �Read to me now,� she said, �my favourite verse, about the lilies of the field�� * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Curnallon, Ireland, Summer 1739 It had been three days since the boy�s universe had imploded. Three days since the doctor had left his mother�s bedroom, shaking his head gravely. The boy had looked through the door to see his father seated by the bed, his back to the door, his shoulders shaking slightly, and the clean linen sheet pulled over his mother�s beautiful face. A chambermaid had hurried him away to his own room and told him sternly he must be a big brave boy, and not let his father see him cry. And the boy didn�t cry, he couldn�t cry. There was not a tear in all of his body. He felt brittle, full of ashes and dry leaves. He could barely move without a servant or one of his siblings, all so many years older with children of their own, to tell him where to go. His world seemed suddenly so much bigger and emptier. His brothers, John and Robert, tried to soothe him by telling him how strong he was, and what a comfort to their father, but the boy barely heard them. He wished it was his father who had died instead of her, wished it with all his heart. The house had been full of relatives since then. Aunts and cousins, even siblings he barely knew, and who barely knew him. All said how much he favored his father, his dark hair and eyes. The boy was sure to be a horseman, as his father was, a gamesman and hunter, they all said. The boy would have traded the whole wretched lot of them, especially his father, for a single touch of his mother�s hand, and the sound of her voice whispering his name. They lowered her into the ground, her coffin black, the lid carved from a single plank of ash into a motif of doves and crosses. It should be swallows, the boy thought, and hearts. She hadn�t nearly enough hearts in life, only cold, unfeeling crowns. An aunt nudged him forward to drop a handful of earth onto the coffin. �In anticipation of His glorious resurrection,� the priest intoned. May it come soon, the boy added silently. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Curnallon, Ireland, Autumn 1739 The boy was at his mother�s grave, stretched out on the ground as if embracing the earth where she lay.  The ground was already chill with the winter that was coming, and the wind blew dead leaves over him and rattled the bare branches. I wish I were as cold as this earth, the boy thought, then I could lie here until the winter snow covers me like the white sheet which covers her. The tears which had been dust in him at her wake had flowed freely many times since then, but always in private, where no one would call him a fool. And tears of grief were more often mixed with tears of frustration and rage as he struggled, to no avail, to make his father understand him. He had even gone to the priest, and asked to study to be a priest himself, thinking he could lose himself in prayer. But the priest, the weak old dodderer, had gone straight to the boy�s father. He had raged at the boy, telling him that only the sons of poor men became priests, and he would not have that shame. The boy never forgave the priest�s betrayal, and never darkened another church door as long as he lived. Finally he rose from the grave, and slowly walked home. As he walked up the road to the house, he sensed something was wrong. No liverymen or servants were anywhere on the grounds. He hurried in the door to find all the servants in the house arrayed in lines as his father introduced them to some woman. The boy looked closely at this stranger, and was not impressed. She was square and masculine, and there was something coarse and common about her. At that moment, his father spotted him. �There you are, boy,� he said. �Come in and meet your new mother.� The boy could not have been more astonished if his father had sprouted wings and flown around the hall. �My what?� The strange woman turned to him and stretched out her arms. �Oh, what a little dumpling,� she said, her voice as piercing as the boy imagined it would be. �Come and give your mummy a kiss.� �You�re not my mother,� the boy said, and no sooner had the words left his mouth than his father�s fist had clouted him on the side of the head. �You�ll keep a civil tongue,� his father said, �and mind your mother, or you�ll get ten times worse.� The boy shook his head, which was spinning from the blow. He did not answer, but instead fled the house. �Get back here, boy,� his father called. �It�s alright love,� the woman�s voice answered, �he�ll come around. He just needs a bit of time�� But as the boy cried out to heaven in helpless fury, he swore to hate this woman and his father as long as he lived. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Curnallon, Ireland- 1745 It was not difficult to stay true to his oath. His father�s second wife was a spoiled, selfish harridan, and once she began to have children of her own, less than a year into their marriage, she regarded the boy only insofar as his actions impacted her own brats. To be in her presence was to endure a constant stream of remarks about his dress, his grooming, his behavior, his upbringing, and his attitude. Out of her presence, however, neither she nor his father seemed to care at all what he did. As a result, he spent as little time around them as he could. He took up riding and spent long hours out in the countryside, pushing his bay gelding, a fine, strong creature, until its sweat was a froth across its back. He took mad chances, racing along the sea-cliffs and down the steep, shifting dunes. It was on a day much like any other, not long after his nineteenth birthday and many miles out from his home, that his horse, doing a fast trot through the woods, suddenly balked, and the boy pitched over its neck into the undergrowth. He was on his feet in an instant, his crop waving wildly. �You stupid, clumsy beast,� he shouted, advancing on the animal. Then he noticed the horse�s front foot raised up protectively. The creature had thrown a shoe. The boy shifted his anger, now at a pitch, from the horse to the rocky ground and the blacksmith�s ancestry. Many minutes later, his temper finally exhausted, he stroked the animal�s neck, soothing it. Then he began to walk, leading it carefully towards the nearest town. It was late afternoon before he arrived at a tavern and livery a short distance from his home, the Hog and Thistle. He tied the horse to the post out front, and strode into the tavern. It was the first time he had ever been in one, and he tried to look confident. �Where is the landlord?� he called. A man sitting at a table, whom the boy recognized as one of the stablemen in his father�s employ, stood quickly. �My lord,� he said, �what has happened?� The boy nearly hugged the familiar face with relief. �My damned horse has thrown a shoe,� he said. �Is there a blacksmith here�� The man moved towards the door. �I�ll take care of it, my lord,� he said. �I know the man, and I�ll tell him who you are.� �Thank you,� the boy said sincerely. A man at another table, a fellow not much older than the boy himself, beckoned. �Won�t you join us for a pint, sir,� he said cheerily. The boy smiled warmly, sat down, and was quickly served. He toasted his companions� health, and they toasted his good fortune. He also joined in a few rounds of cards, and quickly warmed to the easy camaraderie of these men. He truly regretted having to leave when his horse had at last been re-shoed. His father�s man walked alongside him as he rode home. �I�m sorry you were waiting so long in the tavern,� he said, �but the smith�� �Oh, I didn�t mind,� the boy said. �They were quite entertaining gentlemen. I feel inclined to return again.� The stableman looked at the boy uneasily. �If I may say so, my lord, they were no gentlemen. Your father would not approve�� The boy bristled. �My father,� he said tartly, �has made it quite clear that my affairs are none of his concern. Nor should they be any of yours.� And they continued the rest of their journey in stony silence. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Curnallon, Ireland- 1748 The boy�s heart pounded in his chest as he moved as slowly and quietly as he could through his family�s house. It was well after midnight, and they were asleep, but his mind imagined a thousand scenarios where one of his stepmother�s whelps woke up crying and alerted the household, and he was discovered right in the midst of his crime. He moved especially carefully past the door of the butler�s quarters, then slipped into the pantry. The silver chest loomed in the moonlight. The boy knew there was a different set in each of the chest�s shallow drawers, and not a single spoon had been removed from any of them since his father�s remarriage, when that woman had purchased her own vulgar wedding silver, heedless of tradition. He went to the bottom drawer, which held silver passed to his mother�s great aunt, who had never married. The boy had seen it, but could not recall that it had ever been used, even while his mother was alive. He eased the drawer open slowly. Even in the dim light of the pantry the boy could see many of the pieces were gone, at least half the forks and almost all the spoons. In a moment the boy forgot his own difficulties, and opened each drawer one after the other. All seemed in order in the other drawers, but it was clear that someone in the house had already bested his actions and stolen the very silver he had intended to steal. There was only one it could be. The boy burst into the butler�s room, startling the old man awake. �What happened to the silver,� he demanded. The butler rose shakily. �My lord, I don�t�� �Don�t play the fool,� the boy said haughtily, �I saw the bottom drawer of the chest.� The butler lowered his eyes. �Please,� he said quietly, �there is a child in the village. If I did not pay for her, her mother would� I�d be turned out on the street.� The old hound, the boy thought, his mind already forming a plan to blackmail the lecher. �Wait a minute,� the butler said, his head finally clearing enough for understanding to dawn. �What were you doing in the silver chest in the dead of night? I doubt you were simply concerned for the family fortune.� The boy stammered. �Well, I�� The butler was back on solid ground. �Ran up gambling debts, did you? Some of the local boys decide it�s time to collect?� The expression on the boy�s face told the old man he had guessed correctly. �So,� he went on, �I guess we�re in the same shameful boat, aren�t we� my lord.� He added the last words in a voice thick with sarcasm. The boy said nothing. This was going badly, and now he had trapped himself. �Very well,� the butler said, confident now. �We will be partners. I won�t tell about your activities in the village, you�ll keep your mouth shut about my little bastard. Agreed?� �Agreed,� the boy said through gritted teeth. The butler crossed to his bedroom door and held it open for the boy to exit. �Have a pleasant evening, sir.� Properly subdued, the boy left, stopping only to shove two dinner forks into his breast pocket, and carefully close all the drawers. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Curnallon, Ireland- 1751 The boy awoke to full daylight streaming in the window, and it was a moment or two before he could get his bearings enough to rise in the narrow bed. He looked about the room, unable to recognize it at all. He caught his reflection in the mirror on the wall. He looked even worse than he felt. A girl entered the room. She was still in her dressing gown and was brushing her long,  auburn hair. She was lovely, and the boy did not recognize her as one of the usual whores. She must be new, he thought, and all the drink had pushed the memory of his introduction to her from his mind. It was not unusual these days. �Did you sleep well,� she asked. �Yes, I�� he tried to remember how much money he had left. The previous night was a blur, and he hoped he had not made arrangements with her for more than he was carrying at the moment. Owing to a prostitute was difficult, to say the least. The boy cleared his throat. �I�m sorry,� he said, �I�m still a bit muddled from the drink last night. What was our agreement?� The girl blushed prettily. �I don�t think we had made a firm decision,� she said, �but the spring would be very nice, when the weather gets warm.� The boy was confused. �I meant an agreement about your fee,� he said. The girl looked confused as well. �My dowry is my father�s concern,� she said, �but I�m sure�� The boy was on his feet, hastily doing up his clothes. �Dowry!� he exclaimed. �What are you talking about? I meant the fee for your services.� The girl�s confusion turned to shock. �What do you mean?� she said. �Last night when you pledged yourself to me�� The boy was now in shock. �I did no such thing,� he said. �You lying tart!� The girl flung her hairbrush at the boy. �You wicked dog!� she cried. �You promised to marry me! I would never� How could you!� She picked up her shoes and threw them at him, too. �Daddy!� she screamed. The boy ran out of the room, barefoot and half-dressed. He raced down the stairs, nearly knocking down a startled chambermaid carrying a stack of bed-linens, and raced out the front door of the house. He recognized it as belonging to one of the town�s merchants. Luckily, his horse was still tethered to a nearby tree, and he swung onto its back and raced for the tavern. He burst in the door and rushed to where his cronies were drinking at their usual table. �What happened to you,� said one of them, Seamus by name. The boy quickly explained his predicament and his friends went into action. They grabbed him and straightened his shirt, pulling a coat on him to cover the fact that he�d slept in it, then pulled his long hair back tight and bound it in a ribbon. They shoved him in a chair against the wall, pulling the table up to him, then sat down around him. Seamus had just dealt the cards when a red-faced man burst into the tavern. �Where is he,� he demanded breathlessly. �Where is that no-good lay-about?� �And what lay-about would that be?� Seamus answered. �We seem to have a bumper crop this season.� All but the boy laughed. The merchant marched up to the table. �I�m guessing it�s one of you squires,� he said, his voice low. �One of you whoremongers�� He broke off, too scandalized to continue. Another of the lads, Billy, looked at the man menacingly. �We�ve been playing cards here all night,� he said. �And we�re all willing to swear to that. To claim otherwise is to accuse five sons of peers of being liars. I�d consider carefully what you think happened before doing that. If I were you, that is.� The merchant�s face, if it were possible, became even redder, and he looked each of the young men in the eye. The boy felt his face pale as the man glared at him, but he held his gaze. �My daughter�s been ruined,� the man said, his voice breaking, �and you worthless dogs sit here and laugh about it.� �We don�t know anything,� Seamus said quietly, his eyes on his cards. �Go on home, and we�ll all pretend this unpleasant conversation never occurred.� �But my daughter�� Seamus looked levelly at the merchant. �None of us know your daughter,� he said. �And we�d swear to that, too.� He held the man�s attention for a long quiet minute before continuing. �I trust you can make a happy ending out of that, can�t you.� The merchant looked ready to beat Seamus to death, and the boy suspected he had already decided Seamus was responsible for his daughter�s being spoiled, a misconception none of them were about to disavow him of. �Damned bastards,� the man said at last, then turned and marched from the tavern. As soon as he had gone, Seamus grabbed the boy. �Get on out of here,� he hissed, �go home and wash and dress respectably before he remembers about the boots.� And he shoved him out the door. No more mention was made of the incident, though the girl was sent to live with a maiden aunt in another town. The boy heard she married a year or two later, so that was the end of that, and he gave it no more thought. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Galway, Ireland- 1753 The boy was quite drunk, having spent the day hunting with his mates, then joining them in a trip to a tavern in Galway where the whiskey was finer and the women were less  genteel than in Curnallon, or so it had been in his experience. The whiskey was indeed fine, the boy had to admit, and there were wanton girls to dance on the tables, their skirts hiked up above their knees and their hair swinging loose. But the cards here were not turning in his favor, and he had already lost a good deal. The landlady approached them. �Time to make good, gentlemen,� she said. Three of the young men at the table turned over their silver right away, but the boy and his mate Billy looked first into their purses and then at the landlady. Billy was so drunk, he could only shake his head helplessly, but the boy was a little less gone. �Begging your pardon, my good lady,� he said as charmingly as he could, �but I seem to be a bit� embarrassed. Might I settle with you when I have won my purse back at cards.� The woman glared at him. She turned to the bar. �Mack,� she bellowed. Moments later, the two had been dumped unceremoniously into the street, and Billy soon collapsed, a victim of the cup, and the boy himself was stumbling when he saw a vision not far away. It appeared to be a noblewoman, alone in an alley, dressed in fine white silk. The boy shook his drink-addled brain. He must be seeing things, he thought, mistaking a common whore for a lady, but she glanced slowly over her shoulder, and he set off in pursuit. He caught up with her in an alley. �So I�d ask myself,� he said, without preamble, �what�s a lady of your station doing alone in an alley with the reputation this one has.� �Maybe she�s lonely,� the woman answered, her voice soft, seductive. This was no noblewoman, the boy thought, still uncertain exactly what she was. He went on with the game. �In that case,� he said, �I�d offer myself as escort to protect you from harm and to while away the dull hours.� The woman turned slowly. �You�re very gracious,� she said. The scant light around them seemed to glow off her pale smooth skin, illuminating her. �It�s often been said,� the boy answered. The woman�s eyes twinkled. �Are you certain you�re up to the challenge?� The boy�s heart was beating faster. He moved closer, testing her boundaries. �Milady,� he said cavalierly, �you�ll find that with the exception of an honest day�s work, there�s no challenge I�m not prepared to face.� He was quite close to her now, looking down at her. �But you�re a pretty thing,� he said. �Where are you from?� �Around,� she replied. �Everywhere.� The boy smiled ruefully. �Never been anywhere myself,� he said. �Always wanted to see the world, but�� �I could show you,� the woman said quickly. �Could you, then?� �Things you�ve never seen,� she went on, �never even heard of.� He stepped even closer, ready for her final gambit. �Sounds exciting,� he murmured. �It is,� she agreed. �And frightening.� �I�m not afraid,� he said. �Show me. Show me your world.� �Close your eyes,� she whispered. He did, ready to taste her pink rosebud lips on his own. Instead, he felt her grab his arms with a pressure he would not have imagined was possible from such a slip of a girl, and the sudden pain of something sharp being driven into his throat. He gasped, and his eyes flew open. The woman was indeed holding him, and biting his neck. He felt an enormous pulling in his veins, and his strength left him. He collapsed to his knees against the woman and looked into her face. Her delicate visage was now gone, replaced by some fierce beast. Oh God, the boy thought wildly, she has killed me. The woman pressed a sharp fingernail, more like a claw, against her flawless breast and sliced it open. Dark blood ran onto her white skin. She cradled the boy�s head in her hand and pressed his lips to the wound. The liquid filled his mouth, and it was sweeter than any wine, more intoxicating than any whiskey. The boy felt it expand into his body, filling his veins like living light. He sucked at the blood, drawing it in deeper, deeper, until he fell, senseless, into the woman�s arms. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * �Is that you, boy,� his stepmother called, hearing his boots in the hall. �It�s about time you got home. Where the devil have you been all day?� There was no answer, and the woman heard a door down the hall creak open. She went to her own door and looked out. Dim light shone from the open doorway of the nursery where her three children were sleeping. �What are you doing?� she called. �One moment,� came his voice, a soft, low purr. �Is there something wrong with the children?� He laughed gently. �No,� he answered, and the door eased open a bit further as the light within went out. He emerged into the dark hall. His stepmother felt a sudden chill, and she retreated to her own room and snatched up a brand to light the lamp. �What�s happened��  She trailed off as he stepped into the light. His dark eyes blazed in the flickering lamplight, and he smiled a strange, inhuman grimace. His chin and the lace round his throat were dark with fresh blood. �Dear God,� the woman breathed, ��the babies. Have mercy�� And her stepson fell upon her with all the mercy of a bloodthirsty tiger. Her screams were sweeter to him at that moment than the memory of his mother�s songs. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Central Park, NYC- 1968 The girl had finished her singing. And above her, stretched on the cold stone, Angel wept. Wept for his father and his father�s wife, and their children, the innocents. He wept for his mother, the only person who had ever truly loved him, and he wept for the boy he had been. The boy so full of hurt and self-pity he had become a cursed thing, delighting only in spreading his pain a thousand-fold in the world of mortal men. He heard the couple below him now. It was as he thought. He heard the rustling of their clothes, the thump as her guitar fell from her hands, but then a ripping sound, and her cry, a cry of pain. Angel scrambled from the rock, hurrying down to them, and found the boy curled round the girl, his mouth locked onto her neck as she struggled weakly against him. �Get away from her,� Angel said. The vampire let the hippie girl sag in his arms as he regarded Angel balefully over her shoulder. �This one�s mine,� he hissed. �There�s plenty more around. Like fruit on the vine.� Angel moved towards them. �I said get away,� he said. The other vampire sighed heavily and lowered the girl to the ground. �They die all the time,� he whined, �what�s one other, more or less.� Angel knelt by the girl. She would be okay. �Everything, to somebody,� he said. The other vampire shrugged, and seeing this particular prey was no longer for the taking, slunk off in search of less dear fruit. The girl came to a short time later. �Are you okay,� Angel asked her. �Yes,� she said, �was I� raped?� Angel shook his head. �But I may not be here next time,� he said. �Where�s your mother, girl?� �Pensacola,� the girl said softly. �Go to her,� Angel said. �This is no life for mortals.� �I�� the girl faltered. �Thank you,� she said finally. �Go to her,� Angel repeated, moving away into the darkness. On the outskirts of the makeshift village these children had made, Angel found two dogs sleeping together, in a deep stupor from some wine given to them by some well-meaning flower child. He lifted them gently, one at a time, and drained them dry. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * A note about the song, �Jock O�Hazeldean�: Some music historians, by whom I of course mean wwolfe and Angharad, will be quick to point out that this song is attributed to Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832) and therefore could not be known by young Angelus and his mother. However, while Scott is responsible for popularizing the song and composing the later verses, the first verse, quoted at the top of the story, is actually much older. Scott liked this song very much, and breathed new life into it to try to keep it from being lost to future generations. (Thanks to my friend, Charlie Zahm, folksinger and musician, for that little nugget.) Lost Angel 9: The Last Days of Illyria Main Menu   ~   Lost Angel

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