Quickened
by P.H. Wise
A Buffy crossover fanfic
Chapter 18: Redemption Song
Disclaimer: I don’t own Buffy. I don’t own Angel. I don’t own Highlander. Please don’t sue me. I’m only a poor starving writer. I have no money.
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There was a boy
A very strange, enchanted boy
They say he wandered very far
Very far...
Over land and sea
A little shy, and sad of eye
But very wise was he
And then one day
One magic day, he passed my way
And while we spoke of many things
Fools and kings
This he said to me:
“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn
is just to Love, and be Loved in return.”
- Nature Boy, by David Bowie/Massive Attack
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Angel raced through the pouring rain in the alley behind the Hyperion hotel. The Black Thorn was dead and gone, and the Senior Partners were most definitely Not Pleased. He stopped at the chain-link fence at the end of the alley and looked about for the others. Thunder boomed like the crack of doom as the fury of the storm increased.
“Boo,” said Spike, as he walked out of the shadows.
“Anyone else?”
“Not so far. You feel the heat?”
Angel nodded. “It’s coming.”
Spike grinned. “Finally got ourselves a decent brawl.”
The sound of running feet splashing through the rain announced Charles Gunn’s presence long before he arrived. He was in bad shape after his battle with the vampires at Senator Brucker’s campaign headquarters, and he was growing weaker by the minute, but he still sported a faint smile. Home made battle-axe in hand, he let out a weak laugh. “Damn! How did I know the fang boys would pull through?” His voice lost some of its fire to the pain of his wounds. “You’re lucky we’re on the same side, dogs. My game was tight.” He collapsed.
Angel and Spike rushed forward to catch him, and then gently helped him to sit down on a box that lay nearby.
Spike gave Gunn’s wounds a quick look. “You’re supposed to wear the red stuff on the inside, Charlie-boy.”
Gunn looked down at his injuries. “... Any word on Wes?”
Illyria jumped down from the chain-link fence to stand behind Angel. “Wesley’s dead.”
There was a long moment of silence as the news sank in. Some of the fire went out of Angel’s eyes as the heartbreak of having lost yet another dear friend came home to him, along with the very real likelihood that none of them would survive the next few minutes. Spike hung his head, and tears began to stream down Gunn’s face.
The noise of a very large crowd began to build at the mouth of the alleyway.
“I’m feeling grief for him,” said Illyria, her queer, reptilian eyes shining with unshed tears.
Vague shapes became visible approaching down the alley way as the noise of the crowd grew louder.
Illyria clenched her fist. “I can’t seem to control it. I wish to do more violence.”
Spike glanced towards the approaching crowd. “Well, wishes just happen to be horses today.”
Angel hefted his sword. “Among other things,” he quipped.
The surviving members of the Fang Gang watched as the crowd approached. Crowd? More like army. Hundreds. No, make that THOUSANDS of demons approached them. Demons of every sort shape and size imaginable, and of quite a number that weren’t. Hell itself was emptied, and every shrieking, gibbering, blasphemous thing from the darkest depths of that nightmare realm had come to destroy the band of Champions who had dared to strike down the Black Thorn. A monstrous roar shattered windows and reverberated through the earth itself. Angel’s gaze followed the line of the sound. There. Over the army, a massive winged dragon bore down on their position, nearly overcome with draconic fury.
“OK,” said Gunn, “You take the thirty thousand on the left...”
“You’re fading,” said Illyria. “You’ll last ten minutes at best.”
Gunn nodded as he rose to his feet, heedless of his obviously mortal wounds. “Then let’s make ‘em memorable.”
Angel stepped forward, and Illyria, Gunn, and Spike followed – Spike on Angel’s right side, flanked a step behind by Gunn on the right and Illyria on the left. There was nothing to do but wait for the battle to be joined. The horde of demons approached, and they waited.
“In terms of a plan?” asked Spike.
“We fight,” Angel replied.
“Bit more specific.”
Angel stepped forward. “Well, personally, I kind of want to slay the dragon.”
The demon horde rushed forward, and Angel raised his sword over his head and shouted a single word as loud as he possibly could, in a voice more clear than he had ever achieved in the long years of his life:
“NOW!”
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FLASHBACK: EARLIER THAT DAY
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Buffy stood before the crowd of immortals in the lobby of the Hyperion hotel.
The first thing she had done after waking up from her coma was to enjoy Angel’s presence. The SECOND thing, however, was to ask several pressing questions, among them being, “What is the circle of the Black Thorn?”
After several days of debate, they had finally decided upon a course of action, which had led them to the current situation. With the help of the Watchers, they had managed to gather about one hundred Immortals, ranging from the newly immortal to the truly ancient. Many others had not been called here – the headhunters, the truly wicked, and those who had shown themselves concerned only with themselves. It had taken some work to prevent them from simply dueling it out on the spot, but calling in ALL of the Slayers that they had managed to bring into the fold from everywhere in the world had helped: the presence of sixty or so Slayers had gone a long way towards encouraging them to behave themselves, though it had required that a few bones be broken to make the rowdier ones fall into line.
Swallowing nervously, Buffy stepped onto the makeshift podium that they had hastily constructed. The scoobies stood on the sidelines of the crowd, offering their silent support with encouraging looks and nods. She met each of their gazes in turn. Xander. Willow. Giles. ‘Ok Buffy,’ she thought, ‘You can do this.’
She looked out across the crowd of immortals and spotted three familiar faces. Duncan MacLeod – her teacher. Richie Ryan. Methos. Next to them stood ... someone she didn’t know - a woman with short dark hair and an impish grin. Her courage bolstered by the presence of her friends, mortal and immortal, she began to speak.
“I suppose you’re all wondering why you’ve been called here, not to mention why you were all disarmed before you were allowed into the building.” she said.
A general murmur of agreement went up from the crowd, as well as a few amused looks. Much more common than amusement, however, was a sort of fatalistic resignation. Caught in a building, weaponless, at the mercy of an immortal Slayer with an army of Slayers close at hand, most of the crowd had little doubt that these would be their last moments.
“Most of you are probably thinking that I’ve lured you all into a brilliant trap so as to collect your heads and reap the power of somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred quickenings.”
Dead silence greeted that statement. Unperturbed, Buffy went on.
“I am not here to collect your heads. I have bigger things to worry about than the Game, and more important goals to pursue than the Prize.”
Seeing flat disbelief in so VERY many pairs of eyes very nearly made Buffy wince, but she managed to conceal it. Her adrenaline was pumping full force now – she usually didn’t feel like this unless she was actually slaying. This was it. Doom would be decided here, now, and by this group.
“For centuries upon centuries, the immortals have fought and died for the Prize. I’ve heard the whole shpiel. ‘Now is the time of the Gathering, blah blah blah, those few who are left battle, blah blah blah blah blah.’ You’ve all heard it before, and you’ll all hear it again, provided you keep your heads. But I’ve learned a secret: the prize is a lie. The sooner you forget it, the better off we’ll all be.”
Angry mutters spread through the crowd. This was ridiculous. Who was this girl and how dare she claim such a thing of the goal that so many had suffered and died for!
“Yeah, yeah, I figured you wouldn’t believe me. Here’s the thing – the history of the immortals has been chronicled for as long as long as immortals have been around. I’m sure some of you are familiar with the Watchers. A mortal agency supposedly dedicated to observing and recording the history of immortals, but never interfering, and keeping it secret all the while from the rest of the mortals.”
The mutters grew louder then, and for a moment, it looked as though Buffy was going to lose control of the crowd. And then a voice rang out – Duncan MacLeod, his voice yet graced with a faint Scottish accent, “It’s true. I’ve met them. So have Richie and Amanda.” So had Methos – hell, Methos WAS a watcher, but he wasn’t terribly keen on having his identity revealed to the entire crowd of immortals, and Duncan, respecting his wishes, had left his name out of it.
The mutters died down then. MacLeod, at least, was one they respected. Buffy let out a long shuddering breath. The hurdle had been jumped.
“I’ve read the Watchers’ Diaries,” said the Immortal Slayer. “If you want to read them yourself to confirm what I’m saying, they are stacked up on the tables by the settee.”
No one moved.
Buffy smiled and went on. “New immortals show up all the time. The overall population of immortals is just as high now as it ever was, and there have been more beheadings in the modern days than at any other time in our history! Now, I’ve seen the unborn immortals. There are THOUSANDS of them. But eventually, yes, new immortals will no longer be born, and if things go as they are, in the end, there will be only one.
If things go as they are.
Now my question to you is this: do you really want to be the last? When humanity is long dead, do you want to live on still, alone? When sun grows cold, and the last warmth of the earth dies out, do you want to be the last immortal, lingering still on a world that has turned to ash, with no company but your own screams? Would you wish that fate on your worst enemy?”
A long silence greeted that. “...What then?” a voice called out at last, “Are you telling us that there’s no point to our existence?”
Buffy shook her head. “I’m telling you that the Game is a lie. A lie to keep us – immortals – so caught up with the need for more power – more quickenings – that we don’t see the bigger picture.”
She hit her stride, then. Her voice rolled out over the crowd filled with power and confidence. “This world is way older than any of you know,” she said, and her eyes met with Giles for just a moment.
Giles, Xander and Willow exchanged amused glances.
“Everyone’s got a paradise myth, sure, but they’re all wrong. Demons walked the Earth for eons before human beings ever did. They made it their home. They made it their hell. You might have seen the footage that got out of Rome before the quarantine, and I’m sure most of you remember Jasmine, late last year? That was no hoax. Eventually, the true demons lost their purchase on our world, and the way was made for mortals – and immortals. But we are not alone in this world. The vampires, the lesser demons, and the other creatures of darkness – they’re all out there, waiting for the animals to die and the Old Ones to return. Most of them wouldn’t be opposed to hurrying the process along. There are several attempts to end the world EVERY YEAR. Even if you do want to be the last of us, who will be there to claim the Prize if the world falls to the darkness?”
Silence hung heavily on the room then. The crowd was clearly listening to Buffy. But were they hearing her? She’d find out very soon.
“We’ve all heard that in the end, there can be only one. But who says so? Why should we fight to the last? It’s about power, yes. But it’s not about YOUR power. I’ve learned the truth about immortals. We’re being played for fools. Do you know what the prize really is? Your death. We are all children of a long dead Old One who calls himself Osiris, and our souls are the fuel for His rebirth. In the end, there will be only Osiris. And in the meantime, we’re kept pleasantly distracted by the forces of the Old Ones with this damned headhunting ‘game’ so we won’t notice them cleaning the humans out of their old home and moving on in.”
An older, gruff voice spoke up then. “Why should we believe anything you say? It sounds to me like you’re just making up some dark faerie tale to suit your own purposes. What proof can you offer of your claims?”
“You mean besides the diaries?”
Silence.
Buffy turned towards the immortal, and for but a moment, allowed the power that she had taken from Eater of Souls to come to the fore. Her eyes darkened to pools of infinite blackness, and a sense of terrible power mixed with hidden menace filled the room, causing all within to shift uneasily. Although most of the Immortals had never felt such a thing before, it was instantly familiar. Now that Buffy had unveiled herself, however briefly, they could feel their own Quickenings coiling beneath their skin, as if eager to cross the space between their bodies and the Slayer to join the greater mass of Osiris that lay there.
“What...?” the immortal asked, his voice filled with horror and wonder in equal measure.
“You might say I’m a little bit closer to the source, these days,” Buffy replied.
The immortal did not challenge her again.
Taking silence for victory, Buffy pushed the power back into the background, and went on. “The one person in this world who means more to me than life itself is taking the fight to them tonight, knowing that it will cost him his life. I spoke with him. He’s lost almost all of his hope. He says that the powerful control everything. He says that we are just parts of a machine that will be here long after we are dust. But he hasn’t lost ALL hope. He still knows that even if we are just parts of a machine, and even if that machine will be here long after we are dust – even if the powerful control everything, they don’t control our will to choose. He says that he’ll fight them because it’s right – the chances of victory be damned. I say, without our help, he and his WILL die, and Hell’s retribution will probably destroy most of the western United States.”
The silence of the audience had grown nearly unbearable now, and Buffy could feel her heart racing inside her chest. At length, a voice called out - the voice of Richie Ryan.
“What can we do?”
With her eyes full of intensity and absolute conviction in her voice, Buffy gave him his answer:
“I say that it’s time to stop playing Games. The piper may still be playing, but it’s time to stop dancing to his tune. This world is harsh, and it’s cruel, full of pain, and suffering. The ambitious and the greedy take advantage, and the innocent and the gentle are the ones who pay for it. As Immortals – as Children of Osiris, you have all experienced this for yourselves. Nothing in this world is the way it ought to be. But there are those few who stand against all that. And it doesn’t matter where they come from, what they’ve done or suffered, or even if they make a difference. They live as though the world is what it should be, to show it what it can be. You’ve been warriors, and you’ve been healers. You’ve been lovers, and you’ve been wanderers. Now it’s time to be something else – something that you’ve never been before. Now it’s time to be Champions. Are you with me?”
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END FLASHBACK
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In the alley behind the Hyperion hotel, the army of demonic warriors bore down on Angel, Illyria, Spike and Gun like a tidal wave.
“NOW!”
Angel’s shout rang out like the clear tone of a bell, and on the rooftops that lined the alleyway, the slayers rose up, crossbows in hand. “FIRE!” Buffy called from the roof of the Hyperion hotel, where she stood with thirty slayers. A split second later, her orders were echoed by Faith on the opposite rooftop with the other thirty. A hail of “Rosenberg special” crossbow bolts streaked down from the rooftops into the demon hordes. Confined as they were within the narrow space of the alley, they made easy targets. It was as though the front ranks of the demonic army had been shoved into a meat grinder – gore and bits of demon mixed with rainwater sprayed everywhere as the enchanted crossbow bolts detonated on impact.
The dragon went down almost instantly, its wings torn to shreds by fire from Buffy and Faith. Down it went, into the ranks of the enemy, but not out. Although its’ leathery wings were ripped and torn, it was old, and its hide was tough.
Angel’s heart jumped in his chest, and his eyes came alight with rekindled hope. Buffy had said that she would be there with help, but he’d never expected anything like THIS!
The slayers began firing again as soon as they had reloaded, and the feathered bolts rained down on the demon army like black rain. Yet still the demons pressed forward. Three more volleys, and the enchanted bolts were used up, and it was left to regular ammunition. The kill-rate dropped almost immediately – while still significant, it was no longer enough to halt the charge.
Angel met the demons head-on, with Gunn, Illyria, and Spike at his side.
“Let’s get to work.”
Battle was joined.
Buffy glanced down at where Angel and his crew had met the first ranks. With the four of them engaging the demons in melee range, the Slayers were forced to direct their crossbow fire to the ranks further back. They were significantly thinning the numbers that got through to the Fang Gang, but on the other side of the rain of feathered death, the ranks of demons were growing.
Angel and Spike fought side by side, the sheer determination and inhuman skill of the one complemented by the raw animalistic savagery of the other. Close by, Illyria carved a path through the demonic army like a primal goddess of death – all who came before her flashing blades met a swift and painful end. The only one doing poorly was the human – Charles Gunn. He was giving as good as he got, yes, but he was bleeding badly, and obviously would not last much longer.
“IMMORTALS!” Buffy called.
One moment Gunn was surrounded by demons, all of them itching to rend him limb from limb. The next, he heard the clattering of the chain-link fence hitting the ground, and then there were sword wielding men and women all around him cutting into the demon ranks. He grinned. He was beginning to feel very, very cold – very numb. It was getting hard to move. Still, he fought on, ramming his axe into the gut of one demon, and then through the throat of another. He took a hit to the shoulder, but stubbornly he refused to fall. A Polgara strode forward to meet him, its hand-spike extended, going for the quick kill.
He cut off its hand at the wrist.
The demon howled in pain... and that was when Gunn fell to pavement, the raindrops splattering noisily before his eyes. The wet pavement was cold, but it seemed wonderfully warm compared to the numbness that had spread throughout his body.
The last thing Charles Gunn saw before he died was the face of Winifred Burkle mouthing his name.
Illyria felt something inside of her snap as she saw Gunn’s light – his life - go out. She was distantly aware that she was mouthing his name, and that her eyes seemed to be leaking. But all that faded next to the experience of the raw emotions that had welled up within her – grief mixed with equal parts of pure rage.
Unfamiliar memories came bubbling to the surface of her awareness. Intimate moments shared. Breakfast at the diner near the Hyperion. The ballet. A kiss – their first kiss. It felt like Wesley’s death all over again, but worse – now there were two sources of grief instead of one. The fight raged on all around her, but for all that she could see, the world had narrowed to a single point – the body.
The need to destroy, already strong within her, flared into overload. Time-space rippled around her as she fell upon the creatures that had caused this newest grief. And Death followed in her wake.
It was then that the dragon rose to its feet, bellowing its fury for all the world to hear. The very firmament trembled as the echoes swelled and faded within the crowded alleyway, finally dying away into distant bass rumbles.
Seeing the dragon’s rise from the wreck, Angel got a strange grin on his face. Hefting his sword, he lunged for the beast.
It noticed.
Flames billowed forth, more terrible than any merely man made fire: a heat born from the heart of hell itself. Dragonfire.
A woman’s voice rang out, chanting in Latin.
‘This is it,’ Angel thought as the flames washed over him...
Only to leave him and those around him untouched. He directed a grateful look up to where Willow stood on the roof of the Hyperion, lending magical support to the Champions who did battle below. But one look was all he had time for – there was a dragon to deal with, and he could not count on another save like that again: not when she had the rest of the battle to attend to.
As the dragon expended the last of its breath and inhaled deeply to begin the process again, Angel made a great vampiric leap, carrying him up – up onto the beast’s head. He plunged his sword through the dragon’s right eye, through the optic nerve, and beyond into the skull, burying not only the sword, but his entire arm in gore. The monster roared, this time in pain and not fury, tossed its head violently, and then fell to the ground, quite dead.
With the dragon dead, the demon army lost its courage, and began to retreat from the alley. In moments, the retreat became a route as the Slayers poured down upon their ranks from their positions on the buildings on either side of the alley.
It was then that Buffy the Vampire Slayer was reunited with both Angel and Spike upon the field of battle. On that day, three fought as one: strength, ferocity, and skill, driving ever onward, slaying all who stood against them. And the forces of Hell flew before them, and the terror of them filled the hearts of their enemies.
News helicopters wheeled overhead even as the police and the National Guard finally made their lumbering response to the demonic threat. The battle had not gone unnoticed by the human media, and this was something far, far beyond what could be explained by ‘gangs on PCP.’
On that day, the human world as a whole became aware of ‘the sub-terrestrial threat.’
On that day, everything changed.
Slayers, Immortals, ensouled vampires, and an Old One, united in common cause, standing against the darkness, had scored a great victory that day. The demons had expected but a small group of Champions, and easily overwhelmed by a disorganized, leaderless mob of an army. They certainly had not expected an army of Slayers and Immortals to meet them in battle. Having caught their enemy in the bottleneck of the alleyway, the results were total and complete slaughter.
Much had been lost, and friends had fallen, yet the good fight went on.
The fury of the Senior Partners was dire and terrible, yet even they recognized that the game had changed. Humanity could no longer be lulled into a comfortable sleep by the belief that there was no such thing as demons. The army of the dead Archduke had been destroyed, but they had others. And they had champions of their own. War. Famine. Pestilence.
But not Death.
Not yet.
As for Buffy, she stood there upon the field of victory, Angel upon her right, and Spike upon her left. And she looked upon Spike with forgiveness, and upon Angel, with love. Two men, ever in her heart, ever at odds with one another: they exchanged looks of profound dislike.
Buffy shook her head and sighed. “This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”
END CHAPTER 18
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Like it? Love it? Hate it? Let me know!
This is the last chapter of Quickened. There will, however, be an epilogue. Note that I have intentionally left the story wide open for side-stories and sequels. I will most likely come back and write them at some point in the future, but as for now, I must concentrate on other things. Like my Senior Thesis. I may come back and revise the whole thing at some point – there are certainly chapters that I feel could have gone better. But this will have to wait, for a little while at least.
To all of you who have actually read this thing all the way through, thank you.
P.H. Wise
