The Perfection Of Beauty

One of the digs is uncovering a funeral ship, and a few of the workers ask Wesley to check it for spells before they start work on it. How they know he can do it, will do it, and can only perform any rituals after sundown, is anyone's guess, but it's Cairo, it's Egypt, and they don't ask questions any more.

They all choose to assume that the people helping on the dig don't actually know why he only does things like this after sundown, because surely even here no-one's going to be too thrilled about an over-protective vampire attachment.

Then again, they've probably worked out what Spike is a long time ago. The 'lover' bit is probably what they'd have most difficulty with, but then again, Wesley is an anomaly to them. Perhaps they wouldn't care.

Wesley comes back with a lazily bored Spike, who didn't get to kill anything, raving about cedarwood and the destruction of the groves. This is, now, the only chance he will ever have to see one of the magnificent trees, for the rest are long gone, destroyed by war and men.

Illyria, hazily drugged with incense and hymns, joins the conversation. Breaking her usual silence, she remembers the trees when they were young, her soft, level voice like a chant as she recalls their perfection. These were the trees that spoke to her, long ago, and her recollections are steeped with the sadness she feels for this new, silent world.

The rooms are lit with candles, the walls covered in tomb-paintings and linen drapes. They are caught out of time.

"I know about the cedars," Xander volunteers, and even Wesley, who has not been surprised by anything in a while, looks slightly taken aback. "Willow used to read it. Women weren't allowed to, at first. Drove her mad."

"Women weren't -" Wesley stops. "Ah, of course." It is easy to forget Willow's upbringing, in favour of her power. "Ezekiel," he adds, and Spike leans back against the balcony rail, as though everything has been answered. Illyria frowns.

"Women were not allowed cedars?"

"Women weren't allowed to read one of the books of prophecies," Xander elaborates, and watches Illyria file that piece of information away. "But yeah, I always liked that bit." He looks embarrassed. "Building."

"In the heart of the seas are your borders; your builders perfected your beauty," Wesley's voice is a murmur in the half light, and Xander finishes it.

"Of junipers from Senir did they fashion you, all the planks; cedars from Lebanon they took to make a mast on you. Did it have a mast, Wes?"

Wesley smiles. "Yes, laid flat."

"But no demons," Spike grumbles.

"No, no demons," Wesley agrees. He gets to his feet, sleepy and stretching, his startling tan dark against his white shirt, and smiles at Spike. "Come to bed, love."

Later, alone, Xander tells Illyria the rest of it, the reason he remembers the lines Willow read to him so long ago, here in the lands the words came from.

"Persia, Lud, and Put were in your army, your warriors; shield and helmet they hung in you, they provided your beauty. The children of Arvad and your army upon your walls around and Gammadim were in your towers; their quivers they heaped on your walls around, they perfected your beauty."

In a country of gods, Illyria wears her regalia lightly, and her armour of devotion and slaughter makes her fairer than the Song of Songs. She is the clash of blades and the whine of arrows, the crack of a gun and the hammering of stone.

She is made to be worshipped, and Xander does so.

Thus I my best beloved's am,
Thus he is mine.