Current mood:	awake
Current music:	The Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos, "Kyrie"

Letter for a friend.
Dear Lilah,

I have no idea how, or if, you are able to view the action of this world from where you are, but if you've been paying any kind of attention at all, I'm sure you've been hugely amused by recent events. While several have offered me a consoling ear lately, quite frankly, you're the only person I even remotely feel like talking to at the moment.

What those who have only witnessed this past chapter don't understand is that, more than anyone else, my father is the person who's most responsible for shaping me into who I am today. While that could certainly be construed as self-deprecation or even sarcasm, it's important to realize that Father has always believed in doing right. He taught me of duty and conviction, of the need, at times, to risk all for the sake of others, and to do so without expectation of reward or recognition. Granted, I was never able to adhere to these principles to his satisfaction, but I pride myself on acknowledging the truth of these ideals. Whatever strength I've managed in the face of adversity, whatever perseverance that has helped me withstand the trials I've endured, has been bequeathed to me by him. Strange, then, that he should take such great steps to undermine his own efforts.

I think I'm finally beginning to understand, though. When I was younger, I tried everything to win his favor. My father has never been a patient man. He hadn't the time or the inclination to mentor me when I was unable to fulfill the duties he assigned. However, when I did begin to master the various disciplines he drilled into me, he suddenly saw something quiet different; a rival, a successor, perhaps even a memento mori of sorts. I was notice that the Wyndham-Pryce line would continue without him; this, I think, is far more galling to him than any embarrassment I may have given him with my relations with Faith or Angel.

It's not so much that I shot him, or even that I was willing to do so. It was the only option, and I would wholeheartedly support the same assertion if it were another in my place. What I didn't tell Fred was that as soon as she appeared on the roof, I was waiting for him to train the gun on her. I wanted an excuse, you see.

And I'm sure you're rolling your eyes at this juncture and making unkind jokes about her body type. You needn't concern yourself, however. The fact is, I doubt very much that she's particularly interested in becoming some sort of courtly-love figure to my black knight, and even if she was, I wouldn't saddle her with that. I respect her far too much.

And in fact, you should be encouraged. For I've been finding it steadily easier to do things that once would have been abhorrent to me. When I first found myself in mortal danger, the tsunami of fear that I felt was almost a physical presence. As time goes on, however, I find it harder and harder to understand what I was afraid of. Pain fades, and death is, if nothing else, a release. I think at this point the only true fear I have is not fulfilling my duty. Causing others harm is a stronger deterrent, but getting less and less so with time.

This is why you still frighten me, dear. Because the part of me that responded to you so strongly was also the part that bayed for release, that wanted to hang our cyborg friend of last week from the ceiling and find ways to make his eyes turn inward. I can do such things if I like. It's fascinating. the various uses of metal to bend will. Apply a little pressure here, a casual insertion there--it's very satisfying. As I'm sure you remember.

I do wish you were here, love. Not because I'd expect nurturing caresses or words of comfort, but because it would be sweet relief right now to be with someone who wasn't watching me with anxious eyes. After I emptied the clip of the gun into what I believed with all my heart was the man who gave me life, making the conscious choice that this would not be a simple winging of the shoulder but that this man would never rise from the tarmac of his own volition, I heard a sound somewhere in the distance. It sounded a great deal like hands clapping slowly. As I've said, I have no knowledge of the afterlife save hearsay, but I have no doubt that if you were witness to that scene in any way, you were applauding me on. And the more I play this role, the less frightened of it I grow. I'm not sure how to reverse that, and I'm not at all sure that I even want to.

So take heart, love. If this is true, we may see each other again before you know it.

Love,
Wesley