Disclaimers:  Concept and established characters of  Charmed are property of the WB, et al.  Original story and characters herein are exclusive property of the author and may not be posted or used without permission.  Thank you.

Spoilers: Hell yes.  More or less entire "Balthazor" arc, but especially "Power Outage" (the 11/16 "Andras the Rage Demon/Somebody gets these girls therapy or Midol/Okay, Balthazor, whatcha gonna do  now?" episode).

Author's Note:   This is all the fault of Julian McMahon.  First he enthralls me in  Profiler, and then he goes and gets me addicted to  Charmed by joining the cast.  ::put-upon sigh::  The man does not play fair.  ;-)  Anyway, after the episode arc which made him a much more likeable (vs. simply swoon-able) character, I thought it would make more sense if this was  not the first time that Balthazor has shown mercy -- or simply humanity.

While a lot of questions remain (but will hopefully be answered to our satisfaction, or as near to it as possible, later in the season), this piece is my attempt to shed some light on Balthy's ability to fall in love, and his decision to spare Phoebe and her sisters and rid everybody of those really annoying Triad guys.  Secondary note: I stick to the name Balthazor for this piece because . . . well, that's his name.  "Cole" is a 'cover'-name, so far as I know, therefore not the one he (or I) associate with his true self.

Revised note (2/25/01):  After being given a synopsis of the latest Cole ep (thanks, Trinity!), I've revised this piece to adjust Balthazor's age.  I still think it would have been more interesting for him to be older than this, but I'll try to go with canon for now.  ;)

Sanctuary
© 2000, Grace Macy

"Character is what you are.
Reputation is what people think you are."

San Francisco.  City of the Golden Gate, and a number of mystical portals that had no need for a physical bridge.  They existed in a multitude of places in the area, as befitted a city which was the home of three of the most powerful witches in the world, The Charmed Ones.  It was also the home of a number of assorted types of demons, good, bad, and not entirely indifferent.  A demon of the last type was the last resort of the ones considered to be of the Bad variety, in whatever measure.

These demons were neutrals.  They served the same function as some orders of monks during wars: taking care of the wounded without questions about their associations, providing refuge and sanctuary.  And, the thing which set them apart from the back-alley doctors that others might seek out -- their services were for free.  And there were days when Ayala Manon, at least, seriously questioned the necessity of that last part.  Sometimes, the stress alone would have been worth a hefty commission.  Not to mention the near-coronaries caused by entities not known for their social niceties suddenly appearing in one's living-room.  Especially when said entities, for all the attractiveness of their human guise, were in demon form big, ugly, and sharp-toothed with the reputation of Attila the Hun on steroids and psychosis-inducing drugs.

Ayala heard the  whoosh of a shimmering, turned, and nearly dropped her mug of jasmine tea.  He was not in his human guise, which surprised her slightly, but the expression on his face was recognizable in any form.  It screamed of murder.  Ayala felt the color drain out of her face, even as her mind raced to find a reason that the Triad would have sent him after her. Faintly, she recognized her own voice choking out the entity's name.  "Balthazor."

He was as monstrous in demon form as he was handsome in human.  Cold eyes, as depthless as her own, fastened their predatory gaze on her face, mouth thinned dangerously.  "Ayala."  He named her quietly, his voice almost as rough as hers had sounded.  Then, slowly, the rage and danger left his face and he swayed slightly as he shifted abruptly into his human form.  His gaze remained locked with hers, his voice a soft growl as he spoke one other word.  "Asylum . . ."

Ayala stared at him -- until he fell to his knees.  Only then did she become fully aware of the blood that stained the white undershirt he wore, spreading slowly downwards from a concentrated spot.  Ayala's mind slapped her fear into submission and pushed her forward, the mug of tea falling from her hands in her haste.  She would take care of the mess later.  For now she had a patient to take care of, unusual as his appearance here was.

"Asylum," she agreed quickly.  She landed on one knee beside him and wrapped one arm about his waist, gently pulling him back to his feet.  As she helped him down the hall to her bedroom, she asked quietly, "What happened?"

'Cole' laughed harshly.  "I fucked up."

Ayala blinked.  It wasn't like Balthazor to use such language.  She refrained from asking for something more specific, guessing that his mood wouldn't allow it.  She was nearly half a century Balthazor's junior, and with none of his history, but now that the fear was gone, her quick tongue was threatening to make a comeback.  As she sat him down on the bed, eliciting a wince and a slight growl of pain, it won.

She carefully but briskly helped him pull off the shirt, and sucked in a breath at the nasty wounds.  And asked, "So how many of them were there?"

His voice was soft with pain.  "Three."  Blue eyes that bordered on green looked at her with harsh humor.  "Both times."

"Both times?" Ayala repeated.  She searched her memory for the rumors she had heard about current 'assignments'.  "The charmed ones?"

Balthazor nodded, his gaze fixed on a point on her wall.  "The charmed ones," he confirmed.

There was something about his voice when he said that . . .  Ayala paused in the middle of gathering her "first aid kit" and looked at him curiously.  No further details seemed forthcoming, however, so she turned back to her preparations.  Lightly, she asked over her shoulder, "Twice?"

"No.  The second time was the Triad.  Or rather, their guards."

Ayala stilled very quickly.  "The Triad?"

Her voice was carefully casual.  She knew what interfering in the work of the Triad meant.  And Balthazor knew that she knew.  It wouldn't be much consolation, but he told her the truth nonetheless.  "Their guards," he repeated.  The edge of dark humor crept into his voice again as he added, "After I'd killed the Triad.  The guards took it badly for some reason."

The crash of what she'd been holding this time was not deliberate.  He looked over at Ayala, already knowing what he would see.  She stood staring at him, her already fair face completely drained of color.  Her obsidian eyes were wide, her mouth parted in shock.  About her feet lay a number of packets of herbs, and a metal basin from which water had splashed all around.  "The Triad . . ." she whispered, ". . . is dead?!?"

Balthazor nodded.  "Very."

He didn't look away from her now.  His gaze locked with her own, giving her an anchor, offering complete honesty.  Ayala swallowed hard, forcing herself to think instead of react on pure instinct.  "How?" she asked hoarsely.  "Why?"

Balthazor smiled grimly, a mere twist of his lips.  "I fucked up," he repeated, almost casually.  "They gave me a task and I failed."  Ayala frowned, started to ask a question.  He stopped her with two simple words.  "On purpose."

Ayala stared at him for a long moment, then forced herself to move, to pick up the fallen herbs and bandages, and then move towards him.  "Tell me?" she requested softly.

As she began to treat his wounds, cleaning and bandaging each one, he complied.  It was a danger in itself, but he had come to her, involved her in his crime; he owed her the truth.

So he told her about his assignment, about how he had relished it at first, taken pride in each delicate step in his plans.  How he had set himself to seducing the youngest of the three charmed sisters, insinuating himself into their lives through his connection to her.  And he told her how he had found  himself seduced, innocently, in return.

Every moment spent with her, every instant within the power of her innocence and beauty, her vibrant spirit and love of life itself.  How, before he even knew what it was that he was feeling -- for how could he, who had never known love, know that wonderful headlong tumble into it? -- he had fallen in love with her.  How that emotion had been fixed, sealed into his heart, destruction from within, after one impossible, incredible night in her arms.

And how, when the opportunity had presented itself, ripened from his own plot to drive a wedge between the three sisters through the amplified anger in their hearts by the demon Andras, when he had held the dagger given to him by one of the Triad, with the warning that failure this time would mean death . . .  "I couldn't do it."

Balthazor looked at the healer, his gaze locked on her face as if he sought in her eyes an answer to the riddle.  "She was leaning into me, the dagger was in my hand, already hot with its own bloodlust . . .  I held it within inches of her heart . . . and I couldn't do it," he repeated.  "I pulled away from her kiss, and I told her -- I  told her -- that she was vulnerable.  That she had to go home and figure out what had happened.  I almost told her all of it.  All of it!"  

He reached out suddenly to grab Ayala about the arms, the urgency in his voice echoed in the action.  "I knew what the price would be!  I knew the Triad would destroy me for it!  And I couldn't bring myself to hurt her!"  His eyes were wide, and Ayala could feel him trembling even as his form shifted into that of his demon self.  Substantially larger, uglier, and far, far stronger.

His fingers cut into her circulation, painful, sure to leave bruises as he gripped her arms.  "I, who have destroyed hundreds!  I, who have been the downfall of nations! I, who have never know mercy or compassion!  I, who would bring nightmare to even the worst of human minds!  I, who have been tormentor, executioner, invincible -- implacable!! -- for almost two hundred years!"  His voice rose slightly as he gritted out the next words.  "I couldn't do it!"

Ayala tried to still the pounding of her heart as his gaze bored into her, repeating the question in his words.  She swallowed hard and kept her voice low, soothing, and respectful.  "You demand an answer I cannot give," she told him.  "Love is --"

"Love!?!"  The word came out as a roar, his eyes flashing with something close to contempt.

Ayala glared at him, something in her rebelling instantly and instinctively.  "Well, it sure wasn't food allergies!" she snapped at him.

Balthazor blinked, the anger and contempt vanishing under the onslaught of total surprise.  As if to prove the depth of this, he abruptly shifted back into his human form.  For her part, Ayala was no less shocked at her reaction.  She paled as she realized what she had just said, and to whom, then quickly schooled her expression into something she hoped approximated calm.  He released her arms, and she took a deep breath of relief.  Then she continued as if the interruption had never occurred.

"Love is not something that  anyone understands, Balthazor -- no matter how old they are or how much they've lived."  She paused, and before she knew it, that little rebellious voice inside of her added, "And for the record, you were never  that bad."

Again, Balthazor stared at her in shock.  After a very long moment, he managed to ask, "What???"

Ayala sighed.  She had been kneeling in order to treat the various cuts on his torso, especially the large piece of skin that had been sliced from his right side.  Now she stood and moved to sit on the bed beside him.  "All that about being tormentor and executioner, and 'nightmare to the worst of human minds'."  She shook her head and chuckled as loudly as she dared.  "You were a bad-ass, yes.  Especially during World Wars.  Yes, you've killed, and yes, you've destroyed.  That comes with the job description for an agent of the Triad.  But . . . you  have known mercy.  And compassion."

Balthazor frowned at her and started to deny it.  Ayala raised an eyebrow and lifted one hand to silence him.  "It's just us here, Balthazor," she reminded him.  "There's no need for lies.  Not with me."  She tilted her head and added, "I was there, remember?"

Balthazor glared at her, as if the fact she remembered his few instances of mercy was an insult.  She raised an eyebrow at his expression, not giving way to the fear he'd been hoping to inspire.  Finally, he gave up.  He was too tired, and she was, in essence, right.  "All right," he confessed.  "But it was never in front of the Triad."

"Of course not," she agreed, without rancor or resentment.  She understood the rules of living around the Triad; anyone of demon-blood did.  "But the fact remains that mercy and compassion are not new to you.  Even mercy and compassion to witches."

Balthazor's eyes narrowed slightly, as if he wished to expunge the memory she had brought up.  Unbidden, a face came to his mind, as vivid as if it had been yesterday and not nearly a century before.  He had been young then, a little less than a century old, and he had later used that as his excuse to himself.  Her name had been Vella Sturmhägen, the daughter of a midwife in Norway.  At nine years old, she had been barely more than a child, but already her powers had been strong.  The Triad had not heard about her yet, although they would in a few years.  When that time finally came, the Triad had sent many agents to destroy the girl, who by then was a woman fully grown into her power.  But Balthazor had seen Vella when she was still a child, still vulnerable despite her growing power.  He had known what she would become, the threat she would one day present to the Triad . . . but something within him had stayed his hand.

As with Phoebe, the means to end Vella's life had been in his hand, mere inches from her flesh, but then he had looked at her and the human side of him had rebelled at the thought of doing her harm.  The only thing that might have changed his mind and made him kill the girl then, had been the presence of another demon -- Ayala.  The only thing that had saved the girl then had been his knowledge that Manon would never choose the Triad's workings willingly.  Instead, she had sworn to keep the girl -- and Balthazor's 'weakness' -- a secret from the Triad.  And she had.  It had been a different agent of the Triad who had found the girl-become-woman, and another still who had ultimately taken her life.  But Ayala had never betrayed her existence to the Triad, nor had she ever made mention of Balthazor's act of mercy.

Until now.  And the worst was that Balthazor knew she had been witness to other small acts of mercy on his part, although he knew that she would never mention those either.  But she didn't need to; her point had been made by this one reminder.  And even if he had felt like arguing, Balthazor was too exhausted to attempt it.  He had taken a heavy beating, not only from the Charmed Ones' defense (and watching from behind Andras' control, some part of him had been rather pleased at the way the three women had handled themselves) but from the guards that had come running upon sensing the destruction of the Triad.  That second fight had been far too close for comfort, and it was only his knowledge of the impenetrability of the shields on Ayala's home that allowed him to relax now.  That and the fact that once a healer like Manon gave her word, she would  never go back on it.

So instead of trying to even scowl, he merely shook his head at Ayala, whose eyes softened with concern.  "Lie down," she told him gently.  "Rest.  You need to recover as much of your strength as you can."

Balthazor nodded and eased himself fully onto the bed.  "I know."  He allowed a brief, small smile as Ayala settled pillows and covers about him, the actions neat and practiced, and almost as absent-mindedly automatic as that of a mother.  As she started to pull away to gather up the dirtied supplies, he grabbed her wrist.  She frowned at him slightly, and he allowed his eyes to warm.  "Thank you," he said softly.  "I know the risk you're taking by helping me now."

Ayala smiled.  "No worries."  She reached up with her free hand and absently stroked back a stray lock of his hair.  "In this moment, at least, we are of like spirit."

Balthazor sighed.  "In this moment.  But what about later?  What do I do now?"  He shook his head.  "I've done a rather good job of burning every bridge in my general vicinity."

Ayala chuckled lightly.  "Not every bridge," she corrected him.  "You still have the one to me . . .  And the one to your Phoebe."

Balthazor closed his eyes as if in pain, recalling his self-directed commentary of barely 24 hours before, when he had been trying to think how to break off his relationship with Phoebe.     "I can't see you anymore," he had muttered to himself, as if rehearsing it.  "Why not?  Well, because I have to kill you. . ."  He was in the same situation now.  "What am I supposed to tell her?" he asked Ayala out loud.

Ayala tsk-ed softly. "You can think on that later," she admonished.  "After you've rested."

Balthazor chuckled.  "Yes, mommy."

Ayala grinned at the teasing.  "I shall take that as a compliment."  She neatly gathered up her supplies, and his soiled clothes, and headed for the door.  A small motion of her hand closed the curtains so that the bedroom became hued with twilight instead of midmorning sun.  "Now, sleep," she told her patient gently.

Balthazor nodded and closed his eyes, willing himself to relax.  This might well be his last chance to rest fully and without fear for a very long time.

end

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