A priest whose name he couldn't recall visited, using the excuse that his rounds were over and he had wished to check on the "miracle patient" whom the nurses had thought--twice, he made a point of mentioning--lay at death's door. Little had any of them known how Wesley yearned for the grave, that yawning abyss over which he had leaned, ready to be sucked in, only to have it snap shut at the last minute.

He shifted in the bed. The stiff starched sheets scratched his skin, making it difficult to get comfortable and retreat into sleep. Not that he could escape. Every time he closed his eyes, his life, the events leading up to the last two weeks, flashed before him.

The writing on the scroll. The blood stains on the towel. The glint of the knife as it passed before his eyes. The prick, then burning pain as Justine dragged the blade across his throat. The emptiness as he was relieved of Connor's weight. His future as it bled out onto the park's dry, dusty ground.

He had climbed heights, played at being the leader he had always dreamed of being. Then, a prophecy written especially for his arrogant and gullible mind lured him into the deepest pit of Hell, to be counted amongst the other abominations cast aside.

Wesley swallowed and savoured the excruciating pain, using it as a personal cat-o'-nine-tails. No forgetting allowed. The wound under the bandage and the scar it would leave would be a reminder of the betrayal he'd suffered by his own intelligence. The lack of fealty he'd shown the one who had taken him in, trusted him and allowed him to believe he could lead others.

Less than a month ago, he had been surrounded by comrades-in-arms, whom he considered family. Now he was under a death threat, issued by a friend, delivered by the one he loved. There would be no mercy; he'd seen that clearly in Angel's brown eyes before the pillow extinguished the last ray of hope.

Fred had visited, consoled him with well-chosen words. Then she delivered her missive, her back to him, standing beside the artefacts of his life, which she'd left.

"It was all for nothing."

Tears pooled in his eyes. His whole existence was summed up in one sentence, crammed into one box, set apart among the dead.