DISCLAIMER: Joss owns them, along with a lot of other folks at FOX, various production companies and a network or two. Joss has publicly stated that BtVS was always intended as a show which would inspire fanfic. This is the fanfic he wanted. No infringement intended.

RATING: NC-17, eventually. This part R for language.

SPOILERS: Through The Gift for BtVS and There’s No Place Like Plrtz Glrb for Ats.

NOTE 1: Ever since The Gift aired, my inbox has been flooded with fic on the subject, generally beautifully written, heartbreaking, sad fic. This isn’t that kind of story. [VEG]

NOTE 2: CHINESE SWORDS, CHINESE NAMES, AND EGYPTIAN GODS: According to the sources I consulted, the gim is a straight sword, of a style dating back to about the third century B.C. The design elements I used were taken from various descriptions and photographs of actual weapons. According to the other sources I consulted, "Zhao" is one of the four or five most common Chinese surnames, "Gang" is a common element of Chinese given names implying "steel" (usually in boys’ names, but work with me here) and "Ying" is a common element of Chinese girls’ names, implying flower. Thus, the intended meaning of the name of the ancient female warrior whose sword Angel has is "Steel Flower," although an interpretation as "Flowering Steel" works for me. *G* With luck, I haven’t mangled the language too badly. Certainly, no disrespect is intended. If anyone who knows Chinese wants to comment on the choice, or offer suggestions for a more accurate transliteration, feel free to contact me. The Egyptian god Thoth is pretty much as I described: god of wisdom, learning, the arts, writing, reckoning (math), and the moon. The Book of Thoth, allegedly written by the god himself, supposedly contained "the secrets of the gods and of the stars" and figures in a charming Egyptian legend, one version of which you can find here: http://www.touregypt.net/godsofegypt/thebookofthoth.htm

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of the light . . ."

Dylan Thomas, as paraphrased in the film Dangerous Minds

He was calm. Even as he said her name, realizing that something must be seriously wrong to bring Willow to him, he was certain that however bad it was, it could be fixed. That it was very bad, indeed, was obvious. Willow was here. Willow was devastated. Of course something was wrong with Buffy.

But, that was why Willow had come, wasn’t it? Because Buffy needed him, and was too busy fighting whatever it was to come, herself? Willow was only there to get him to help take care of things: slay the dragon, rescue the girl, wake her from a coma or do whatever it was that Buffy needed Angel to do, or that Willow needed him to do for Buffy.

Because he knew--he had what amounted to a goddamned promissory note from the Divine--that Buffy couldn’t possibly be dead.

"It’s Buffy," he said, trying to reassure Willow by his demeanor that whatever she was about to ask of him, he was prepared to perform.

He just wasn’t prepared to hear what she had to say.

Because Buffy could not have gone "down, down . . .like glistering Phaeton" down, into a darkness so absolute that the miracle of her light was forever swallowed. It could not be that the heart he had seen held before her, the heart he had wanted to warm with his own--that lioness’es courageous heart that would never accept harm to those she loved or to those under her protection, but would always find another way to do whatever had to be done--it could not be that her so-strong heart no longer beat. Nor could it be that her gray-green eyes were now forever sightless, her human warmth was eternally fled, or that the blood she had poured unstintingly into his own useless, dead flesh would never again run rich and full through her veins.

It could not be that he had sacrificed "every drop of human happiness he had ever known" so that the minions of The Powers That Be would see to it that Buffy did not die sooner, and that, after the terrible price exacted from him--after he had given up his humanity and his infinitely yearned for peace and the simple grace of having her fall asleep in his arms, after he had resumed once more the hated burden of the beast within him and saved soul after soul despite the torment afflicting his own--oh no, it could never be that having denied himself whatever time he could have spent with Buffy, having renounced perhaps forever his hope of being with her again, that his sacrifice was flung back in his face.

Yet Willow stood before him, saying things--impossible, dreadful, unthinkable things--and he was forced to realize that all of these things that could not be . . .could not be denied.

Eighteen months. His acceptance of a return to death and resumption of the vampiric state, his taking up once more his demonic burden, and the eternal soul-devouring battle against his own inner dark--all the pain and suffering and torment he had gladly, willingly, gratefully embraced for her sake--had bought her exactly one day less than eighteen months. As he stood in the lobby of the Hyperion, mute, listening to a torrent of horror pour from Willow’s mouth, one truth crystallized for Angel: he had made a bad bargain.

And They were worse than fools if They thought he would not complain.

Willow faltered to a halt, not quite understanding his stony silence. He wondered, had she expected his tears? Oh, there would be tears for Buffy’s death. Heaven would groan in grief, and the world would end, weeping. But he himself was far beyond anything so simple as tears.

"Wesley," he barked out coldly. "The Book of Thoth is locked in the cabinet in my room. You know where the key is. I need every prophecy you can find about Zhao Gang-Ying. Especially, her sword."

"The Book of Thoth?" Wesley said uneasily. The book was not the one described in the legends that began to circulate several centuries after the time of Rameses II, and which was allegedly written by the god, himself. Rather, this was the book upon which that legend was based; in fact, a series of papyrus scrolls written, over the course of the mightiest dynasties of Egypt, by priests of the god of the moon and of learning. The book of legend was said to impart the ability to understand the language of the animals, and to "enchant heaven and earth, itself." The real book might not be quite that powerful, but it came close. It contained many potent spells and rituals, and much arcane knowledge. Angel kept it under lock and key for good reason. Wesley didn’t think, given the shocking news they had just heard, that it was something any of them should be reading right now. Especially considering the sword--or that thing of power and darkness that was in a sword’s scabbard and was wielded like a sword--Angel was talking about. It was under lock and key, as well . . .but only because no one knew how to destroy it. "Angel, I . . ."

"Now," Angel said quietly, violently, and Wesley, a leader of men, a general who had understood what it was to sacrifice, closed his mouth and went to find the needed book. Angel shook off his paralysis and stripped out of his coat, tossing it onto one of the couches in the lobby. Walking purposefully toward the office area, he began barking out orders to the others

"Cordy, you’ve got spare clothes upstairs. Go change, then come back down. You and Willow are on the computers. I want everything you can find on other approaches to The Powers That Be, now that the Oracles are gone."

Cordy opened her mouth, closed it again, shrugged helplessly, and murmured, a meek, "Sure," before going upstairs. Busy booting up the computer on his desk, Angel hadn’t looked at her, or noticed that she was as uneasy as Wesley. He would not have cared, if he had. Angel continued giving orders. "Gunn, find rooms for Fred and Willow, then help Wesley. He’s going to come across references to other volumes, and you’ll need to check those out."

Gunn looked at Fred, who was becoming increasingly nervous, and decided that getting her out of the way was not a bad idea. And, if he were helping Wesley, he might be able to figure out what the hell was going on with Angel, and what the hell they were going to do about it. The memories of what had happened when Darla got her claws into the guy were still fresh, and something in his gut told him that had been a piece of cake compared to whatever was hag-riding Angel right now. "Okay, boss," Gunn said with an irony Angel was too absorbed to notice. Shaking his head, Gunn took Fred’s arm and followed Cordy up the stairs.

Willow made no move to go with them. "What’s going on?" she asked Angel.

"I need you to help Cordy do web searches," Angel said as he moved on to the computer on Cordy’s desk and started the process of bringing that one on line. "You can work at my desk, over there. Zhao Gang-Ying, The Powers That Be, The Oracles . . .anything that will help me get to them. This one’s Cordy’s, and I’ll work from Wesley’s office."

"‘The Powers That Be?’ What are you . . .?" Willow began, and then, something occurred to her. "Oh. Angel, no. You can’t. I mean when Joyce died . . .but you can’t. Buffy wouldn’t want--"

"I’m not looking for a resurrection spell, Willow," Angel, without taking his attention from the computer screen he was scrutinizing, interrupted her once more. He had realized the conclusion the young witch must have leapt to, and needed to stop her conjectures in that area so she could focus on the work to be done. "This isn’t about that."

"Then what the hell is it about?" Willow demanded, her anxiety only escalating at his answer, and the cold, almost mechanical way he had responded to her news of Buffy’s death. A resurrection spell was something she could understand. Angel, sobbing or grieving, or just being Brood Guy and going off to mourn his lost love in private were things she could understand, too. And, hell yeah, she got that he was angry. Of course he was angry. They were all angry at the utter cruelty and unfairness of Buffy’s death, and Angel, who had been her lover--and always, her love--had more reason than any of them for rage. But there was something about the purpose with which he moved, something about the way the others weren’t arguing with him, just doing what he told them to do, that Willow found deeply frightening. She couldn’t help feeling that he didn’t get it, that even though he had heard what she said, he was in denial: that he was trying desperately to save a life that was already lost. "Angel, Buffy’s gone," she tried to get through to him. "And, you’re being action guy and that isn’t--there isn’t anything to do. She’s gone." The final word came out on a wrenching sob, as Willow was forced to articulate her own loss, anew.

"She isn’t supposed to be gone!" Angel snarled.

"I don’t--"

"This is a mistake. That’s all. It’s a mistake. I’ll tell them and they’ll fix it."

"Angel, you’re scaring me," Willow admitted, needing him to explain, needing him to reassure her that there was some logic to his reactions, and he wasn’t going to go off the deep end. Years earlier, Buffy had told them how Angel hadn’t been sane when he first returned from hell, and that she’d been forced to chain him in the mansion. Even then, he’d managed to break free. Fortunately, he had only gone to find Buffy, and rescue her from danger, and he’d regained his senses as soon as he did so. But if he lost his sanity now, with no Buffy to restore him . . ."What are you talking about?" Willow pleaded. "Who are ‘they?’"

Angel shook his head, not having the time to deal with her questions. "Cordy knows. I told Doyle, he told her. She’ll give you the details. The important thing is I have to get to The Powers That Be, and the sooner I do, the sooner they can fix things."

"This isn’t something you can fix," Willow said, her voice quavering. Angel looked at her, his eyes suddenly glowing yellow.

"It had better be," he replied.

Willow stared at him in shock, her tears instantly drying. Angel didn’t seem irrational, so much as too coldly logical. He was serious, as serious as she had ever seen him. She realized, in that moment, what the others must have already figured out: Angel wasn’t denying Buffy’s death, so much as the permanence of that death, and he would never be able to grieve for Buffy, never be able to deal with her loss, if he didn’t get the answers he was looking for, now.

Willow nodded, then went to the workstation Angel had told her to use, and began to type in the URL to her favorite search engine. "So, Zhao who?"

With everyone in full research mode, it took barely an hour to find what Angel was looking for. They weren’t enthusiastic about presenting him with the information. Gunn and Wesley had argued while they researched. Gunn was all for pretending they couldn’t find anything, and giving Angel a chance to calm down. Wesley told him that there was no way that Angel was going to calm down, and that if they didn’t help him do the research, he’d just do it himself.

"We have to trust that The Powers That Be will be able to handle whatever Angel has in mind," Wesley said. "After all, they’ve taken a great deal of interest in him, so far. They sent a demon to lead him to Buffy, they released him from hell, made it snow when he was about to greet the sunrise, sent another demon to guide him with visions, and transferred those visions to Cordy when Doyle died."

"And the Oracles?" Gunn asked. Sighing, Wesley filled him in.

In the outer office, Cordy did the same for Willow.

"He was human?" Willow’s fingers stilled on the keyboard, as she took in the enormity of what Cordy was telling her.

"Warm-blooded, breathing, beating heart human," Cordy confirmed. "At least, that’s what Doyle told me."

"And, he and Buffy . . .?"

"Had one day together. Not even. From what Doyle said, the Oracles moved time back to just after she came by the office, and Angel didn’t battle the Mohra demon for an hour or so after that. Plus, he went to the Oracles, first. So, it was a few hours less than a whole day."

"It was everything he ever wanted," Willow said slowly. "Everything Buffy ever wanted. And he gave it up?"

"So she wouldn’t die," Cordy agreed.

"But she did die," Willow said. "And she never remembered. She died without ever truly being happy again. Oh, I told myself that Riley was making her happy, and maybe he did, but not happy happy. Just, you know, content. That was why he left, and I think, that was why she didn’t really try to stop him, even if she did chase that ‘chopper. She didn’t love him. Not really. And she died, not remembering the one day when she was probably the happiest she ever got to be in her life." Willow shook her head, tears forming anew in her eyes. "That’s. . .cruel." Her gaze flicked to where she could see Angel, in Wesley’s office. He had his back to her, as he opened a locked cabinet. As she watched, he pulled aside some shelves, revealing a false back to the cabinet. Hidden behind the outer display, Willow saw what looked to be an oriental straight sword, or gim, hanging in a black lacquered scabbard. Angel removed the sword from its mounting, and examined it closely. "No wonder he wants answers," she said as she went back to her research. She didn’t think he’d get them, though.

Angel’s vampiric hearing could have picked up the conversation between Cordy and Willow, had he been paying any attention to them. However, he was preoccupied with studying the weapon in his hand . . .and with his own dark thoughts.

As he went about hefting the sheathed gim--it was not a weapon that could be safely drawn without being put to use-- a thousand doubts and questions assailed him.

Why hadn’t he been there for her? he demanded of himself. Why hadn’t he known? The Powers That Be had alerted him, through Doyle’s vision, of her danger a year and a half earlier. If he had been in this dimension, instead of Pylea, would they have found a way to let him know of this even greater threat?

Wouldn’t he have simply known that she needed him?

Unless, the ugly thought came, the whole point of being drawn into the dimension of Pylea, after Cordy, was to prevent me from going to her . . .

A deep, rumbling growl emerged from Angel’s throat. He forced himself to push away the disquieting idea. Disquieting and, he assured himself, wholly ridiculous. Buffy was too exceptional a warrior for good, too strong a weapon, for The Powers That Be not to protect her. If he had been here, they’d have told him of her danger. But he hadn’t, and things happened that They hadn’t expected. There had been a mistake, but he had made a bargain with Them, and They would honor it. He just needed to go to Them and get this mess straightened out.

Calm again, Angel tested the balance of the gim.

When Cordy got the hit that gave her what Angel was looking for, she didn’t immediately tell him. One eye on the preoccupied vampire in the other office, she walked over to Willow, and pulled her off to the room in which Wesley and Gunn were working. Cordy told the others what she’d found, and expressed reservations similar to Gunn’s. Wes repeated his counter arguments, which Willow supported. The debate wasn’t particularly long or heated. Angel’s response to the news of Buffy’s death was such that eventually, the gang all came to the same conclusion: whatever was going to happen, they couldn’t stop it. Nothing was going to keep Angel from confronting The Powers That Be. The sooner he did, the sooner he realized that Buffy wasn’t coming back, the sooner he could break down, and grieve. And the sooner he broke down, the sooner they could help put him back together, help him move on.

When they came into the office to give Angel the information they had gathered, Wesley’s expression remained impassive. Still, Angel could tell by the wariness in his eyes, the outright pity in Cordy’s and Willow’s, that they thought he was on a fool’s errand. Gunn looked grim, and Angel knew that the younger man was angry that Angel was even going to try to approach The Powers That Be. Angel could overlook that. Gunn had a way of reducing everything down to its simplest elements of right and wrong, black and white. This entire situation was alien to him. Plus, Gunn had never known Buffy, or seen her with Angel when they were a couple. He couldn’t understand what she meant to Angel, to the world, or appreciate why Angel knew that The Powers That Be would bring her back. But he would see. They all would. When Angel walked through the doors of the Hyperion next, with Buffy on his arm, they’d understand that he’d been right.

Angel wasted no time performing the rituals to purify himself to stand before The Powers That Be. And, then he went to collect the ancient weapon Zhao Gang-Ying had once used, in a battle prophesied in The Book of Thoth a thousand years before it was waged.

"Angel, what you’re handling is an artifact of great power," Wesley said as he eyed the black lacquered case gleaming darkly in the lamplight. He alone had followed Angel back here. The others were still in the lobby, speaking together quietly, worriedly. "Are you sure that you should go into the presence of the Powers That Be thus armed?"

"Why not?" Angel said, brushing the cleansing herbs over the scabbard and the hilt of the gim. Normally, he would have brushed them directly onto the straight blade of the ancient weapon itself. But, while it was sword-shaped, it wasn’t exactly a sword: the blade wasn’t made of metal, but of dark energy, bound to the steel, plum-flower shaped guard, with its hardwood, cotton-wrapped lacquered grip and steel pommel, by a magic so ancient and powerful even he could barely comprehend the scope of it. The herbs he was using were the same with which, after he had bathed and donned fresh clothing, Willow has sprinkled him, while she repeated a prayer of invocation. Angel recited it again, purifying the sword, then continued his conversation. "I’m a warrior in their service, Wes. This gim was given to the woman who carried it by The Powers That Be in the first place. My carrying it with me just reinforces my connection to them." Wesley nodded. On the surface, at least, he seemed to accept that reason. Which was a true one, as far as it went. It just went further than Wes, or any of Angel’s friends, could really understand.

The woman who had carried this weapon, though not a Slayer, had indeed been a formidable servant of The Powers That Be. But the service Gang-Ying had performed for Them had been a very specific one: the path she had cut with her gim had riven the fabric of hell itself, to destroy a demon army at its source, before it could threaten the world. Gang-Ying had not died in that battle. She had lived to be an old, old woman, entrusting her gim to one of her great-grandchildren on her deathbed.

Angel wanted The Powers That Be reminded not only that he was one of their warriors, but that Buffy had been one, as well. He wanted to remind them that Buffy had performed her duties as heroically as the long dead Gang-Ying, and that They owed her at least as much.

And if the sword reminded them that what could rive hell might be used to rive

heaven. . .well, he couldn’t really object to them taking that point, could he?

Less than two hours after he had walked into the lobby to find Willow waiting for him, Angel stood outside the entrance to one of Their audience chambers. This one happened to be situated beneath the airport. Given the quest he was on, that seemed fitting.

As he approached, a brazier materialized before him. Had he been someone else, an electrician or mechanic or maintenance worker with mundane business here, the brazier would have remained--not there. Angel prepared the ritual fire, threw incense into the flames, and recited the prayer of supplication. As the final word left his mouth, he found himself standing, not in the concrete and steel belly of an airport tunnel, but in the marble floored hall of--something else altogether.

The room was almost identical to the one where he had met the Oracles. Despite the entrance being miles away from the post office to which Doyle had once led him, Angel suspected it was, in fact, the same room. But, where before, he had not ascended the steps which had brought the Oracles down to him, or traversed the hallway that lay beyond, now, he did both. This time, there was no one to greet him, no one to point the way. Considering the gim he carried, that was perhaps just as well. Angel did not need to be told where to go. His destination was obvious, his path clear.

That path took him to a room shaped like a single human tear.

The hallway at his back, Angel stood beneath an archway of crystalline light, red to one side, green to the other. The symbolism--red for passion, for blood; green for burgeoning life--was not lost on him. Angel walked forward, into a room seemingly composed entirely of murky light.

The antechamber to heaven was a place of cool silence and empty darkness. No angelic choir sang unending praises. No celestial radiance dazzled his eyes. Seemingly, The Powers That Be had little use for such things, or perhaps he had brought the cold and the dark and the silence and the aching emptiness with him.

He walked along the perimeter of the space in which he found himself, and found nothing but himself. There was nothing he could see or touch or sense or smell, beyond dark light and cold silence. The only real objects in this place were Angel, and the ancient gim he carried. His anger rising by the moment, Angel strode to the center of the space, lifted his gaze to the seeming roof, and demanded Their attention.

"Don’t you have the courage to face me?" Angel asked aloud.

Why do you disturb our rest? a weary voice spoke inside his mind. The voice sounded like leaves rustling in a wind, and might as easily have belonged to a man or a woman, but that didn’t concern Angel right now.

"I come before you to right a wrong," he said, forcing back his anger, trying to remember the humility a warrior in Their service should exhibit when in Their presence. He just had to talk to them about what happened, he told himself. They were the forces for Good, and They would never break Their word. They had made a bargain with him, and of course They would keep it.

Another voice spoke inside his mind, this one soft and cool as a tinkling fountain.

"That is why I serve you," Angel agreed. "But it is not why I am in your service."

Ah. You speak of the bargain, came yet another voice, crackling like fire.

"I do."

And what does the bargain have to do with this wrong you would have us right? the fire voice asked.

"I gave my life for hers. And now she’s dead."

For a moment, there was nothing. Angel almost sighed with relief. He must have surprised them. Their attention must have been diverted elsewhere, and They hadn’t realized. Of course, They didn’t want to lose Their best and brightest warrior. They knew that she wasn’t supposed to be gone, yet, and They would bring her back. They had to bring her back. Not for his sake, but for her own, and for the world’s.

"I understand that there has to be another sacrifice," Angel said into the lengthening silence. "There’s always a payment required, and I can meet that. I still have more to give up." If need be, he would surrender the tiny pieces of hope he had left--that some day he would Shan-shu, and they could finally be together--if only They would bring her back. He would even swear never to look upon her again, never to call her, to give up forever the very sight and sound of her, if that was what was asked of him. Did They want him to go into his grave, without hope of return, that she might leave hers? He would do so joyously. It would be enough for him to know that Buffy was once again walking in the sunlight of the world. Angel opened his mouth to tell Them what he was willing to do, but before he could speak, the fountain voice returned.

It took a moment for Angel to comprehend what was said, so alien and inexplicable did the words seem. "What?" he finally choked out.

Surely you understood we did not grant her immortality, merely a continuation beyond what would have been, had things remained as they were? the fountain voice went on.

"Eighteen months?" Angel demanded, his patience slipping away as anger rose within him. "Is that all our pain bought us? Do you think, if I’d have known how little time she had left, I’d have let her go?"

Of course you would not, the fountain voice, its accents soothing, sounded in his mind. We would have lost both of you to our service much sooner than was needful. This we could not permit. It happened as it was meant to be.

"Meant?" Angel said in disbelief. "You meant for this to happen?" Surely that couldn’t be right. The Powers That Be had known, all along, how useless and pointless his sacrifice would prove to be? "Everything she was, everything she did, thrown away to save a world that doesn’t even want to save itself?"

Not thrown away, the wind voice said gently. Sacrificed. Do you understand what that means?

In an instant, Angel relived a thousand moments of pain, remembering the cost to Buffy of seeing her duty through. From giving up the simple, childish daydreams of normalcy--cheerleading, dating normal guys, planning to leave home to go to college--to the much more difficult, personal costs she’d had to bear--staking her childhood friend, Ford, thrusting a sword through Angel’s own heart, yielding up her very life, not once, but twice--Buffy had done nothing but make sacrifices, every day of her life from the moment she was Chosen. And now They had the nerve to ask him if he understood?

"Wrong question," Angel said, loosing the sword in its scabbard, though he did not draw it, yet. "Do you understand what it means?"

You would bare that blade in our presence? the fountain voice asked mildly. It didn’t seem unduly concerned by the prospect. It would learn its mistake.

"I will bare much more than this, if you force me to it," Angel assured Them. "I bargained with you in good faith. I gave up my life for hers so that she wouldn’t die and you knew all along that she was going to die, anyway. What did I buy for her, huh?" He turned, looking around the chamber, scrutinizing each shadow, each fluctuation of light, to find what might lie hidden within. As he searched, Angel continued to harangue Them. "All I gave her was time to be betrayed by an idiot boy who threw away everything she offered him. Time to watch her mother suffer and die. Time to leave the sister she didn’t have an orphan." He shook his head, giving up his search. "All you gave her was so much more suffering, so much more duty and pain and grief and loss. After everything she had done for you, didn’t she deserve whatever happiness we could have had together, instead?"

Do you really believe that life is a matter of getting what one deserves? The wind voice again. Surely, of all the creatures that walk the earth, you have most reason to know otherwise. How many deserved the death you dealt to them, in the one hundred and forty-eight years you were the Scourge of Europe?

You say she deserved happiness, the fire crackled. Do you believe you ever deserved her, at all?

"This isn’t about me!" Angel shouted. He turned a final time, futilely hoping to catch some glimpse of Them. But there was nothing, not even a stirring of shadows in the darkness. Their presence was limited solely to the voices speaking in his mind.

Is it not? Is it her pain that brings you here, or yours? the wind asked.

"Of course it’s her pain," Angel snapped, his patience all but gone. "The pain of every sacrifice she made in your service. Every moment of comfort you denied her. Of course this is about Buffy, not me."

Buffy made her choice. And she was at peace with it. the fountain assured him.

"Only because she had no other choice she could make," he countered bitterly. "You saw to that. And, if she was at peace with that choice, it was only because the options you gave her were so much worse. She could die saving the world, or die fighting in it after she had failed to save it. What kind of choice is that? Just like the choice she had with me. None. Buffy always had the odds stacked against her." Angel held up the scabbard in his left hand, his right hand tightening on the gim’s hilt. He was done pleading. "That ends. Now," he said quietly, the threat all the more obvious for the calm with which he uttered it. "Give her back."

And if we do not? the fire seemed unmoved by Angel’s actions.

"Then I will return to you the gift you gave to Zhao Gang-Ying," Angel promised. "And we will test the fabric of heaven, and see if it tears as easily as the fabric of hell."

For a moment, the antechamber stilled. Angel waited, unmoving.

Try, then, and we shall learn . . . the wind whispered, and fell silent.

The rage that had ignited in Angel’s heart when Willow told him of Buffy’s death, rage he had kept barley leashed, slipped free. Rage at the indifference of the Powers she had served so faithfully, rage at the unfairness of her too-short life, rage at the choices that had been forced upon them: rage that The Powers That Be had led him to her in the first place, only to keep her forever out of his reach.

Angel let his rage against the dying of the light that had been Buffy Summers build and build within him, a fire burning from the pit of his belly, running along his dead veins and bursting through his heart, until it emerged in a howl of raw agony torn from Angel’s throat.

"Buffy!" he roared, and drew the blade.

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Not the end.

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