Theyâre going to turn to dust together, and part of him wants to lie,
tell Angel not to worry; that it doesnât hurt, but thereâs no time. His
tongue sweeps across lips wet with Gunnâs blood, sprayed scarlet across
him as Gunn died, head severed, and his fingers are still clutching a
hank of blue-stained hair; all that was left of a god-king turned to
dragon-fodder.
Theyâre a broken army, and itâs just the two of them now, but itâs too
late. Heâs tugging at a stake thatâs tickling his heart and a creature
with more teeth than heâs got is grinning as it pushes the stake home
and pushes Spike away with a contemptuous shove.
Just there, out of reach, Angelâs staggering back
onto a splintered, jutting spear and Spike knows in a moment the spear
will catch hold of what holds Angel together and smash it apart before
clattering, with a simple finality, to the ground as the body that
holds it disintegrates.
No time to say goodbye. No time to tell him in a look, a glance, a
glare how this was a bloody stupid idea but the perfect way to die for
men like them.
And when Angel falls forward, coughing blood, and dies, still whole,
still solid, spear quivering in his back, and when he feels the alley
floor smack against his cheek as he falls against it, dying but doing
it properly, as a soldier should, fighting it all the way, he stops
caring.
Looks like heâll get to see him again soon after all. Might still be
hell, but heâs hoping not.
Not now.
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15/11/04
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