Disclaimer: Anita Blake and Characters are rights of L.K. Hamilton. Angel and Crew go to Joss Whedon. I get nothing.
Power surged through her, tremors that rippled through time sending her backwards and forwards, sideways and byways, up, down, and all around. At first she thought it was a plot by the half-breed lord; the agents of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart hadn't hidden their scorn and dislike of her, but she hadn't worried about them. They were like ants beneath her greatness, and though her vessel was not her preferred form, it would do. She wore the shape of the beings that now ruled the earth, and it was enough. She had all the time in the world to rebuild her empire.
She had thought
she had all the time in the world to rebuild. Her own power was twisting her insides, ripping her own time-line apart, and she quaked as what passed for her bones ached from the pressure. It was too much, but if she was going to die she would take her killers down with her.
Illyria paced within the fighting chamber, wooden knife in her hand, and waited for the moment that her enemies would find her. Her pet would die first for his betrayal, and the rest would follow. The Burkle persona had possessed feelings for them, and in difference to those feelings she had refrained from deposing the half-breed and taking his kingdom, but those sparks would not stay her hand when there was some kind of spell ripping her apart from the inside.
Something bubbled up within her, something big and powerful and new, and she moaned as her shell cracked and splintered. She could feel them coming for her, but another tickled at her distantly at her awareness and her ice blue eyes widened as she pieced together the dark haired half-breed's claims of innocence with her own speculations and experience. It wasn't
a spell. Her shell was simply too small for what needed to be done. Too fragile.
Somehow, her child had survived within her. Though they had attacked her during one of her few weak periods, killed her as she attempted to give birth, her enemies had destroyed her too soon. Her child had stayed within her, its essence laced among her own, and now it was wanting out.
Illyria reached inside herself and felt intangible hands grasp her own as her child burst forth in a shower of power and light.
The door to the room opened, and she felt at peace.
"Wesley." She looked to her guide and the machine in his hands with contempt. The others stood in a semi-circle, staring.
"Her levels are back to normal, or at least as normal as they ever are..."
"Illyria. Who is that?" The little lord questioned harshly. The Old One tilted her head and looked at her child. He had taken cues from her pet and her shell, wore a body of a pale human with almost white-blonde hair and pale blue eyes.
"I am... Edward." He spoke, and it was with the southern tones of the shell's home, and the name of the Burkle persona's ancestor. Edward's power was insignificant compared to her own, and for a moment she was appalled that she had spawned such a weak being. In the Primordium such an offspring would be cannibalized: used as fuel for the stronger siblings. The years he had spent entrenched within the sarcophagus had not been kind to him... but he was still hers. The first generation of new Old Ones. Possibly the last if Illyira found no worthy mate in this era, and so he would live. Grow stronger.
"Blue, you know this bloke?" Her pet asked as he circled Edward admiring his form, and why not? Her child had molded himself to combine their best features and wore all black with a dark leather coat cut from her own armor. She did not begrudge him that small piece of her, for he may need it, and despite what others may have said she did have some vestiges of motherly instinct.
"He is my son."
She ignored their stares as she stepped up to the man that had burst from her head fully formed and dressed. His ice blue eyes met her own and he bowed his head respectfully. "Mother."
"Go. Conquer all. Never die." As she spoke she gathered the remains of the birthing energy and weaved a door. Her son would be the first of her new warriors. He would learn the ways of the humans in the other world. He would fight and grow strong, become feared and respected, and one day when his power became something truly magnificent he would deliver the other world to her.
He walked toward the door, coat swishing behind him, and as he did so he grinned and whispered, "And lo, I have become Death. Destroyer of worlds."
Illyria smiled and kept her silence as the little lord questioned and attempted to threaten her. This world was hers to conquer, and she would do so, in due time. For now, the Wolf, Ram, and Hart needed watching and she needed her guide to teach her of the times. Once she mastered this era she would make her move and the world would once again tremble at her name.Good luck, my son.
He was born from her, knew all that she knew and her shell had known, but he would still require a guide. She hoped he would find one worthy. If not... no. He was her child. He would succeed. Live and grow. The other world would tremble at his name as this one did hers.