Erthe Upon Erthe
Sep. 26th, 2007 12:48 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sevendeadlyfunCharacters: Spike, Angel, Gunn, Illyria
Rating: PG
A/N: The best part of writing fanfiction is the opportunity to explore the characters' interior lives. This is my version of Spike's thoughts during the final scene of "Not Fade Away" Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
decade_of_spike, posted here for my memories.
A/N II: Lines taken from the AtS S5 ep "Not Fade Away", John Milton's "Paradise Lost", WIlliam Ernest Henley's "Invictus", Lord Alfred Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade" and Charles Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities"
It’s raining. He hates the rain. For all the poems written about it, it’s nothing beautiful or miraculous. It’s sodding cold and wet. He read somewhere, in another life, about the rain. The tears of angels, a harbinger of awesome portent, signifying the divine. Bollocks to that. It’s cold and wet.
The slap slap of footsteps in the water draws his attention outward. He freezes, pulling back into the shadows. If rain is a harbinger, this is the night for it. Demons and angels battling for supremacy. He wonders if the others think about that. Gorgons and hydrae and chimeras dire, this was all scripted a long time ago. Milton must have either been a seer or a demon.
The alley falls silent. Speak of angels and get a fallen one, he smirks. The old man made it. It doesn’t matter how much he hates Angel, and he does or did or will, the bloody poof is family.
“Boo,” he calls out. He’s entitled. He’s been a shade, half in the world and unable to do more than give a ghostly cry.
“Any one else?”
“Not so far, “ he replies, shaking his head. “You feel the heat?”
Fires of hell, always nipping at their heels and Angel doesn’t bother to deny it. He can see the regret in those tired eyes. Regret and a strange sort of gratitude, which he returns. No one should die alone.
“It’s comin’” Angel answers and somehow, the older vampire looks all the younger and happier for admitting it.
He looks towards the sky, waiting for the hand of God to come crashing down. Go on, he challenges silently. Smite me.
“Finally got ourselves a decent brawl,” he observes casually. The fight is honest and it’s one he’s chosen. That’s all that matters.
“Damn,” a familiar voice exclaims. “How’d I know the Fang Boys’d pull through? You’re lucky we’re on the same side, ‘cause I was on fire tonight.”
He and Angel rush towards the limping man. Oh Charlie, he thinks sadly. You could’ve run. He knows Gunn never would. Not in any of their natures. Bloodied but unbowed, that’s them.
“My gig was…tight,” Gunn wheezes.
He grimaces as he finds blood, Open wound, deep from the feel of it. Their first casualty of the night and Buffy was right. Casualty sounds too casual.
“Supposed to wear that red stuff on the inside, Charlie Boy,” he mutters. His voice is thick and he knows it. No point now in playing it cool. Gunn is shaking, shock finally overtaking the adrenaline. He’s going to die. They all are. They’ll catch him up, sooner or later.
“Any word on Wes?” Gunn sounds strong, unafraid. Should’ve been an Englishman, that one. Boldly he rode and well, into the jaws of Death, into the mouth of Hell.
He shakes his head sadly. He’s thinking of home now. His first death and he looked that one in the eye as well. Another alley, another time. He wonders if there’s such a thing as re-death. What he wouldn’t give to see Dru, staring up at him with her hypnotic eyes and her promises of effulgence. He wonders if she knows, if she’ll miss him.
Illyria lands in front of them and he’s pleased. He knew Big Blue would make it. Still, he’s become attached to her, this strange woman that wears Fred’s face and speaks so bluntly of his insignificance.
“Wesley’s dead,” she says quietly.
He can see Angel, face crumpling in confusion. For all of Angel’s talk about how they’d be crushed, he knows the sorry bastard never actually thought they’d lose. He knows better though. They were dead the minute they stepped into that charnel house.
“I’m feeling grief for him,” Illyria continues and he can hear it in her voice. “I can’t seem to control it. I wish to do more violence.”
“Well, wishes just happen to be horses today,” he tells her and he can hear his mother. If wishes were horses, she’d say and he never learned. A century and more spent longing, and sometimes the yearning was sweet. He has a few good moments he clings to, and they’ve been running through his mind all night.
Drusilla in his arms, swaying to music he can almost hear. She makes it real for him, makes him something brighter, fiercer, stronger.
Buffy, leaning on him for once, needing him to be her strength. She was his soul when he didn’t have one and he’s grateful for it.
Standing side by side with Angel, no hate and no bitterness. Fighting for a common goal, even if they didn’t succeed, was something rare and treasured.
Dawn, listening to his stories. Xander, laughing with him and not at him. Joyce and her many kindness. Anyanaka, sharing a pint and sigh over the good old days. Memory after memory washes over him, joining the raindrops that slide off of him. He’s shedding hopes and dreams now. Third time choosing death, third time saying good-bye and it’s easier now.
The rain begins to clatter and thunder at his feet and Angel’s voice, hard and steady, says “Among other things.”
So that’s what Hell’s Army looks like. He expected something else. Fire and brimstone, he thinks. They forgot the fire and brimstone.
“Okay, you take the thirty thousand on the left…” Gunn quips weakly.
“You’re fading,” Illyria counters. “You’ll last ten minutes at best.”
There’s no sting in her words, just a frank appraisal. But, she’s right. Actually, he thinks that ten minutes might be an optimistic estimate.
“Then let’s make’em memorable.” Gunn’s determination hits him deep in his belly. ‘Tis a far far better thing we do here and he wishes he could acknowledge that. But there’s no time.
Rating: PG
A/N: The best part of writing fanfiction is the opportunity to explore the characters' interior lives. This is my version of Spike's thoughts during the final scene of "Not Fade Away" Written for
decade_of_spike, posted here for my memories.A/N II: Lines taken from the AtS S5 ep "Not Fade Away", John Milton's "Paradise Lost", WIlliam Ernest Henley's "Invictus", Lord Alfred Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade" and Charles Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities"
It’s raining. He hates the rain. For all the poems written about it, it’s nothing beautiful or miraculous. It’s sodding cold and wet. He read somewhere, in another life, about the rain. The tears of angels, a harbinger of awesome portent, signifying the divine. Bollocks to that. It’s cold and wet.
The slap slap of footsteps in the water draws his attention outward. He freezes, pulling back into the shadows. If rain is a harbinger, this is the night for it. Demons and angels battling for supremacy. He wonders if the others think about that. Gorgons and hydrae and chimeras dire, this was all scripted a long time ago. Milton must have either been a seer or a demon.
The alley falls silent. Speak of angels and get a fallen one, he smirks. The old man made it. It doesn’t matter how much he hates Angel, and he does or did or will, the bloody poof is family.
“Boo,” he calls out. He’s entitled. He’s been a shade, half in the world and unable to do more than give a ghostly cry.
“Any one else?”
“Not so far, “ he replies, shaking his head. “You feel the heat?”
Fires of hell, always nipping at their heels and Angel doesn’t bother to deny it. He can see the regret in those tired eyes. Regret and a strange sort of gratitude, which he returns. No one should die alone.
“It’s comin’” Angel answers and somehow, the older vampire looks all the younger and happier for admitting it.
He looks towards the sky, waiting for the hand of God to come crashing down. Go on, he challenges silently. Smite me.
“Finally got ourselves a decent brawl,” he observes casually. The fight is honest and it’s one he’s chosen. That’s all that matters.
“Damn,” a familiar voice exclaims. “How’d I know the Fang Boys’d pull through? You’re lucky we’re on the same side, ‘cause I was on fire tonight.”
He and Angel rush towards the limping man. Oh Charlie, he thinks sadly. You could’ve run. He knows Gunn never would. Not in any of their natures. Bloodied but unbowed, that’s them.
“My gig was…tight,” Gunn wheezes.
He grimaces as he finds blood, Open wound, deep from the feel of it. Their first casualty of the night and Buffy was right. Casualty sounds too casual.
“Supposed to wear that red stuff on the inside, Charlie Boy,” he mutters. His voice is thick and he knows it. No point now in playing it cool. Gunn is shaking, shock finally overtaking the adrenaline. He’s going to die. They all are. They’ll catch him up, sooner or later.
“Any word on Wes?” Gunn sounds strong, unafraid. Should’ve been an Englishman, that one. Boldly he rode and well, into the jaws of Death, into the mouth of Hell.
He shakes his head sadly. He’s thinking of home now. His first death and he looked that one in the eye as well. Another alley, another time. He wonders if there’s such a thing as re-death. What he wouldn’t give to see Dru, staring up at him with her hypnotic eyes and her promises of effulgence. He wonders if she knows, if she’ll miss him.
Illyria lands in front of them and he’s pleased. He knew Big Blue would make it. Still, he’s become attached to her, this strange woman that wears Fred’s face and speaks so bluntly of his insignificance.
“Wesley’s dead,” she says quietly.
He can see Angel, face crumpling in confusion. For all of Angel’s talk about how they’d be crushed, he knows the sorry bastard never actually thought they’d lose. He knows better though. They were dead the minute they stepped into that charnel house.
“I’m feeling grief for him,” Illyria continues and he can hear it in her voice. “I can’t seem to control it. I wish to do more violence.”
“Well, wishes just happen to be horses today,” he tells her and he can hear his mother. If wishes were horses, she’d say and he never learned. A century and more spent longing, and sometimes the yearning was sweet. He has a few good moments he clings to, and they’ve been running through his mind all night.
Drusilla in his arms, swaying to music he can almost hear. She makes it real for him, makes him something brighter, fiercer, stronger.
Buffy, leaning on him for once, needing him to be her strength. She was his soul when he didn’t have one and he’s grateful for it.
Standing side by side with Angel, no hate and no bitterness. Fighting for a common goal, even if they didn’t succeed, was something rare and treasured.
Dawn, listening to his stories. Xander, laughing with him and not at him. Joyce and her many kindness. Anyanaka, sharing a pint and sigh over the good old days. Memory after memory washes over him, joining the raindrops that slide off of him. He’s shedding hopes and dreams now. Third time choosing death, third time saying good-bye and it’s easier now.
The rain begins to clatter and thunder at his feet and Angel’s voice, hard and steady, says “Among other things.”
So that’s what Hell’s Army looks like. He expected something else. Fire and brimstone, he thinks. They forgot the fire and brimstone.
“Okay, you take the thirty thousand on the left…” Gunn quips weakly.
“You’re fading,” Illyria counters. “You’ll last ten minutes at best.”
There’s no sting in her words, just a frank appraisal. But, she’s right. Actually, he thinks that ten minutes might be an optimistic estimate.
“Then let’s make’em memorable.” Gunn’s determination hits him deep in his belly. ‘Tis a far far better thing we do here and he wishes he could acknowledge that. But there’s no time.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2007-09-26 09:51 am (UTC)no subject
on 2007-09-28 08:10 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-11-06 06:01 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2008-11-14 03:52 am (UTC)