A Celtic Dance (Part 3) by Safarigirl
On their way back to Porter's Inn, they passed a pub. From the open half-door, unseen
voices, raised in song, poured out into the cobblestone street. Angel stopped dead; Buffy
collided with his broad, solid back before she realized he was simply standing there,
listening to the music .
"...And it's no, nay never,
No, nay, never, no more,
I will play the Wild Rover,
No never, no more..."
Angel's shoulders were shaking. As she got round him, Buffy could see his cheeks were wet
with bitter tears.
"Angel? What's up?" She kept one reassuring arm lightly across his back.
"That song." His voice broke.
"That song was the last one I ever sang while I was alive. Darla changed me in an alley
not far from here. I was so drunk, I hardly knew what was happening. Oh Buffy, if only I
could go back, and stop it, and change everything." He was bent nearly double; his body
shook with great racking sobs of remorse.
Buffy hugged him fiercely. Part of her wished the same thing, but part of her was glad he
was here, now, in her arms. As the Slayer, as a human being, Buffy hated Angelus and the
things it had done. But Angel, the sensitive man she knew and loved, would never have
existed if Angelus hadn't been made. It was complicated, when you were the Slayer and in
love with a vampire you couldn't have any future with and you were still trying to be
eighteen, but sometimes complicated was good. She was about to point this out to Angel
when someone came out of the pub.
"What have we here?" Three or four young people, about her age, had staggered out of
the pub and we staring at them. Angel tensed. Buffy subtly shifted into a more defensive
stance.
"Aren't you the de Burgo fella, from America, and his young lady?" One of the girls
peered more closely at their faces, then announced to her friends, "It is! Them's them!"
"Ah, and the poor fella is heartbroken over the old Burke dying, he is." A smallish man
with red hair extended a hand to Angel.
"Sure we waked him good and proper yesterday, but you wouldn't know that. Fancy old
Burke having a relative in America. None of us knew it."
Angel had straightened out, relaxing visibly under the good-natured sympathy of these
strangers. Buffy thanked her lucky stars they were making up their own explanations for
Angel's presence. But there was one thing...
"How did you know who we were?"
The girl who'd recognized them smiled; large dimples appeared in her freckled cheeks.
"Sure hasn't old Porter told everyone about yez already? And yer man there really is the
spit and image of the Burkes. There's no mistakin' him."
Red-head gestured towards the pub. "We're terribly glad to meet ye. Old Burke was near
out of his head with worry for the castle. He was terrified of it fallin' into the wrong
hands."
The other man spoke with scorn. "Sure, and it was all we'd need, for some fancy Dublin
developer to come here and turn the castle into those condominininiums that the rich folk
buy. Galway would never be the same again."
"Will ye have a pint with us then?" All the young people looked eagerly at Angel and
Buffy.
More than a bit startled by their easy hospitality, she started to refuse. "Well, thanks, but
we're really tired-"
Angel interrupted her quickly. "I would love a pint. Guinness still good here?"
The four young ones shared looks of disbelief. "Good? Are ye daft? It's Guinness!"
As
they tumbled into the pub, Angel whispered in Buffy's ear, "Sorry to cut you off, but it
would have been very rude to refuse. Besides, I need to get more information about
Burke." He still looked downcast, but took the foaming pint someone handed him, and
eased himself into a high-backed bench with the others.
Well, Mom did want me to check out Irish culture, Buffy thought, grabbing her own pint.
She settled in for some serious fun.
It was quickly apparent that music, playing, singing, and dancing to it, was the main
source of entertainment. In the corner, an ever changing crowd of musicians coaxed lilting
melodies from a wide assortment of instruments. Every last person in the tiny room seemed
to know all the words to all the songs. After a few minutes, a rich, warm baritone joined
the raised voices. Looking around, Buffy was astonished to realize the voice belonged to
Angel.
Catching her eye, he quirked his mouth in a quick half-smile, but his own eyes remained
sad. As she took in the dark, smoke stained panelling and time-worn furniture, Buffy
guessed that the place hadn't changed much since Angel's time. She felt a twinge of worry -
would he be able to handle this?
She grimaced as she took a first tentative sip of the bitter dark brew. She rarely drank,
being underage, but since most of the other girls in the room also had pints, she resolved
to make the best of it.
Angel leaned closer so she could hear him. "I forgot, Buffy. If you're not used to it, that
Guinness might take a bit of getting used to."
She smiled back at him. "I'll just take it slow, Angel. How're you doing so far?"
A flash of pain floated across his features. "A lot of memories are coming up. It's hard."
Then he smiled, the first genuine smile she'd seen from him since that long ago night they'd
made love. "But I want to introduce you to my culture."
Warmed right through, his beautiful Slayer smiled back at him. "Well, introduce me then."
At that moment the singing stopped, and the music became faster, the beat more insistent.
Buffy's feet twitched. Angel rose gracefully from the bench, extending a hand to her. His
eyes flashed a challenge.
"Will ye dance, miss?" he asked. Laughing, Buffy allowed him to pull her onto the dance
floor. Slowly, patiently, he showed her the gossamer steps that the other dancers were
following. Soon she was sweating, thanking her lucky stars for her Slayer agility, without
which she'd never be able to do this. Her ancient young boyfriend smiled at her, his face
glowing with male pride. For once they weren't vampire and Slayer, but simply Buffy and
Angel, enjoying each other's company.
At the end of the song, Angel dropped her hand. "Wait here," he commanded. He dashed
over to the musicians, asked a question. Buffy saw the lead musician's face light up. The
man nodded acquiesence to Angel, and the vampire returned to her side.
"What was that all about?" she asked.
He merely shook his head, giving her what Willow often called his "Mona Lisa" look, a
sweet, mysterious almost-smile on his lips.
At a signal from the musicians, the crowd drew back expectantly, forming a circle around
the dance floor. Supremely confidant, Angel strode to the center of this circle. Buffy had a
sudden vision of the kind of man he might have been, had he lived. He stood utterly still,
back straight, head raised, eyes intensely focussed on something only he could see, and
then the music started.
Buffy's jaw hit the floor. She thought her eyes would pop out of her head. Angel had been
holding out on her, for sure. She didn't even know he could dance! Now he used his feet
and his body to make the music a living thing. Was it even possible for toes and heels to
move so fast? He looked like an ancient god, dancing in this small, crowded room.
Everyone was spellbound as he finished. For an instant, Buffy could hear the dripping of
a leaky tap behind the bar.
The pub erupted in tumultous cheers.
Buffy woke about mid-morning. Groaning, she dragged the pillow over her head as the
light assaulted her sensitive eyes. Did something clobber me last night? She wondered. Her
legs ached as if she'd outrun Spike and all his minions. Her head throbbed.
She remembered the pub, and the Guinness, and trying to follow the very fast footwork the
other dancers laid down to the accompaniment of fiddle, pipe, and - what was the drum
thingie called? Oh yeah, bodhran. That. Her head rang with half-remembered Gaelic
phrases and snatches of song.
After half an hour, she decided to face the fact that she was royally hung over and got out
of bed. Getting to the bathroom was a challenge - the room swayed back and forth with
every step she took.
Once she splashed some water on her face, and drank a huge glass of it, she felt better.
Dressing in her overalls and a light blue, fine woolen sweater, she sat by the phone and
dialed Giles' number.
He answered on the fifth ring. "Buffy? Oh, hello. Could you possibly hang on a moment? I
left something on the stove." She heard him bustling around, then he came back to the
phone. "How are you enjoying Ireland?"
No point in telling him she was hungover. That would only get her a lecture on the perils of
drink.
"It's pretty good, but it's kind of weird how everyone knows Angel's family and stuff. I
mean, I'm used to being the famous one." She paused. "Make that the notorious one. You
know what I mean. By the way, did you know his last name was de Burgo?"
"Yes, I rather thought that might be it, after what he told me about this Guardian duty of
theirs. Don't mind the locals. Small villages are always like that. Now, I've calculated the
time when you and Angel have to perform this ritual, and it's tonight. Maybe you should
write this down, Buffy."
She quickly searched for pen and paper. "Okay, shoot."
"You must do the ritual at the stroke of midnight. Now, I assume Angel knows where the
portal is, but when you do the ritual, you must stand to the north of it, and Angel to the
south. That's very important, Buffy. Do you have that?"
"Angel, South, me, north," she muttered. "Got it."
"All right. The next part is what will actually seal the portal. It involves what's commonly
known as a lovers sacrifice. You must each place a symbol of your...love.." Giles still
couldn't really accept that she loved a vampire, Buffy knew.." on the ground in front of
you. "Then take something sharp.."
"Sharp? Giles..."
"It's all right, Buffy, you simply have to join your hands, and your blood, and let that
mixed blood fall onto the portal. The ritual gets rather vague after that, but I believe you
have to...." His voice trailed off. "Ahem. It says you have to kiss."
Buffy almost dropped the phone. The image in her head, of Angel and herself entwined in
passion, was more enticing than she cared to admit.
"Giles! We can't do that, you know one thing will lead to another..."
Giles sighed. "Yes, Buffy, I know. And if there were any other way, I'd find it. I can't. I've
tried. You'll just have to trust your -and Angel's - common sense. It's going to be more
difficult than you imagine. Apparently the ritual triggers..certain...erotic...impulses. Oh
dear."
"Does Angel know this?" Buffy was furious. If he did, she would ...she wasn't sure what
she would do to the vampire, but she knew it would be painful.
"Not all of it, no. I hadn't finished the translation at that point."
"Are you sure this isn't some ancient wedding ceremony you pulled up by mistake?"
"No, Buffy. This type of magic is very old, earth magic, and ,well, the primitives believed
nothing was quite as powerful as the attraction between a man and a woman."
"This is so unfair." She flopped back on the bed. Her headache was coming back.
"Slaying is an unfair business, Buffy. Just remember to keep a stake handy in case
Angelus rears his, uh, ugly head."
As if that would help. Sometimes her Watcher had an inadequate grasp of reality.
"Yeah, Giles. Thanks."
Since Angel couldn't come outside, Buffy spent the rest of the day exploring Galway alone,
thinking and worrying. When she got right down to it, though, what was there for her to
think about? The portal had to be sealed. This mumbo-jumbo love ceremony seemed to be
the only way to do it. The fact that subjecting her and Angel to enormous waves of sexy
hormones, or whatever, could be just as bad for the world at large really wasn't the issue.
She'd just have to trust herself, trust Angel, and deal with whatever came.
She had to admit she was enthralled with Galway. She strolled slowly up the cobbled high
street of the original walled city, towards De Burgo Castle, and tried to imagine how all
this had been in the eighteenth century. The buildings would have been mostly the same,
she guessed, only newer. The streets would have been filled with carriages and horses.
Beautiful girls in huge skirts and tiny waists would have paraded on the arms of handsome
men. It must have been exciting, a lively, bustling place, filled with the sound of soft Gaelic
laughter and music.
She read in the tourist brochure that at the time, Galway had been an important port for
trade with Spain. How had Angel felt, growing up here? Surrounded by the bustle of ships
going in and out of the harbour, cargo arriving from all over Ireland, important people
passing through - what in all this had driven him to seek the kind of adventure Darla had
offered him? Surely he could have found enough excitement here without that. Buffy
couldn't figure it out. Maybe she'd find some answers at the castle.
She paid her two pound entrance fee at the small kiosk by the main gate. She had some
trouble with the notes - why didn't foreign countries use good old dollars?- and then she
was inside. The courtyard was sunlit and open, with a small herb garden in one corner,
and a plaque to the effect that the garden had been cultivated for more than four hundred
years. The main building, squatting in the centre of the courtyard like a fat cat, was more
house than castle. Part of it had been partitioned off and it was obvious someone had lived
there until recently. The rest was open to the public, and she roamed at will, checking out
all the neat stuff that had once belonged to Angel. Technically, it still did, she supposed.
The building was a labyrinth of tiny plastered rooms, twisting stairs, and stone galleries.
One largish chamber on the upper floor, with mullioned windows and a huge fireplace,
was furnished as a man's bedroom. A heavy oak fourposter bed stood square in the middle
of the room, with an armoire and washstand along one wall. Some books rested on a table
near the window. Dust lay thickly over everything. A few footprints crossed the room - the
tracks of other tourists, Buffy supposed - but that was the only indication that anyone had
ever entered this room.
Curious, the Slayer crossed over to the table where the books lay. They were old, their
leather binding cracked, the page edges rough and water stained. She gently lifted the
cover of the top one. It was inscribed in a black, elegant hand she recognized immediately.
These were Angel's books! Intrigued, she turned to the next page, and the next, skimming
the contents. Face red, she abruptly dropped the book.
These were Angel's diaries. Their contents left little doubt about the kind of man he had
been. There were accounts of his successes at gambling, his desultory business efforts, his
carousing and drinking, and most of all, his seductions and conquests. The young Angel
had been meticulous in recording these, describing each woman in detail, what she wore,
what she liked, what had finally gotten her into bed with him, and what she'd done for him
while there. Buffy didn't know what to think.
Here it was - all the information she eagerly sought. If she took these books and read
them, no one would miss them. More importantly, she would know all about Angel.
Sometimes her lack of information about him was frustrating. She'd give her eyeteeth to
know what made him tick, right?
Yet she hesitated. She remembered when they first met, how she'd thought he'd read her
diary. She had been so outraged. She had a right to be. Taking these books was different,
right? After all, Angel had left them here for two hundred and forty years. He obviously
didn't care what was in them.
The Slayer sighed. The problem was, she cared. It was unfair to Angel to go snooping in
his distant past without his knowledge. So much had happened to him since he wrote those
diaries. What did they have to do with the Angel she knew?
She turned around and exited the room, admitting to herself that she was afraid. She had
so few illusions left, especially where Angel was concerned. She wanted to keep them.
Her next stop was one of the long galleries. There were tons of portraits on the walls. She
passed by the early ones until she came to the eighteenth century, then slowed, carefully
reading each title. She stopped before one portrait. It was of a young man, dark brown
hair neatly caught into a ponytail at the nape, the curve of the sensuous lips topping a
firmly defined chin. The dark eyes she knew, and the painter had captured the sense of
vast physical power, held in check, that still permeated his every move. The name plate
under the painting read "Angelus de Burgo, 1752 - Young De Burgo was later killed by an
unknown assassin, in 1755." It was Angel, all right. Yet the painting did not depict the man
she knew. On the canvas, the dark eyes wore a hard expression, and there was something
cruel about the mouth. It was as if the artist had known what Angel would become.
Shivering, Buffy turned away from the portrait.
The next room held some of the Celtic art collection her mother was so interested in. Buffy
herself didn't see much exciting in the illuminated manuscripts, torcs, and goblets. Her
mother would need to know what was here, though, so Buffy pulled out her notepad and
started sketching. It was a chore her mother had trained her to do, for help in the gallery.
Now her pencil flew across the page without conscious thought. Some of the designs were
kind of neat. The fantastically knotted animals reminded her of Angel's tattoo.
In the centre of the room was a large stone. Buffy saved this for last. When she finally
approached it, she became aware that the hairs on the back of her arms were standing on
end. There was a faint hum that seemed to be coming from the stone itself. Curious, she
brushed a finger along the surface, and jumped back. A shock had buzzed up her arm
from the weathered grey artifact.
The design on the surface was eroded by the passage of time. She read the little card next
to it.
"This ancient stone, though unprepossessing in appearance, is in fact the most valued
possession of the De Burgo family. Called the Seal of the Guardian, it is used to mark all
De Burgo males with a mystic tattoo when they reach the age of fifteen. It is said that the
Seal is the key to a sacred trust placed on the De Burgos by St. Patrick. Although scholars
have studied the stone extensively, they have been able to glean little from it. The De
Burgos have never confided the secret of the Seal to anyone outside the family, and so
archaeologists continue to guess."
There was a tiny drawing under the write up, showing the design on the stone. Buffy
gasped - it was Angel's tattoo, in every detail: the winged cat hissing angrily from atop the
letter 'A'. The 'A' didn't stand for 'Angel', then? What could it mean?
She prodded around the stone for another half-hour, but couldn't find any more
information. Resolving to ask Angel about it, she set out for the Inn.
"It was burned into me," Angel answered Buffy's question as she ate leathery steak and
boiled potatoes. He was pretending to do the same, and Buffy really couldn't blame him.
For all the Irish had given the world, culturally, their culinary skills were lacking.
Buffy dropped her fork. The steak was a lost cause, anyway.
"How?" She asked.
"The stone itself heats up. Magically, I guess. My father and uncles held me down on it
until I could smell my flesh burning. It was awful. I had no idea what they were doing -
they only told me about the Guardianship after they were done. It was torture." A flicker of
pain crossed his Slayer's beautiful face. No doubt she was imagining the scene. Angel
didn't need to imagine it. It was seared indelibly on his memory.
Buffy winced in sympathy. "Yeesh. That gets the bad parenting award. I'm sorry, Angel."
He shrugged. "If my father had taken the time to teach me beforehand - as he was
supposed to do - I would have been ready for it. His business affairs always took
precedence over me, his oldest son." His face was almost angry, remembering the long
dead pain of the abandonment.
"Couldn't someone else have taught you?" Her voice was soft with concern. That was his
Buffy, always trying to help him, trying to ease the pain.
He shrugged. He'd asked that a thousand times, flung the accusing sentence at his stern
parent on the last night of his life, in fact. After all this time, what did the answer matter?
"Apparently not. Anyway, after my initiation, I started drinking heavily. I just didn't
understand - or want - the responsibility of the Guardianship. It was simply one more thing
my father held over me." Angel grimaced. Buffy almost never ran away from her
responsibilities. What was she going to think of him now? "It's a big part of the reason why
I was out looking for trouble the night Darla found me."
Buffy tilted her golden head to one side, regarding him seriously. At least, when she'd been
Chosen as Slayer, the Council had the decency to do it politely. Poor Angel - what a brutal
initiation to his destiny! No wonder he'd turned all alcoholic and bitter. She could have
wept from it, from the waste, the unneccessary pain that had been caused. Tears sparkled
in her eyes as she gazed at her vampire boyfriend.
Angel saw the tears that glistened, unshed, for him. It stunned him, the depth of her caring
simply stunned him everytime. He reached out a gentle hand and brushed the salt drops
from her eyes, pressing a palm to her warm cheek. He could hear her pulse, felt her
warmth spread up his arm, touch a cold spot in his heart. She healed him, always. She
made him him whole, even if they could never be together.
"Are you crying for me?" He asked gently.
She nodded, placing her hand on his wrist. "As usual."
"I'm sorry I make you cry." He truly was. All he wanted was to make her happy, but he
never could succeed. The knowledge was like a sword in his heart.
She shook her head against his palm. "Don't be. When I cry for you, I know I'm still me,
not just 'the Slayer'. I know I can still feel, and somedays, that's just so important."
"Why?"
She drew in a deep breath. "Because I'm so afraid that one day I'll wake up, hardened and
scarred from everything I've seen and done, and not be able to feel anything - human,
anymore. The day that happens to me, I'll die inside."
Angel's own tears slid down his cheeks. "Is that why -?"
" - I love you? I'm not sure." She smiled, then, like a ray of light on Galway Bay. "It could
be your utterly charming Irish accent, you know."
Angel's surprised shout of laughter brought an answering chuckle from her. He let go of
her, and bravely attacked a piece of soggy apple pie with his fork. "Well now, if that's all
that's keepin' ye with me. I suppose I'll have to use it mair often."
"Will ye now?" Buffy replied. Her first try at a brogue, and it actually sounded okay.
Angel laughed again.
As the waiter cleared their plates away, he smiled down at the brave young couple all
Galway was talking about. He appreciated what they were about to do, even if he didn't
approve. All this magic nonsense when all a man needed was a good priest and a few Our
Fathers. Well, no harm in wishing them well.
"May the luck of the Irish go with yez this evening," he told them.
Huh? Buffy looked at the man, eyebrow quirked. How could he possibly know? He gave
her a bland smile, innocent as the morning dew, and she relaxed. It was probably just his
way of being friendly.
Ten minutes later, as they lingered over tea, Buffy and Angel were surprised to see a
delegation approaching their table. They could see the landlord from Porter's Inn talking
to a man with a large, official-looking chain around his neck. The young people from the
pub were there, and a Catholic priest brought up the rear. Bemused, Buffy and Angel
could only sit and watch as this odd assortment sorted themselves out. The Mayor, for
that's who he was, spoke to Angel.
" I greet you, Angelus Lord De Burgo, and you are very welcome here. I offer you the
hospitality of Galway for a few days. But I have to be honest," the poor man blurted out. "I
- and all the townspeople, well we know what you're doing, and we know who you are,
and we were wanting to ask you -" he gestured helplessly, quailing under Angel's steady
gaze.
"Were ye wanting to stay long?" The priest put in. "It's no offense we mean, but, well, it
has a bad effect on people knowing there's a vampire in town, like, and with a fine young
lady in tow, as well. And when ye think that same vampire is someone we all thought long
dead and gone - "
"- and good riddance -" mumbled the Mayor -
"It's makin' people nervous, ye know what I'm sayin' ?"
Buffy thought it was time to inject a little sanity to the proceedings. "Wait a minute. You
know about the portal? And Angel? How?"
One of the young people from the pub - it was the red-head - piped up. "Old Burke was
getting awful doddery. He let the secret slip one night while he was worrying about the
castle in Murphy's Pub."
The priest added, "As for your friend here, the parish priest that investigated his death
knew a little about vampires. When the body went missing, he wrote on the death certificate
that he thought Angelus might have become one. Then plenty of people in town saw him
afterwards." He shuddered. "I'm glad to see he's picked up a bit of a soul somewhere, for
the likes of Angelus we don't want in Galway again."
"Okay," said Angel. " I get the picture. I'll leave as soon as my work is done, all right?"
The Mayor looked down, fiddling with his chain. "Well, I wouldn't feel right sending ye
away with a flea in your ear, Your Lordship. Besides, ye still have to settle what's to be
done with the castle."
"You don't want me to leave?"
A look of horror crossed the Mayor's face. "I didn't say that. Far from it. I just want ye
leaving on good terms, that's all. If ye succeed in what you're trying to do, I'll buy ye a
round meself and it's the rare ould ceilidh we'll be having. But if ye don't succeed, I want
to know what we're to do about the castle. Sire, " he added.
"I haven't thought about it."
The Mayor seemed to be expecting this. "I have a suggestion or two, if you don't mind?"
In the end, Angel decided to let the City have the castle, to be turned into a community
centre and museum. The Mayor was satisfied with the decision, although the priest gave
Angel several thoughtful looks. After agreeing to contact Joyce Summers about the De
Burgo art collection, the Mayor was ready to leave. He placed a large box on the table
before he walked away.
"There ye are, Your Lordship. I thought I'd save ye the trouble of robbing your own
museum."
Buffy knew what was in the box before Angel even opened it.
| Part 4 |
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