tampered | log; complete; closed.

log; complete; closed.

When: June 6th, late at night.
Rating: I'm guessing G, maybe PG for teh emo of it all.
Characters: Wesley Wyndham-Price (

discessum) and Illyria (

ancient_smurf).
Summary: Wesley drops by the mansion to have a talk with Faith and of course, Illyria is always around to cheer him up afterwards.
Log:

Another intruder. Or guest, perhaps. Illyria didn't have the patience to adjust her view on Wesley's charge, not at the moment and possibly not ever. Compromise. Change and make it all fit together. She walked down the empty hallway, glancing out of the windows once in a while without stopping to really notice anything. It was not a difficult task, merely an inconvenience. Looking for the small details, the individual pieces of a puzzle she didn't really care about finishing in the first place.

You still haven't found a purpose for yourself here yet.

Insufferable creatures, all of them. Expecting her to fit in, to change, as if plasticity was the easiest thing in the known universe. No, she had not been given life to stand her ground without moving forward. She was never wary of engaging in battle, not even if the goal was difficult to perceive.

For treasure, for power, for the sake of conquering land and expanding herself, to reach further, always further - this, she could understand. Motivation had never been a critical consideration before because everything used to be simple. Act to gain results and enrich life in every possible way; things had definitely changed since then. Her prosperous kingdom had long since been turned to dust and she was left with specs of the past, locked in her mind as potentially meaningless memories.

That and a useless, human shell that brought her nothing but confusion, infected her with human remains and making her want to claw her way out, if only it wouldn't kill her. It belonged to her, yet it kept her enslaved to human emotions and memories that she had no use for. They couldn't even help her change. Winifred Burkle had been a pitiful creature, jittery and nervous, her mind occupied with abstractions and emotional conflicts. It was like possessing an enormous library, nearly brimming over with important texts and books - only to realize that everything was written in the wrong language, for the wrong reasons, by the wrong person.

If this place should happen to bring in her Qwa'ha Xahn, she would relish the change to kill him again and again, for bringing this fate upon her when he should have been wiser.

She ended up in the library again, as always. Something inside of her was drawn to it, to the books on the shelves, the knowledge hidden between the pages. It was a difficult craving to understand since she had never really cared much for acquiring knowledge in this manner. It was almost an urge, something that she didn't want to ignore though, rationally, it didn't make any sense.

The shelves were partly empty, the hollow spaces making the room appear even larger than it was. It wasn't large enough, but it would do, like everything else. It had to, as there were no better alternatives. Passing one shelve, she grabbed a book and headed for the nearest window, a sparse light from outside illuminating the floor and causing her shadow to trail behind her, only barely perceptible. Weak. She ignored the implications, annoyed enough already. She shouldn't care about the girl or her ties to Wesley. She shouldn't be angry about sharing his attention because his attention shouldn't matter.

And yet.

Standing with the book in one hand, its light weight barely an afterthought, she looked out of the window. She would explore, find a way to understand the urges passing through her like currents of painful electricity. Look to others, look to yourself. And then, change. If it was possible at all.

You're already changing, Illyria.

She closed her eyes and let the changes ripple through her form, leathery armour replaced by soft fabrics, her body feeling even more wrong than usual as she shuddered at the coolness of the room against her bare arms and legs. Human flaws. She would endure, for now.

She had no use for Winifred Burkle. Or maybe she just didn't know what to do with everything the girl left behind when she rotted away for good.

Maybe this was change.

She sat down by the window and flicked to page one.

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Considering everything that kept piling up, it was no surprise that Wesley was irritable. He was still concerned for Jamie's well-being, Sylar was always a serpentine threat, Faith's stubborn blindness was ever increasing, the deities had trashed an important piece of his research, and now he couldn't find his scotch.

He had taken most of his liquor with him when he'd moved, but some had been left behind in the cellar. He was forced to tolerate Spike's whining again while he practically trashed the place looking for it. Oh sure there was some wine about, even if that really wasn't what he wanted.

But he'd take it.

With a bottle of merlot in hand, and rather surprised he was able to ignore Spike as well he did, Wesley headed back up the stairs, only lingering outside his old room for a moment before choosing to head to a different one. When he had been living at the mansion, he'd spent more time sleeping on the library's couch than he had his own bed. He had taken most of the books with him when he left, but some were still there. Some that he didn't feel comfortable keeping where someone else would want to look. Anyone would suspect that he would have taken all of the most important books, but it was quite the opposite really.

It was dire now to learn as much as he could about Sylar's specific brand of power. How far it could go, who it could affect, and why he had it.

Unfortunately his racing thoughts were forced to a complete standstill when he actually entered the library, and he hoped and prayed the vision that he found was nothing more than a nightmare.

But it was far too vivid, and far too likely. He wished it wasn't, but it was. Illyria had no reason to respect his wishes, and the few times she had left him puzzled.

His heart couldn't beat, but he swore it clenched, and the bottle falling from his lowered hand to thud against the carpet would have been enough to alert her of his presence if the heavy emotion curling off of him wasn't enough. She was just sitting there as if it was all right. Looking like her. Reading like her. Illyria never read, for God's sake. What had he possibly done to warrant this brand of torture on her part? He had to force his eyes shut, because the sight of her burned.

"...What are you doing?" Wesley's fury felt cold, muddled with horror and confusion, and it all melded together to leave his tone sounding raw.

Her eyes scanned the pages slowly, taking in the words with carefulness and getting nothing out of it. The subject was boring, unimportant; magic only interested her to the extent that she could actually use it - and she was tiring of it rapidly. She was rather immersed in it, though, and Wesley dropping the bottle on the carpet made her notice him for the first time.

She didn't look up, finishing the paragraph so as not to let herself be interrupted. Even with her lesser powers, she could sense his agitation. Anger, or maybe something stronger. Obviously, she had not acted according to his wishes, but she didn't understand why this merited such strong emotions.

He could not feel betrayed. She had promised him nothing. She didn't make promises. Only deals, to further her goals.

She spoke without looking up from the book, though she wasn't really paying attention to the words on the page anymore, having finished the paragraph and finding nothing of interest in it. "I am trying to understand."

Anger. Why would he object to this, to her looking for change in every place she could manage? She wasn't trying to involve him in it this time around - the thought of his dismissal was another spark of annoyance, especially now - and he was intruding upon her, his emotions clouding up the atmosphere and bothering her. He forgot his place often around her and in this case, he was demanding an explanation that he didn't have any rights to.

Another page turned, another sentence read and still, nothing. She didn't look up at him, waiting for him to speak.

His legs felt weak, but he ignored that as he opened his eyes and stalked across the rug to where she sat, reaching out and snatching the book right off her lap. The anger and pain he felt was tightly coiled; like a heavy stone in his gut.

"Change back," he hissed, not caring at all how much his behavior offended her. He'd rarely shown her even an ounce of the respect she so craved. He'd insulted her, called her names, and even scolded her at times. But this was only the second time he felt truly angry at her, Fred's death aside, since while he could hate her for that, it wasn't really her fault.

Wesley had thought they had reached some sort of understanding. That she would never look like Fred. She had actually obliged until he lay dying. That -

That was never going to happen again.

"Understand some other way. Just change back."

His actions took her by surprise and she definitely wasn't used to that. She stared at the book in his hand, her body feeling poised for a fight, adrenaline surging through her suddenly and uncomfortably. He would dare. The insolence! She didn't change back, his order making her both confused and agitated. Yes, he had made it clear that he didn't like it, that he didn't want her changing into Fred around him.

But she hadn't expected him here, not now when he had other things to mind - like the girl, the disrespectful one with the angry demeanor. Wesley was not the only one with more than a single focus in his life. Illyria could favor others, yes, but it didn't mean they were worth much to her. It definitely did not mean she formed any attachments to them, not like him.

And he had made his choice.

He didn't worship Illyria. He did not even favor her. He just... dealt with her because he felt he had to, his miserable human conscience making him take pity on her...

She stood up, annoyed at the lack of distance between them. Being shorter than he was, she was forced to look up to stare at him, something that didn't usually distract her. Right now, though, it made her voice harder, her stance more rigid. "You presume to give me orders. Because her body makes you lose your composure." She grabbed his shirt with both hands, her movements fast and precise, and gave him quick push, with a lot more force than needed.

Watching him stumble backwards, she stood her ground in front of the window, feeling stronger than before. Violence always felt like release. "If you want another favor from me, you will remember your place."

The book dropped as he was forced back, but even that didn't deter him. Though he normally tried to be more careful around her when she started to display violence, at the moment he wasn't letting reason rule his actions. His emotions were far too complex even for him to decipher. And what did he have left to lose by angering her, really? He'd lost his soulmate, his dignity, and his life. Even the presence of his sanity had been brought into question by his friends.

Eyes narrowed, he grabbed hold of one of the book cases for balance. He was smart enough to keep his distance for the moment. Wesley couldn't fight her even if he thought he had the proper spells. He could never strike at Fred's face.

"My place? Perhaps you ought to remember yours." He spat out his words like venom, the chill in his glower warming to something more akin to smoldering.

"You are not Fred. You have no right to look like her or sound like her. You may wear her body and play with her memories, but that doesn't mean you can make a mockery of her. You poisoned her. Consumed her body and soul. And for what? Nothing. You have no place here. I don't even know why I...!"

His throat felt tight, too choked up to even finish, and his grip on the wood tightened as he swallowed dryly.

Ah. The human weaknesses. He didn't seem to be in control of his emotions, and she wondered why he didn't simply attack her. Still a bit of reason left, then, not that she cared overly much. He was yelling at her, without being drunk. It made it all a little bit more unforgivable, his acting as if he weren't overstepping his lines by many miles already.

"I do not know my place," she said, keeping perfectly still, ready to strike him down if he got too confident or too angry to control himself. "Not in this world, not in the one we left behind."

His anger was making her own fade away, the sense of irrationality making her think and re-think, anciently cultivated patience resurfacing gradually. He was desperate. She knew desperation and what it did to creatures infected by it. And somehow, she didn't like the way it made him sound. Buried deep within her neural networks, a different sense of nausea was growing, an emotional catch that she hadn't asked for when she planned for reincarnation. So repulsive, so intrusive... It made her feel sick, the idea of something affecting her without her consent.

Instead of addressing it further, she complied. Her body changed, her armour curling around her body once more. She did not take her eyes off him.

"I do not want to be anything like her. What remains of her disgusts me." She looked away, voice still firm. "But she is all that I have."

Even though her words should have left him more irate, it actually seemed to calm him a little. It helped when she changed back, grip on the case loosening before his hand dropped to hang weakly at his side.

The anger was still there, the frustration that she would have gone so far, but it helped that he was sober. There was a flicker of conflict in his gaze before he took a small step back, heel knocking the bottle further away.

It was tempting to just storm out, as he was still too emotional to address her properly. But what she was saying was important. She hadn't done it with intent to hurt him. It had been something for herself, and that set off alarm bells in his head. What Angel told him.

His breaths were shallow, not because he needed the air, but because the rush of emotion simply triggered the habit.

"You never had her. And she was better than anyone else could ever hope to be," he muttered bitterly as he eyed her for a long moment, before speaking again with his tone softened by a fraction.

"What is it you were trying to understand?"

She kept her gaze averted, a no doubt strangely submissive gesture. It was not for fear of looking at him, though - that would be ridiculous - but for the sake of collecting her thoughts. The question was difficult. She still wasn't certain that he even deserved an answer. She owed him nothing, at least, but she did want to make him calmer, if only because his anger was an ugly addition to the atmosphere in the library.

There had been a point to this exercise, just like there was a point to her asking others for help, for clues to understanding and fitting in. To adapt. He had interrupted her before she found out if it was working and she resolved to try it out again when she was sure he would not be there to spew all his pathetic human emotions over her and complicate things unnecessarily.

"I have what could not be eradicated," she said. It was true. She did have some of Fred, but Wesley knew that. She let it go, aware that he was seldom completely straightforward, as confusing as any human with regards to communication.

"I have had an urge to read for a while now." She waited a couple of seconds, weighing her words to make sure he understood her the first time. Despite everything, she did not have the patience to repeat herself at the moment. "This urge does not belong to me. I wanted to see where it would take me. If it would bring me clarity."

She looked at him, nothing but strong resolve in her eyes. "I was curious."

Wesley's own gaze shifted away as she explained. It bothered him intensely. It was one thing for her to showcase glimpses of human flaws, but to go this far disturbed him beyond reason.

He encouraged her to adapt and to change, but her attempts were skewed. She couldn't become more human. Humanity in Fred's dead body hit too close to home. And if the memories became too much... What then?

"Fine. You wanted to read. Why change your form?" His jaw clenched, words forced. "You had to know I was here. That I would see."

Perhaps she had known, without fully recognizing it, that he would come by the library because it seemed to suit him. Perhaps. But it didn't justify his assumption that she would act to affect him, to make him uncomfortable or angry. It was a bother, having to explain her intentions to him. Having to do anything was intolerable, actually. She would not encourage it.

"I changed because it seemed fitting. To walk the boarder, to test how deep she goes within me, if it is but shallow waters that I can learn to ignore."

It was all. If she caused him pain in the process, so be it. It did not bother her. On the contrary, it made her feel less tense, less angry than she was when she came back to the mansion to find the girl throwing a fit and being obnoxious.

"Your anger was an unpleasant side-effect."

How deep? The thought made his stomach churn. The very idea that Illyria was Illyria and Fred was Fred was something he clung to with great ferocity. Fred's soul had been destroyed. While the very idea sickened and horrified him, in this aspect it could be a comfort, because it solidified that there was no danger here. There was no allure.

Having Fred's body and her memories did not make her Fred. She didn't have her soul. Didn't have her heart. Whatever emotion she thought she might have felt was only a shadow drawn by memories not her own.

It didn't make them real.

With a ragged sigh, he leaned heavily against the wall, one hand covering his face.

"As if you care whether or not I'm angry. You just don't like that I interrupted your perverted version of self meditation."

He was back to insulting her again, but with less rancor and less agitation. His emotions felt less strong than earlier as well. She had said something that had calmed him down, though she was not sure what, exactly. His mind puzzled her. His actions even more so. She doubted it would ever change.

"It was not going well. The book bores me, like most others." She thought about his initial reaction, how she had felt almost stunned by his anger for just a second. While she didn't care about crossing lines as a general rule, she could still realize when it happened. She had not forgotten what he told her back home, but perhaps she had failed to generalize it properly.

It had never been something she needed to think about before.

Wesley was silent for a good minute after that. He was trembling, but only slightly. Even if his rage had calmed, the turmoil hadn't. He was just restraining his emotions as best he could. No doubt if he'd gotten into the wine before finding this, he'd be in the process of spewing a string of obscenities at her in at least four different languages.

Finally he pushed away from the wall to stare at her long and hard. "Then perhaps you can call that experiment a failure and not try it again. To explore that path, when you know the desire isn't yours..."

Stopping in front of her, he started to lift a hand as if to try and touch her, but immediately drew back. Beneath the rippling surface of the most obvious emotions, there was fear. Not of what she was, but what she could become if she went too far. If the confusion became too much, then she might try even harder to return to her old self. He couldn't tell her what Angel had told him. The very possibility that she could regain those powers was too risky.

"It isn't a path you should take. You won't change for the better. You'll change into something else." Think like her. He had to think like her, and he added quickly.

"Humans are so far beneath you, Illyria. It would only disgust you to understand us better. It's better if you abandon these experiments, don't you think?"

Change. Yet, don't change. Another conflicting message to decipher, as if he had not told her again and again that she would have to learn to change, to be something else than what she was. She did not want to be Winifred Burkle. She did not even want to be human.

And she couldn't be a demon either. Killing was an essential part of her nature, as was gaining power. Then what was left? She could be Illyria but the thought brought her no clarity. Illyria was a god of gods, a creature of unaccountable power and beauty. She was a star, not an orbiting planet, least of all a ridiculous, barren moon with no existential justification.

His proximity didn't affect her anymore, calm as she was. She did notice his wavering hand and wondered briefly what he had been planning. He was such a strange one, compared to the other humans she had encountered. He sought to manipulate her, to guide her. Because she was caught somewhere in between his affection and his hatred.

Look to others to understand yourself.

A sensible suggestion. She cocked her head, drawing a few inches closer to him, wishing that she could simply cut out of all his thoughts and motives, put them on the ground and inspect them. She spoke quietly, her voice less tight, less strained: "I seek to free myself from her, not to become what she was. The experiments are necessary."

She lowered her chin slightly as her eyes drew away again. "Do you object to them because they hurt you emotionally or..." She trailed off, uncharacteristically, while a new thought presented itself. Something she had failed to consider. Her gaze flew back to him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Or are you afraid of something else?"

It could not be. He could not be hiding things from her. Why would he do this? What purpose would it serve? And yet, she was not Fred. She was not the woman he had loved. His willingness to help her was one out of two opposite extremes and she could not afford to forget about the other one, even if he seldom showed any aggression towards her. Humans were sneaky, deceiving rats and around him, she tended to forget.

Tension was definitely creeping back into her body. She had been a ruler once and made a similar mistake. She would have to learn, lest she wanted to lose the little she had left of herself.

To free myself...

It was an understandable venture on her part, but one he didn't like for a few reasons. She was limited by Fred's body, and apparently by Fred's memories. If she found a way to conquer the thoughts, in a dimension as varied as this, surely she would find a way to conquer the limitations offered by wearing a human body.

That was just too dangerous. Even if she took out the deities in the process, if her powers were that great, she would end up taking everyone else out with them. There would be nothing left of anyone.

And nothing left of Fred. Despite his anger at her attempts at exploration, he wasn't ready to lose her. In the most morbid of ways, she was now his purpose. The complexities of Illyria. The remnants of Fred. He would lose that as soon as they returned to LA, wouldn't he? To become nothing more than a ghost. A puppet.

He was afraid.

Wesley's gaze became guarded as he stood his ground. "You think I have anything left to fear in this mockery of a life? I just don't want you doing something you'll later regret."

Regret? She had never had any reasons to regret. It was an alien emotion, a mythical state of being that she did not usually pay any heed. To regret was to recognize your faulty actions. To realize past mistakes and to mourn them. She did not recall any of her own, except for letting herself get killed. One fatal mistake - and regretting it would not undo what happened.

It simply had no use. Reflection had a purpose but only to further present goals. Everything else was human semantics, an attempt to fill up a basically empty existence.

"For a human, there is always something to fear." She recalled past conversations in this world, different creatures explaining their view on the purpose of emotions. The way some described them as a vital part of humanity - that which gave their lives meaning. "As long as you feel, you are vulnerable."

Pausing for a few seconds, she felt herself calm down again. There was a tinge of tension left in her body, though. The lingering feeling that he would betray her and lie because part of him resented her.

Looking up at him, she kept her voice steady. Annoyingly, it took some effort. "And in my current condition, this could be the same for me."

Weaknesses. They were like invisible leeches, eating away at her potential without her realizing it until it was too late. She longed to destroy them, to feel stronger than everything without that continual sense of disappointment, of defeat that was making her skin crawl.

He couldn't argue with that, but at least it wasn't forcing him to explain. Wesley rarely bothered keeping information from Illyria, but in this case it was detrimental. He needed to know more first. The triggers, the risks, the consequences... It was all necessary.

But at the moment, he was just too tired. He'd come in here to do more research, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to look through the books anymore. He didn't want to sleep, because the nightmares that lay in wait were no better than this joke, but he didn't want to be awake.

Another glance towards the window, recalling what he saw when he walked in, and there was a slight stumble as he turned away to lean over for the bottle of wine. Not cracked. It was still good.

He'd stay in his room until morning, but then he was gone. He could have stopped and taken more time with her. Asked her what she felt, what she feared. He was supposed to assist her in this learning process.

If only.

"Learn how you feel is best." The implications went unsaid. Didn't need to be vocalized. But they were there.

She watched him turn away, reaching for the bottle of poison that would bring him that strange kind of relief tonight that he sought so often. He could never turn to her, even if he wanted to. She did not give anything for free - altruism only existed as a neutral concept in her mind, a leftover from the girl who knew too many useless things. More importantly, he could not give her anything tonight either; she knew it, from his terse sentences and his carefully controlled body language. He was too angry with her still.

It meant little to her. It was like poking an insect and watching it lose one leg after the other, crawling around and seeing too little to help itself. Pathetic, sad, disgusting and ultimately, unimportant.

She did not pick another book from the shelves, preferring instead to sit by the window again, looking out. She did not focus on anything in particular. Instead, she thought about humanity and what it had done to her, leaving her wondering about the intentions and the doings of a human who could give her nothing but the barest directional advice. He could not even give her his full attention and he did not want to, either. She could feel an attachment to him, growing beneath her skin and it agitated her and made all facets more difficult to perceive.

Without looking at him, she said, "As you say." Not because he decided anything for her, or because he controlled her - but because it was a truth, possibly not a permanent one but a truth all the same. It would be as he said. By her will.

And she would learn enough, eventually.

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