Author: Heather (darlas_mom
Title: Seriously?
Disclaimer: Illyria belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Denna was inspired by that work, but belongs to me (darlas_mom). The referenced chars, Satrai and Moesi, are the property of Vicki Cadae (lady1raven) and are used here with permission.
Summary: Denna and Illyria talk about Satrai, emotions, proper gifts for kids and adoption. No, really.

( Seriously? )

I remember there used to be a time when I thought dishonesty and manipulation were NOT an okay way to get what I wanted from someone. When it was wrong to lose my temper because someone disagrees with me about so important an issue as killing a cosmic being to bring a soulless demon out of hell. I remember family used to be more important than mercy. And I remember that I used to be able to just listen, and not try to give unsolicited advice.

I don't remember when that changed.

I can't keep being the way I am. I get angry so fast these days, and I keep reverting to this Odet military persona who will use whatever means necessary to accomplish the mission. Is this because I feel cut off from my family? That's when that part of me was forged, I know that much, but shouldn't it have died or something when I came home and Connor and Tristan were both alive? For God's sake, Wesley and I made love for the first time in over a year the other day. Things are getting better, why am I getting worse?

I miss home. Not Oden Tal or the Hyperion or the apartment. But home. Home used to mean something that isn't this. I just don't remember how to have that anymore. It's gotten bad enough that I'm actually writing in this stupid thing. I hope Andrade never finds out.

Why didn't I just let it go?

Vicki and I wrote origin drabbles! Woo!

( Oden Tal, spring of the Earth Year 1989. )

I find myself trying to picture what today would be like if I was on Earth and everything was all right.

We would probably have a party. Connor, Wesley and I--bad shoppers, all--would be scavenging the mall, struggling to remember what colors are in style, what cuts, pants or skirts. Angel and Bryant would've already bought something, because they know Cordelia, they would know what she wants and they would've known to get it at least a week ago.

Connor and I would argue over ice cream flavors and toppings. Wes would smile. When we all finished shopping, he'd be the one that wrapped gifts, because Wesley knows how to do these things and Connor and I would probably do nothing more than make a mess of the tape.

Cordelia would do her hair and make-up and look beautiful, because when she set out to look beautiful, there was no power in the universe that could stop her from doing so. When Cordy opened her presents, she'd smile and be grateful, but maintain a constant stream of sarcastic banter--mainly jokes at Dauragon's and my husband's expense--because that's who she is and what she does. Dauragon would posture and pretend to be offended, Wesley would return each remark in kind with a gentle smile, Connor would interject his own humor the second he saw an opening, while Angel and Bryant merely watched and shook their heads.

We'd have the party as a family, with cake and gifts and the like, before Cordy and Bryant went for the quiet couple dinner, and Angel would brood after they left and it'd be up to Connor to throw balloons and torn pieces of wrapping paper at him to get that particular Angel smile that no one else can get--the smile he saved just for our children.

I don't know what kind of gift I would've gotten her, but I know it would've been a lesser struggle to get her a card. I saw the perfect card once, and now I simultaneously wish that I had gotten it and am glad that I didn't. It was one of the kinds you had to fill in your own message, but it had the most breathtaking art that I still remember it. It was a feminist play on Atlas, the man who struggles to carry the world on his shoulders; it was instead a beautifully detailed picture of a woman, not struggling under the weight of the world, but carrying it high above her head.

I may never get to use this sentence again: I think Cordelia would've appreciated the symbolism.

I'm a lot sadder than I thought I would be that I can't be home for her birthday. I hope some part of her is still psychic enough to sense that.

I was finally allowed to go out of the Atole for a little while today to work. Two of our women are going to give birth very soon, so I was sent to gather the necessary herbs, in case of too-high fever, any vomitting and most importantly, for the pain. Darparra was happy to supply these things to me, and several more--more than I needed, and probably at a cost to himself--for regular illnesses and injuries. Timheda (I cannot seriously call her Darmarra, even if they are married now) volunteered to come help when the babies are born, should it be needed, but there was no reason to draw her away. Adahni, "the famous midwife bride of Zempret," is with us now.

Telling her that, of course, reminded me of Tahiri, which reminded me of Connor, which brought tears the whole way back to the camp. It'll probably be another week before Andrade lets me do anything else as a result.

Will my life never stabilize? Will this pain be with me always, lying in wait to jump out at me at any random interval? It's been a year! Shouldn't I feel better after a year?

No. Of course not. I haven't dealt with it at all, which is why Wesley left--so I could deal with it, before what I wasn't saying choked us both. And I can't stand it, I can't stand it. I feel as if I could fall over and die right here. And if I'm going to die, I want Wes there, I want Angel and Connor and Kiin and Tristan there. But they're not and that's why I'm dying. It's like a circular nightmare that'll never end.

Anger and pain and alone and it's all just words, just stupid words that don't mean anything because they're gone. I can't do anything but hurt until it's over. It hurts more with Wesley gone, though I had never realized before just how big a buffer he was between me and my grief for my children, and I'd beg him to come home if I only knew how. Which is ironic, because it's just what I thought after Connor died.

But Connor can't come home, and he never will. And Wes...

I've messed things up so much. I hate thinking about it. I hate myself. I hate this, too.

Happy New Year, Connor.

I have now spoken with Andrade, and she feels this is therapeutic. I attempted to remind her that we have too much work to be done around here to bother with therapy, and she asked me--unfairly--how much of it is really mine to do.

Everyone knows, of course. The entire fucking Atole. It's not unheard of in our society for couples to separate. In fact, in our little cloistered part of the world, it's everywhere. But things are confusing. I haven't taken off my necklet. I'm told by Wes' guides to the lorthil that he didn't take his off, either, at least not while he was still in Oden Tal. We didn't separate over the things couples normally do--not directly, anyway. Everyone knew about the baby, but that wasn't why. Everyone knows that, too.

I just wish they'd all stop trying to be so helpful.

I'm being forced to slack off the chores and duties that would normally be mine. Everyone keeps bringing me food or inviting me to dinner with them, so that I don't even have to cook for myself. I feel useless here. Completely useless. And I'm lonely.

I feel so incredibly angry. I miss my children. My own biological son doesn't speak to me or his father anymore. Connor is dead. Tristan is dead. And there is no one--no one--that I can talk to about it. Angel left and there was no reason to stay in Los Angeles, and now, I'm in a world that I very often hate, without my damn husband.

I would really love a stealth agenda right now, but my long absence turned Andrade into a fine commander, the true leader of our faction, and right now, she won't allow it. She thinks I need to work through my feelings of loss. I think she spent too much time in therapy on Earth.

I don't know why she gave this to me.

Bound books are a treasure of untold value amongst my people. To bind a book is difficult, and costly. The words that go into such as these are usually sacred ones, or else political ones, being preserved for the most important records. To give one of these to me was Andrade's subtle way of saying that what I might wish to say is actually worth preserving. There's a compliment in that, I'm sure. I'm writing horizontally, left to right, in English. There's something in that, too. My not-so-subtle way of telling any of my people who chance upon this book to butt the hell out. Not even Andrade can read and write in English. Until this morning, there was only one person in this entire camp besides me who could. Trying not to think about that.

Tonight is the first time in the nearly four years we've shared as friends and lovers that I will intentionally be going to bed without my husband. Or, I guess, more accurately, the first time in all this time that he'll intentionally be going to bed without me.

Sleeping with Wes is one of the simplest joys I've had in my life, along with waking up with him, kissing him, sharing meals with him, fighting at his side. And here lately we don't even speak. This is how a year has changed us.

He left his watch with me. We've taken such care with it, to make sure it didn't get lost or broken, because it was our only method of keeping track of the date in Los Angeles. I'm looking at it now. Says it's almost Christmas. Something about that strikes me as funny. There's not a whole hell of a lot that's funny to me these days.

I wonder what everyone will say when he comes home without me. I wonder if they'll even notice. Probably not. Angel and Connor were the only ones that would really notice something like that. And they're gone.

I think I may have to throw this bullshit book at Andrade's forehead. Ask her what the hell she was thinking. I really don't need this.

I really miss my family.

A solitary tear carves its way silently down Denna's cheek as she listens to the singing around her. She wonders who the other women under their veils are, but not enough to feel that it really matters.

Connor's things are fed into the flames carefully, one by one. An old shirt he left Sonseerae to mend and forgot to retrieve before they left Oden Tal, the outfit he'd worn when he sank Angel beneath the waves, a fishing net...meaningless things, but his things nonetheless.

"Simpervet," The priestess presiding softly intones, "receive your belongings. Receive them serenely."

Denna’s eyes close.

"Goodbye."

The duality of the way they dress her threatens to pull apart Denna's mind; possibly Wesley's, too. Too long has she lived on Earth, that she has forgotten how this is done.

Andrade and Sonseerae dress her in layers upon layers of gleaming white, hiding her face behind thick veils until she looks like some kind of mournfully low-hanging cloud. On Earth, they'd say she was adorned like a bride. Wesley is clad to match, sans veils, before they are led to the center of the Atole with what few belongings of Connor's they have.

They begin with the fires.

"I have to do something for her, I just don't know what." She overhears Wesley say to Andrade after they've forced her to lay down and attempt a nap. Wes has promised to wake her at the first sign of a nightmare.

"She needs closure." Andrade responds kindly. "In our culture, having no body to lay to rest is one of the most terrible things that can befall a family. Funeral rites are an important part of grieving, and that has been denied her."

"A funeral? Most fiancées buy flowers."

"It's your choice."

A long, tense beat. "No. It's hers."

Wesley's hands don't feel quite real. Nothing does, lately. Her steadfast refusal to sleep has weakened her incredibly, and that weakness has made eating a new kind of torture, so she has steadfastly given that up as well. Her mind feels disconnected from everything going on in the world; her body feels as limp and heavy as it might if she were dead and still wearing it.

"They're just dreams, Denna. They'll stop in time. You'll only make them worse if you punish yourself this way."

She slowly shakes her head no. Tries not to get dizzy as she does.

In her dreams, Connor is drowning slowly inside a wall of water, just out of her reach.

"Marra..." He calls to her, stretching out his hand. Small, hungry fishes with enormous teeth swim by his fingers, snarling, swishing their large, brightly colored tails. "Save me."

And oh, she wants to, wants to so much, but there is a gigantic weight on her chest and she can't get it off. When she turns her head and looks at it, it's a headstone, scratched with Kiin and Tristan's names.

"Connor!" She screams as the water explodes and her son is washed away.

Three days go by before Denna can bring herself to confess the truth of everything that happened in Los Angeles to Andrade. She lies fetal on the pallet she shares with Wesley, her body curled up tightly on top of his legs, her head in her friend's lap as the entire dreadful story spills out of her in loud, terrible, ragged weeping. Every detail comes flooding back as she narrates, feeling both relieved and tortured at the same time as she does.

It's the first time since it happened that she has used Connor and "dead" in the same sentence.

Andrade outdoes herself giving them a hero's welcome to Oden Tal. The food is plentiful and exquisite. There are bonfires and music and dozens of people happily greeting them, demanding stories of their trip and the battles they fought in loud, jovial tones. Wesley watches her uneasily throughout the entire proceeding.

Denna handles it all with as much grace as she can for about fifteen minutes before Sonseerae, Tahiri's mother, rushes to greet her, breathless and smiling, and asks her, "How were your sons?"

Wesley literally carries her away, pointedly ignoring several worried stares at the sound of her sobs.

Wesley helps her dress before they enter the Atole. Double-wraps the pagne around her waist and laces up her ra, paints the symbol of freedom in red over her eye.

"You're beautiful like this." He says to her quietly as he finishes.

She smiles at him in spite of herself. "So are you."

His smile back at her is wonderful but inside, she still feels numb, and the act of dressing to fit in with her own people ties into it in ways he cannot understand, couldn't hope to understand.

She hates herself for already adapting to life without Connor.

It seemed fitting to her that the early spring rains had set in heavily by the time they arrived in Oden Tal. Everything was cool and gray and humid, the ground nothing but mud, deep puddles of water and patches of soppy green. Connor had loved the rain.

The brightly colored, faintly luminescent spring plants were in stages of wild growth as she and Wes crossed the miles upon miles of wet plains. The beauty would have been captivating, if all that life blossoming around her hadn’t looked like an inside out reflection of her own heart.

Denna gingerly walked amidst the remains of the Hyperion, toeing her way through the ash and broken glass in quiet desolation. She hadn't cried in days. She considered this a plus; perhaps it was a sign that she had already begun to heal. Equally possible was that the well inside her chest had dried up and there were no tears left to cry. She didn't want to think about that.

The Hyperion had been her first home here on Earth. Connor's, too.

How could it be that there was nothing left here but her broken heart and his little knife?