DISCLAIMER: All of the characters from BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER are owned by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, 20th Century Fox Television and the Warner Brothers television network. I am merely a BTVS enthusiast who has woven these characters into a story of my own. The characters of Gavin Reilly and Siobhan are my own invention, but their destined lines of work are the brilliant creations of Mr. Whedon.
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: "Becoming"
SUMMARY: This story is the result of spending the summer wondering what Hell was doing to Angel. It gives a flashback to his life just before he became a vampire.
NOTE: I am no expert on the Gaelic language, but I do know that its unique spellings and pronunciations can be confusing. So for anyone who is wondering, the name Siobhan is pronounced "sho-VAHN."
The song lyrics quoted throughout the story are from "Dante's Prayer," by Loreena McKennitt, which can be heard on the CD, THE BOOK OF SECRETS (Quinlan Road Limited, © 1997)

It is a comforting thought of long-standing tradition, that the souls of men and women enter the gates of Heaven as angels, to watch over their loved ones left behind on Earth. Whether or not this is true, no one knows.

That the tortured souls in the lower place can gaze up at Earth, with more longing and heartache than the living can imagine, is not often considered. However, it is the most feared punishment of Hell.

Angel had an excellent view.

Cast your eyes on the ocean,
Cast your soul to the sea.
When the dark night seems endless,
Please remember me.

He could see her so clearly, in all of her misery and loneliness. But he could not speak to her, touch her, or comfort her in any way, and the pain tore through his heart. Angel saw Buffy huddled on that bus, looking lost and insecure in baggy overalls and a dark sweatshirt, the hood up over her head, as if for protection. He saw all the others, too: Joyce Summers, crying in her daughter's room; Giles, whose pain at Buffy's disappearance was much greater than the lingering aches from the torture Angel had inflicted on him, even as Willow's persistent headache was more the result of worrying about her best friend than from the injury she'd suffered. Xander too was conflicted--had he told Buffy the real message from Willow, would that have made a difference? Angel wished he could tell him that it wouldn't have. He was all too aware that Buffy had done what she had to do. All of the fault was his.

Why had she run? The expulsion from both home and school--she could have dealt with those. Her mother hadn't meant what she said in a moment of fear and frustration. Giles, and Willow, would have spoken on Buffy's behalf both to Joyce and to Principal Snyder--the latter, always on Buffy's case, and with God knows what nefarious means of his own, needing much more convincing than the former. Angel knew that Buffy was aware of those things. They were minor details, the kinds of troubles she'd dealt with many times before. It was sending him to Hell that she was running from. Especially because she loved him when she sent him there.

Was he angry that Willow had worked the curse again? Oh, no. That he'd been able to tell Buffy he loved her was the only thing sustaining him. And even though it made the task more painful for her, he clung to the hope that she too was deriving some sustenance from that love.

When the dark wood fell before me,
and all the paths were overgrown,
When the priests of pride say there is no other way,
I tilled the sorrows of stone.

Angel raged, not against the Gypsy curse that restored his soul, but against the true curse of being what he was, the creature who had lost all conscience and remorse. The last six months of living again as that creature were also playing inside his head, and they were at least as painful as the 140 years of evil deeds he was still repenting. The shock that accompanied the return of those memories was far sharper than the thrust of Buffy's sword through his chest. True to form, he had marked everyone she cared about, in a calculated effort to punish her not only for being the object of his desire, but for inducing in him that most sublime of human emotions. Over and over, in word and in deed, he had hurt the girl he loved, and he'd done it with a vicious arrogance.

That summed him up. I'm an arrogant idiot, thought Angel. Always was. Probably, it was his damned arrogance that had gotten him into his personal hell to begin with. He began to look back, with the usual self-pity, the old "why me?" plaguing him once more. But Angel saw the irony, too: Had he not been a vampire, he would never have known Buffy.

If I'd only met someone like her, back when I was human, he thought, I'd never have been around to hurt her now. Or to love her, came a parenthetical thought. And suddenly Angel's eyes opened wide, as if that would help him focus more clearly on the visions he was seeing all too well. He hadn't been able to resist replaying the scene of his changing, and all that he'd perpetrated after, so many times, though it sickened him always. But there were things that had happened just before, which he hadn't thought of. God knows, his 140 years as a monster had given him plenty to observe in the following century. Strange, though. Why had he blocked out Siobhan?

Angel began to look back.

He had been happy as a child, he recalled. Life was good then, for his family. They were better off than most. Their small farm just outside Galway was prosperous, and his father had a share in the mill works, too. When he had the time, his father taught him the art of angling, and they'd fished away many a quiet afternoon. Angel's gentle mother was a seamstress of some skill, and as she sewed, she would tell stories to her children. Angel had an older brother he looked up to, and a little sister who adored them both.

But his brother died in a mill accident, and his sister of a raging fever. His mother's stories turned into endless prayers, and his father, feeling that he had not protected his own, turned to drink. He did not hold his liquor well; it made him ugly. Such poor timing, too--this happened just as Angel was hitting the rebellious age, and he'd had many a beating until he grew taller than his father. Then, they just glared at each other, rarely speaking, and his mother prayed on. Angel stayed away from home as much as possible.

He'd studied some, and he had a good mind. There was a man in Galway, a former master at Trinity College, all the way across Ireland in Dublin. Gavin Reilly had come home after many years. He had a vast collection of books, and he taught the brightest boys--history, Latin, and metaphysics. Angel loved the way his mind would leap during these classes, and the teacher took great pride in his pupil, too. He'd encouraged Angel to go to Dublin, and pursue his studies, but again: poor timing. Probably a good thing I didn't go, Angel thought wryly. I'd only have drunk, played cards and mumblety-peg in Dublin, instead of in Galway where I didn't have to pay room and board. For that was pretty much all he did, as he entered manhood. He had an eye for the ladies, too, and they returned his glances happily. He was handsome, and clever, and always, thanks to his mother, well-dressed. And arrogant: the perfect rake.

I did not believe because I could not see,
Though you came to me in the night.
When the dawn seemed forever lost,
You showed me your love in the light of the stars.

It was stumbling home one night after whiskey and cards that he first met Siobhan. He was shivering as he walked past the graveyard, and he told himself that the night was chilly, as indeed it was, but that wasn't why he shivered. Then he heard an unearthly scream, the sounds of a scuffle, and footsteps, running straight toward him. A small fury of a cloaked figure would have hit him square in the chest, had he not grabbed its elbows an instant before impact.

The dark hood framed a face white with fear or anger, and stormy, dark-lashed grey eyes. Angel noted at once that it was a very pretty face, on a wiry frame which was tall, for a girl, but still much shorter than he. He expected her hair to be dark, but the hood fell back as she looked up at him, revealing thick curls as red as a sunset.

"Whoa, there!" he told her. Well, it did feel as though he were holding a skittish horse. "I don't think the Little Folk are overfond of graveyards. But robbers and smugglers don't mind ghosts, so what in Heaven's name is young girl doing in a place that could provide such company?"

"I'm not afraid of ghosts," said the girl, "and it's quicker home if I walk through the graveyard. But there did seem to be another sort of a creature there tonight, and bent on no good. No matter, though. I hit him hard with a blackthorn stick, and I don't think he'll bother me again."

Angel laughed. He wasn't used to such forthrightness, or fortitude, from young women. "As capable as you seem of taking care of yourself, still this is not the safest place by night. Might I escort you home, wherever home might be?"

She looked him up and down, and smiled back. "Thank you, but no," she said. "I can indeed take care of myself. And from what I've heard about you, sir, sure and I think I'd have to be as much on my guard in your company." She leaned toward him an inch, and sniffed audibly. "And I smell drink on ye, too. I don't need a protector whose senses are dulled by whiskey."

With a quick twist, she was free of his grasp. "Good night to you, then!" she said, and before he could think of a retort, she was off.

"I'd be offended, but I do believe the lass is speaking the truth," Angel said to himself. "Perhaps I should have begged for her protection, instead." He chuckled again, and set off at a quick pace--just in case her attacker should shake off the smack of her stick and come after him, as well.

The whiskey kept him abed late the next day, but when Angel finally did wake, he lost little time in learning about the unusual young lady. It wasn't difficult to find those who knew about her--a pretty young woman, new in town, will always attract attention.

Her name was Siobhan, and she had no family. Angel's former teacher, Master Reilly, a friend of her late father, was acting as guardian. Angel found himself wishing he'd kept up with his studies. He began to look for her about the town, but saw her rarely. He even dragged himself to church that Sunday, hoping she'd be there. He was not disappointed.

"You'll smell no whiskey on me today, Miss Siobhan," he greeted her. "Might I meet your high standard, and walk you home?"

She gave him a wry smile. "Well, it is Sunday, and early in the day at that. I guess you won't be tippling for a while. I'd be honored if you'd escort me."

He heaved a sigh and mopped his brow dramatically. "It's happy I am to be in your company. I'm owing a debt to an angry man, and I'm hoping you have your blackthorn handy, should we encounter him."

"Oh, dear, I am so sorry," she laughed. "About your debt, and my empty hands. I find I only need my stick at night, you see. Especially on the nights I find myself crossing through graveyards."

He enjoyed Siobhan's banter, as much as he appreciated her pretty, lively face. She was as bright as her shining hair. When they reached Scholar Reilly's house, Angel asked if he might see her again.

Siobhan's expression turned serious, then. "I'm afraid it wouldn't be wise," she said. "I am a girl with no means, you see. I must earn my keep, and I've little time of my own. You seem to be a man with much time on his hands, and betting and drinks can run dear. I think you would prefer a different sort of lass than myself."

"And here I thought I'd already heard the sermon," he returned, with a hint of anger. But Angel noticed for the first time that her clothes were very plain, and the only ornament she wore was a simple wooden cross hung on a green ribbon around her white throat. It occurred to him that despite her lack of rich fabrics, lace or jewels, she outshone any girl he knew. What is it about her, he wondered. Why am I drawn to this smart-mouthed young thing?

"Sure and won't you inherit from Master Reilly some day?" he continued. "I'd guess his store of books would fetch a shilling or two."

Angel was immediately sorry he had said that, for Siobhan's face paled, and she looked almost sick.

"I don't want even to think of him dying," she whispered, hanging her head. "He is my teacher and my guardian; I would be lost without him." She looked up at Angel. "But should he die, I would be sent to someone else, as would his books. Yes, they are the only things of worth he has, but they do not belong to him. Like me, they are in his protection."

"I am sorry," Angel said, reaching for her hand. "I spoke glibly only, and I meant no harm. Nor do I wish any ill to befall old Reilly. I too have studied under him, and he is one of few to whom I give my full respect, such as it is."

She smiled at him then, and squeezed his hand before releasing it. "Perhaps there is hope for you yet," she said. "But truly, it is better I keep to myself. I am not an easy person to befriend. Please let me say good day now, and thank you for accompanying me home."

She opened the door then, and turned away. But he thought he heard her whisper, "believe me, I wish it were not so."

Angel was not used to rejection.

*****

He told himself he didn't care; there were plenty of other lasses in Galway, just as pretty as Siobhan, and much more eager to share his company. But when he sought them out, they seemed silly and dull, and his life emptier than ever.

Angel hadn't given much thought to the future, preferring to ignore that empty expanse. Suddenly he was restless and irritable, feeling as though he had an itch he could not reach. He spent fewer nights at the tavern, and more just wandering about, his thoughts aimless and unfocused. He had a desire to run off, but he didn't know to where, or what he would do when he got there.

He was drawn to Siobhan, and he wasn't sure why. She was secretive, and did her best to avoid him. Angel could sense that she was lonely, and it occurred to him that he was lonely, too. His usual companions suddenly did not interest him; he had no desire to be with them, feeling even more alone when he was. Siobhan piqued his curiosity. It seemed to him that they had something in common, but damned if he knew what it was. If she knew, she wasn't sharing the information. So he turned to his old books, and a few new ones, and he continued his nighttime rambles.

Most evenings, he would end up at a cove he knew, where he would sit on a rock and watch the sunset. It was a hidden place, and he'd long ago fixed up a small pit for a driftwood fire after dark.

One night, in that place, Angel's dissatisfaction with everything about himself and all that confined him seemed to be reaching a peak. He stared moodily into the fire, setting aside his wool coat, hunching himself into the thick fisherman's sweater that was best for nights near the sea. And then his attention was diverted, by a strange scene being played out on the rocks that rose from the surf.

Damned if it isn't Siobhan, he thought, and then wondered why he was surprised. The small cloaked figure was grappling with one much larger--fighting well, too, Angel observed, even on the slippery rocks. He had no idea what was going on, but he couldn't let a young woman be attacked, without coming to her aid--he was not so dissolute that he lacked all honor. Angel ran toward the water.

"Siobhan!" he called, and saw that she, and her attacker, were distracted by his presence. They didn't see the wave that pounded the rock, and both went under.

"God save us," Angel muttered as he ran. He tossed off his sweater and charged into the icy surf after Siobhan.

He caught sight of her, fighting to keep her head above water in the rough surf. He took a deep breath and swam hard as he could in her direction. And uttered a brief prayer as he caught up with her, and got his arm around her to tow her back to shore.

In a few strokes, he realized that she was aiding, rather than fighting his rescue. Once he'd helped her get her breath, she was able to swim with him, and maneuver through the surf line. Finally they hauled up on the shore, drenched and coughing and shivering with cold. Angel saw that Siobhan was clutching a sharp, stout blackthorn stick.

"Are ye all right?" Angel managed to choke the words out. She nodded dumbly. "Come on then, I've a small fire near here," he said, helping her up from the wet sand. She was soaked through, cloak and all. He picked up his sweater, which by luck he'd tossed above the surf line, and led her to the cove.

"Here, take off that cloak and put this on," Angel handed Siobhan the sweater. "And where's your friend?"

"Far out to sea, I hope," she gasped, "I do not think he could swim, the fool." She took the sweater, and looked at him. "But you, you're cold too--I can't take this."

"Look--here is my coat, warming by the fire. I came prepared to aid a lass who'd taken an inopportune swim in the sea. I even had the presence of mind to shed some clothing before taking my bath. Something you did not think to do."

"I had no time," she said with a grin. "I was rather busy, and then I did not expect to see you running toward me screaming like a banshee."

"Screaming, indeed. I was merely calling out a friendly greeting. You'd be better off out of your wet things, but at least put that sweater on," Angel ordered.

Siobhan shrugged herself into his sweater. "Oh, it feels warm!" she said with delight. It was huge on her, of course. She slipped her arms from the sleeves, and did some odd maneuvers. And then, with a grin, and some sleight of hand, her arms were in the sleeves again, and she'd pulled her blouse and shift from the sweater's rolled collar.

"How did you do that?" Angel asked, clearly astonished.

"I have my ways of undressing with modesty," she answered. "In front of men who are not polite enough to avert their eyes."

"Sorry," he said, embarrassed. "I guess I did forget my manners there."

"No matter," she said, spreading the clothes on rocks near the fire. She gave a tug under the hem of her skirt, and her petticoat followed the other undergarments. She sat down and pulled off her shoes and stockings. "You were gallant enough to risk drowning, and pull me from the sea. I can forgive a slight lapse of gentlemanly behavior."

Angel put on his dry coat, but followed her lead and took off his stockings. He'd be warm enough by the fire, even if his breeches were wet. There was no way he could shed those. He turned to help her wring salt water out of her long hair, and then he fanned it out in his fingers. The curls caught the firelight and seemed to spark.

"Your hair is so bright," he said, with some awe. "I half expected to burn my hand when I touched it."

Siobhan smiled at him then, and somewhat timidly touched his own hair. "Yours is very dark, and wet," she said softly. "Are ye sure you're not a selkie, then? Shall I hunt for your seal skin and hide it away so you'll stay a man?"

Angel returned the smile. "I loved the selkie stories when I was young. Always wished I was one. Guess I'm not, or I wouldn't have been so cold when I hit that water."

"Oh, dear, you've a chill on you still," she fretted.

"No, no," Angel assured her. "I'm warming up fine, with my coat, and the fire. And you sitting close by."

Siobhan ignored the last statement. She gazed around at the cove.

"It's lovely here," she said. "There's no wind at all, yet the sea is wild to look at. I think you know this place well?"

Angel said, "I do. I found it first when I was a boy. It was the place I ran to, when I needed to run away."

"And what were you running from?" Siobhan asked.

"Myself, mostly," he answered. "And any troubles I'd gotten myself into. But sometimes I just came to think, or to dream." He laughed then, somewhat bitterly. "It seems I haven't dreamed in many a year."

"I am sorry to hear that," Siobhan said. "My sleep dreams frighten me, often. But the ones I let myself slip into during the daylight are what keep me going, I think."

"Maybe that's why I've gotten nowhere," Angel said, almost to himself. "No dreams."

Siobhan turned to face him, her grey eyes searching. "Why did you come here tonight, then, if not to dream? Were you thinking--or running away?"

Angel grinned. "I just came to see the sunset. It was a pretty one, too--the sky was all streaked the color of your hair. I think you were too busy to see it."

"I did, actually," Siobhan said. "It was after dark that I found myself hard at work...It's strange to see the sun set on the ocean. I'm accustomed to seeing it rise there, being from Dublin."

"I've never been to Dublin, or anywhere else but here. I'd like to see the sun rise on the ocean, sometime, and compare it to what I know. Maybe not in Dublin, though. Maybe in America. It's all savage there, and unlike any other place, they say. I'd like to see something new," Angel said.

"Maybe that is where your dreams should take you?" Siobhan suggested.

"Or perhaps my nightmares--who knows?" Angel countered. "You talk as though I have some destiny."

"Oh, I think you do," she said. "We all do. But some of us see ours more clearly than others."

Angel looked at her. "You do. You speak as though you're under an oath."

She shrugged. "I have certain duties, is all. I don't like them, but they must be done."

"Ah, you put me to shame, wastrel that I am," Angel sighed.

"I don't mean to," Siobhan said, earnestly. "I like talking to you. I haven't sat and shared a friendly conversation in a while. It means more to me than you know."

Angel smiled. "Then it's happy I am you've chosen me to share it with. Look though--should you not be home? Surely it's past your supper time? Are you warm now? Should we go?"

"I'd rather stay a while, if you don't mind. I'm not hungry--though you may be?"

"No. I was hoping you'd want to stay a bit," Angel assured her. "I like being with you, too. You're not like anyone else I know. And I have some bread and drink, if you do get hungry." He pulled a hunk of oatbread, wrapped in his handkerchief, out of one pocket, and a flask out of the other.

Siobhan eyed the flask, and raised her eyebrows at Angel.

"It's milk," he said. "I'm not constantly imbibing, you know. Though we both could have stood a nip of whiskey, after our little swim."

Siobhan laughed. "You're right. I would have welcomed a sip then. And yes, I do leap to conclusions."

"I don't suppose you'll tell me just who or what that man was, who had the misfortune of attacking Queen Boudica's daughter on the edge of the ocean, and of being no swimmer, too?" Angel asked.

"No, I won't," she said. "I can't--I don't know who he was--or, as you say, what. He came at me like a demon. I'm glad he's dead, and gone."

Did Siobhan put a slight emphasis on 'gone?' Angel wondered. No matter. He too was glad.

She gave him a quick glance, from the corner of her eye. "We've determined that you're no selkie, but you do seem to be around when I'm facing trouble. Sure and you're not an angel sent to watch over me?"

"I'd rather be that than even a selkie," Angel said, and took the opportunity to move a bit closer to her. "It would be warmer and drier, at any rate." His elbows were on his knees, and he dropped his chin into his hands and looked moody. "But it's better you don't depend on me--I'd probably fail, as I always do."

"Oh, stop that piteous talk," she said sternly. "Is it really that you fail, or do you just not try as hard as you might?"

Angel sat up. "Again, you see right through me."

Siobhan put her hand on his. "I don't mean to be lecturing you all the time. I'm not so stuffy as I sound, really. But there are things I must do, and they make me see things differently than most. And I think perhaps the only difference between us is you haven't found anything yet that has inspired you."

Angel turned to look at her, and said, "I think maybe you're wrong."

He lifted her hand. It was slim, but very strong. A shiver had run through him when she'd touched him; he wondered if she had felt it too. Angel raised Siobhan's hand to his lips, then held it to his cheek.

He saw that she was trembling. She said softly, "In one respect, I'm not much different from the other girls. I've been drawn to you, and it hasn't been easy to spurn your attentions. I've tried not to flatter myself that they're any more than interest in someone new, and perhaps that's for the best. I think I'm meant to be alone."

Angel let his hand drop, and she pulled hers away, too. "I know I've a bad reputation, and God knows I've done my best to earn it," he said. "If it's frightened away the only girl I've cared to be more than just a passing fancy, then that should be my punishment, not yours. But I'm willing to prove to you I'm not a cad."

"Oh, dear--I didn't mean that! It's not easy to explain, and that's why it's less complicated if I just avoid having to do so. But truly, you don't need to prove yourself to me!" Siobhan looked sincerely troubled.

"Siobhan," Angel said with the slightest of grins, "it wouldn't hurt me to gain a bit of self-respect."

"But being around me could hurt you. Don't you remember how you found me tonight? My world is a dangerous one."

"And my world has been an empty one. Let me risk something, Siobhan. I'm not afraid. Let me into your world."

There was a sudden silence. Angel felt her hand again on his cheek. And it was she who turned his face to hers, and let her hand run through his hair. Her eyes were soft. He took her face in his hands and kissed her gently. Again he felt that current arc through him.

Angel felt breathless, and his voice was a whisper. "I'm thinking it was you sent to save me, Siobhan of the Shining Hair."

She clung to him then. It occurred to him that this sweet girl had no one to hold or comfort her. Master Reilly provided a home, and avuncular counsel as she went about those "duties" which took her out after dark and exposed her to danger. What strange sort of life was this for a girl? Angel longed to know more about her. He needed to be the one who cared for her. He put his arms around her, and held her close.

"Why does Reilly let you run by night, to find fights with strange men?" he murmured into her hair.

Siobhan kissed him again, more deeply. She seemed to be drinking him in. He sensed that this was new to her, and yet she knew what she wanted. It intrigued him. He would happily be consumed.

"He knows that I must," she answered, sounding resigned.

He set his lips softly on her brow, on her eyelids, and then dropped them to her throat. He felt her pulse there and breathed in her scent, which hinted at an oddly pleasant combination of musk and rosemary. It made him feel a bit light-headed, and he remembered that she wore nothing under the sweater and skirt.

"Siobhan," Angel said, reluctantly pulling himself away, "I must take you home. Despite my good intentions of these past few moments, I'm not known for my self-restraint, and I don't want to do anything that might hurt you."

"I don't think you could hurt me," she said. "But you're right. I don't want to leave here, but we should go now." She kissed him once more, letting her lips linger on his a moment longer. Then she turned away with a small sigh, and began retrieving her clothes.

She pulled on her stockings demurely, barely raising her skirt, stuck her feet into gritty damp shoes, and gathered the other articles into a small, neat bundle inside her cloak. Angel stood, taking her bundle under one arm, and reaching out with the other to hold her hand. They walked away from the little cove and headed toward town.

"I think I am beginning to feel responsible for your safety, Siobhan," Angel said. "I sense that you don't want me to pry into the nature of your duties, odd though they are. And I want to respect that. But I admit I'm wicked curious."

"I'd worry about you if you weren't. I am a strange one, I know. And though I assure you it's not your business to look after me, still it is comforting to know that you do." Siobhan moved closer, and leaned her head on his shoulder as they walked.

He slipped his arm around her. "Would you let me help you? Not that I have any idea how I could."

She was silent for a while. Then she said, "I'm afraid I'd have to put you to a test."

Angel stopped, and turned to face her. Her eyes searched his. "If you're willing," she said, "look for me tomorrow night. If you watch what I do, and ask no questions till I say you may, and make no attempt to stop me...well, then we shall see if you could be of assistance."

Angel said, "I'll do my best."

Siobhan smiled. "That's all that anyone can ask of you." Her tone became more serious then. "I've dealt with loneliness for many years now. I'd thought I'd mastered it. But it's been more difficult since I met you. I fear that my reasons for reaching out to you are quite selfish."

Angel set the damp bundle down, and drew her into his arms. He tilted her chin up, saying, "Would it help if we took a vow to ease each other's loneliness? And if it will make you feel better, I will promise not to let myself get hurt when I am with you." When she gave a small nod--and he swore he could see stars in her eyes as she did so--he solemnly kissed the top of her head. "Consider it done. We are now joined, for good or ill. You're a brave lass, Siobhan." He took her arm, and the wet clothes, and they continued on.

He delivered her to her house then, hoping for another kiss, but the door was opened immediately by Master Reilly. "Siobhan!" the old man exclaimed. "I was worrying over you."

She quickly reassured him. "All is well, Uncle. Don't fret. I seem to have acquired a guardian angel."

Master Reilly looked at his former pupil, who rather sheepishly handed him Siobhan's bundle of clothes.

"So he hasn't quite lost all of his potential?" the teacher mused. "Well, we shall see. I do thank you, lad, for any aid you have given Siobhan."

"I was happy to be able to help her," Angel said. "And I will see her again soon, I hope."

He turned to go, but Siobhan exclaimed, "Oh! Your sweater! I will give it back to you when I see you next."

"No, keep it," he smiled at her. "It looks better on you."

*****

Then the mountain rose before me,
By the deep well of desire,
From the fountain of forgiveness,
Beyond the ice and the fire.

Angel remembered what happened next with resignation. He had walked home, under the blaze of a splendid sunrise, with a spring in his step, and more hope than he'd felt in a long time. He remembered planning to speak with his father, to see if they somehow could ease their differences, and wondering if he could help his mother work through her pain. Naively, he assumed his very willingness would make things work out.

But back at his parents' house, nothing had changed. His father already was half drunk and beginning to rage, and his mother had hidden herself away to lament, and Angel began to doubt. Who am I, he thought, that I can make a difference? What power do I have? His family had self-destructed, and he had been of no help to them.

So he slept a while, as the sun lost itself in heavy clouds. He slept in patches during the day, but each time it was a fitful, troubled sleep, and he finally gave it up.

"I need to see Siobhan again," he told himself. Was all that had happened the night before real, or just the quickening of blood in the presence of a pretty girl? How could such an innocent offer salvation to a hopeless lout of a man?

Now the revisited scenes became familiar again. They were the ones Angel had replayed a thousand times. How he had left his home, with a purpose and a destination and all good intentions, only to meet with a distraction.

It had seemed harmless enough. He saw a few friends, who urged him into the tavern. Some upstarts, new in town, were challenging the locals to various tests of strength and skill, in the form of cards, dice and arm-wrestling. Angel somehow was convinced that he was needed to uphold the honor of Galway.

"Just for a few moments," he agreed, "for I've someplace to be."

But the minutes lengthened, the drinks flowed, the challenges turned to fights, and Angel, accompanied by the one of his friends still standing, was forced out of the pub.

And instead of seeking out Siobhan, Angel found Darla.

*****

"So there is some truth to repressed memory," Angel thought wryly, from his front-row seat in the vortex of Hell. "And I seem to have a history of falling for pretty slayers. And of failing them, too." He had been given such clear views of all the despicable acts of his vampiric life--but why had someone as significant as Siobhan been hidden in the recesses of his tortured soul?

More than two centuries after the fact, it was obvious she'd been a slayer. And what had happened to her? Angel and Darla had done a fine job of rampaging in and around Galway--she had rejoiced at what a quick learner he was. A slayer would have lost no time in finding them, but they had been left virtually alone to drink and kill.

But now, Hell's demonic satellite dish was offering him another channel. Angel had a vision of old Galway again, and he could sense that it showed him what was happening elsewhere, while he was burying his head in Darla's bosom and getting his first taste of blood.

It was in the graveyard, and Siobhan was there, facing away, but still seemingly aware of her surroundings. Her hair was tied loosely back in a ribbon; she wore his sweater still, and she held a pointed stick. She tensed, as she heard a soft footfall behind her.

"Is it my Angel?" she asked, not turning around.

A soft, honeyed voice answered, "I'm afraid it is not, Slayer."

Siobhan whirled around, instantly in a fighting stance. Instead of the handsome features of the young man she'd been expecting, she saw the pale, reptilian face and cloaked figure of the Master Vampire.

"I see that St. Patrick missed a snake," she said.

"Oh, I'm glad you're one with a sense of humor, my dear," said the Master. "It's so dreary to deal with the serious slayers."

"Believe me, I am quite serious about my duties," Siobhan said.

"Yes, I am aware of that. I've lost quite a few family members of late, and many of them were strong and experienced killers. You should be proud of your skills."

"Forgive me if I don't mourn your losses," Siobhan faced the Master. "Nor will I mourn for you."

"You are very young. You're strong, as you must be to fight vampires, all of whom are more vigorous than those humans who are without a slayer's superior strength. But you have not dealt before with a Master, or his powers. You will find it an interesting lesson, though a short one." The Master's face cracked in an evil smile.

"I learn quickly," Siobhan said.

"You do indeed. You would have continued to be a most successful slayer, perhaps one of the best, had I not made it my business to deal with you tonight."

"It's so nice to hear compliments, but we really must get down to business. I am curious as to why I am in such illustrious company as yourself, but I'm happy enough just to have the chance to kill you." Siobhan shifted slightly, as the Master moved toward her.

"A chance is all you'd get, in the best of situations. And this is not the best, for you, my dear."

He fixed his blood-red eyes on her. "You were expecting someone else to be here tonight."

"I was expecting vampires. You've more than met my expectations," Siobhan said.

"Expectations..." The Master drew out the word. "That is just why I had to be here. There was a tricky little hint of a prophecy mentioned in the Pergamum Codex. A silly thing, about a dynasty of Slayers...yes, not just one per generation, but a family of them, each one producing more offspring, spreading over the continents, doing away with our ancient Order. 'As the Sun and the Darkness meet and are joined, so they will give rise to a Dynasty.' I've learned to pay attention to such things, when I read them in the Codex. Of course, one must always interpret, and interpretations can be wrong, but best to be on the safe side, don't you think?"

"I don't have a clue as to what you mean," Siobhan said, "except for being on the safe side. That's why I kill vampires. To keep us safe."

"And that is why I must kill you. That, and your hair. So like the sun--not that I've seen it in more years than you could count, of course. But that could be the Codex's way of referring to a red-haired slayer. It was troublesome, then, to hear of you mooning about with that dark young man."

It was clear that he had startled Siobhan. "What did you do to him?" she whispered. "Is he dead?"

"Perhaps, my dear," the Master moved closer to her. "Or perhaps reborn. I gave the Lady Darla her choice in dealing with him. As she's one to appreciate a comely man, I would guess that she will want him around for a long while."

Siobhan flew at him, ready with both fist and stake. But he stretched out his claw-tipped fingers, and she found she could not move.

"I told you my powers were great," he said. "You should be thankful. I am saving you the pain of slaying the man you love." He tangled his fingers in her hair, pulling her head back.

"It was nice knowing you," he said, "but it will be even nicer to say good by." He stroked her neck lightly, and then sunk his fangs into the white skin.

Though we share this humble path, alone,
How fragile is the heart.
Oh give these clay feet wings to fly,
To touch the face of the stars.

Breathe life into this feeble heart,
Lift this mortal veil of fear.
Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears,
We'll rise above these earthly cares.

The scene shifted then, to Gavin Reilly's house. The old scholar was bent over his books, in the light of a flickering candle. His quill scratched as he wrote out notes, or translations. Suddenly he sat up, quoting what he had just written. "'and the Master will learn of the prophecy...' Oh, dear God, no. Siobhan!"

He left the house quickly, moving with more strength and speed than he'd thought he'd possessed. The sun was rising as he neared the graveyard, just illuminating the small heap of her body lying between the stones.

The old Watcher knelt beside her, and cradled his Slayer in his arms. "I should have warned you about that prophecy. I should have found that passage long ago. I failed to protect you, my colleen. Forgive me." He saw a tear drop on to her cold cheek, though he did not know he was crying. Her lashes were so dark against her pale skin, and the sun's first rays glinted on her coppery curls. A trickle of blood from her neck had formed a small, dark pool that stained the creamy, thick wool of her sweater.

*****

Would I have been able to help her? Angel wondered. Was I meant to help her? Did I screw up my own fate, or was that, too, part of some damned enigmatic prophecy?

A dynasty of slayers...was he supposed to have joined his destiny with Siobhan's, and fathered them? Helped to rid the world of vampires, instead of siring several? Obviously, even his seduction by Darla had been part of the Master's plan. No doubt the strangers in the tavern were, too. Was it all due to words in a book?

There was some cold comfort in remembering that he had saved Buffy's life by killing Darla, and had aided her when she sent the Master to Hell. When the Master sought to keep Angel from Siobhan, and gave him instead the immortal life of a bloodthirsty demon, even he had not read two hundred years into the future. And he had thought Buffy would be the key to his freedom, not his death. He'd merely bought himself, and his kind, some extra time. Interpretations can be wrong...

So, what am I meant to do with my immortality? Angel asked himself. Just now, he was as much a captive as the Master had been after that inopportune earthquake, and there wasn't much he could do, except brood. Through fate or his own arrogance, he had been denied the chance at a normal life--if marrying and raising a batch of slayers, should that have been the case, could be considered normal. He tried to see himself in that life, but the 242 years since then had been devoid of such basic human needs, and he had blocked them out. Until he'd met Buffy, anyway, and after that, the idea of anything natural seemed even more out of reach.

I would have loved it, he realized. I would have loved to have been with Siobhan, and for life to have a purpose. I would have tried to be the kind of husband and father she and our children deserved. Hell, she would have seen to that. She wouldn't have allowed me to fail.

But how does that help me now, except to give me more to regret? How does that help Buffy? Did the prophecy die with Siobhan, or was it still waiting to come to pass? Is Buffy a part of it? Am I? Buffy's blonde hair, too, was like sun...and I've lived several lifetimes of darkness. But even if I could still father children, look what happened when Buffy and I...

I'm babbling, Angel thought. I'm sitting here in the mouth of Hell and I'm turning into a babbling fool. Even if I'm released from here, there won't be any happy family for me to embrace. I'm not going to be a part of any prophecies. I've had two chances to become someone worthwhile, and I turned into a monster both times.

He gave voice to his thoughts. "Buffy, I know you can't hear me. That's what Hell is, it's not being able to help the ones you love. But I've got to try. I don't know what else to do. So just be strong, okay? You can do it alone. I know you want to hide, I know you're hurting. I wish I could be with you, and show you how much I love you. I can't, so you've got to get over me. Get past me. Do what you need to do. My part in all of this was always one big 'maybe.' But yours is real. Kill them, kill them all, and stay alive. Because I couldn't bear to watch you die, and believe me, if it happens, I'll be watching it."

Angel closed his eyes, though he knew that wouldn't stop him from seeing. He wasn't seeing Buffy, though, but a girl who had died long ago. "Forgive me, Siobhan," he whispered. "I broke our vow. I don't know where you are now, but I would guess it's in a better place than I. You owe me less than nothing, but if you can, look kindly on another brave girl who has taken up your cause. Do it for her sake, not for mine."

Was he praying? Angel wondered. And if so, who was hearing his prayers? Does anyone listen to prayers from Hell? He was isolated in the vortex; alone, except for the visions that haunted him. The only response to his voice was a dull echo that seemed to mock his helpless, solitary state.

"Is this how you felt, Siobhan?" Angel whispered. "All those years, knowing you were not in my thoughts, or in my heart? Did my love for Buffy seem to mock anything I might have felt for you?"

His eyes were burning, and Angel realized that tears in Hell are liquid fire. He was powerless to quench them.

"I deserve punishment, but you don't, Siobhan. Buffy doesn't, either. I know my promises have been worthless, but I'll do anything I can to keep one more. Any good that I accomplish is an honor to you, any love I feel is with regret that you couldn't share it. And I swear I won't forget you again."

Cast your eyes on the ocean,
Cast your soul to the sea.
When the dark night seems endless,
Please remember me.
Please remember me.

The End

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