3. Interlude
"I was once king among gods." Illyria
spoke
without inflection, blue eyes trained on the steady pitch and swell of
the grey ocean beyond the orange railing of the cargo vessel. Willow
leaned back against the railing and nodded, listening. "I claimed
dominion over this planet and a multitude of others; I bore the power
to reduce all life to ashes or roses at my whim, and restrained myself
from sheer benevolence. I was old when the continents held a different
shape, and the feet of my army helped to crack them apart. I was
everything, and have been reduced to barely more than nothing."
"That's a bit harsh," Willow interjected. "I mean, I watched you fight.
You're still incredibly powerful."
Illyria looked directly into the witch's eyes, and her lips quirked in
amused condescension. "What I was, what you made of me, is to my former
glory what the stars are to the sun. The same in essentials, but
incredibly, terribly distant."
Willow sighed. "I know the feeling." She jerked. "Not... I mean...
Obviously I don't, but..."
Illyria laughed, a sharp bark that shared little with humor. "Do not be
concerned. I have seen your works, past and present, and I feel your
loss." Willow nodded, sinking her head into her shoulders. "And that is
what is wrong." She stepped forward, clenching her fingers so tightly
around the railing that it groaned with resentment. "I mourn for
Wesley. I swore not to kill, and he swore to teach me about humanity.
What he could not do in life, he accomplished with his death. I long
for the days when my power reigned supreme, for the times when ones
such as the Wolf, Ram and Hart would never dare to whisper of me, much
less seek to control me. I ache for my loss. But I mourn a friend."
"Illyria, would you mind if I asked a rude question?" Willow blushed
and ducked her head, waiting for the other's answer.
"If you do not take offense if I refuse to answer, then I shall not
take offense at the question."
"Then... Does Fred mind? About you sleeping with Spike?" Her flush was
spreading rapidly, tinting her ears pink.
"The shell's persona is neither wholly integrated nor always
self-aware, though it is becoming ever more so. But the... Fred," she
spoke her shell's name with a decisive exhale, " is not averse to my
pet's physical form, and understands my need for solace." Illyria rose
and turned to go. "The shell is weary. I will find my pet."
For long minutes after Illyria left, Willow stared out at the ocean.
"Solace," she murmured.