FICLET: On the Eve of Ragnarok - 800 words
Sorry all for any who noticed confusion on their flists! Apparently I'm incompetent *g* And hey, elizabuffy I'll dedicate this one to you even though you don't like angst. You like me and that's a good enough reason, isn't it? *hugs*
Oh, yeah...and this isn't betaed, so feel free to point out anything that needs a'changin'!
On the Eve of Ragnarok
AUTHOR: PhenDog
AUTHOR E-MAIL: PhenDog@gmail.com
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Giles reflects that even when death is a way of life, some deaths are harder than others…
DISCLAIMER: They belong to Joss. I know that, but *sigh* oh well.
WARNINGS: Angst, death, apocalypse, all the bad stuff
============================================
He pretended the redness about his eyes and the burning in his throat were merely a result of the smoke which darkened the skies and wolfishly swallowed the moon and the sun. It rose thick and heavy from the funeral pyres that dotted the grassy hillside with countless fires-too many of them-from this, just the latest battle in the war that very likely would defeat them all. Already many of their best had fallen-Slayers, magic wielders, evil fighters of every shape, size, and species, mixed with the ordinary citizens who couldn’t help but be enlisted-lost forever as the flames consumed them all. The fires were horrible, stinking affairs, but they were the best alternative, it seemed. Burial took too much time and lacked the assurance that the dead wouldn’t walk again, a terrible lesson they’d had to learn all too well.
Reaching out, Giles took the hand of the body that laid on its pile before him, and, as he intertwined the fingers with his own, he remembered how it had all started: Sunnydale and the battle against the First Evil. Lord! To think they had thought they had won. But that had been their mistake; evil was not a finite thing, and never would be. Just because something was the First, did not mean it was the Last, and that certainly was the case with Evil. Sometimes it was dormant, and sometimes when they clashed, Good proved to be just a little bit stronger, but it couldn’t always be so, and the Evil they faced now seemed as if it might finally be the one that would succeed.
So far the battles had been won, but Giles knew they were losing the war. The whole planet knew it. Burned cities, plagues of disease and things far more hideous, and the sudden and utter fall of most of civilization’s technology as the survivors fled into hiding. Entire societies were seemingly just…gone, like some horrible dream from which humanity could not seem to wake. The idea of what it would take to rebuild, when he let himself to think of it at all, boggled him. More often, though, he wouldn’t even allow such thoughts. Chances were humanity would never even get the opportunity. No, the hope in his heart was dead, and he knew now that the end was as sure as if it had been already written. It might take years or mere months, but it was inevitable. The only person who had ever made him think otherwise was lying here now on the pile, just one more of the fallen.
He’d lost so many he’d stopped feeling the pain of their deaths, but this one…this was the one he’d dreaded for months now, and at last it had come. They’d started out comrades in arms, then friends, fighting side by side as others they loved had fallen. Eventually, they’d become more-each became a reason for the other to fight. Still, they’d never quite admitted just how important they were to one another. They hadn’t needed to. And then one night it came to a head; the night they burned Xander. Tearfully, they’d consoled one another, until their lips met for the first time, hot with need and desire to end the suffering. Startled they’d pulled back. There wasn’t time for such things-not now, in a world such as theirs had become. Giles knew he didn’t dare let himself grow too attached, and his closest companion apparently thought the same. The problem was, one could only avoid loving and losing if one avoided loving at all. Although they’d withheld a physical relationship, hearts and minds couldn’t be curtailed, and now Giles knew he was the one being asked to pay the price.
Now, it was over. Giles wished they had allowed themselves be what they should have been to each other, and he suddenly decided he didn’t care who was watching, for what did it matter now? He had other things to attend to, and in such times Evil dictated that not even love could be mourned properly and allowed to linger. Carefully, he leaned forward to the body laid out upon the sticks and caressed the face of the one who would have been his lover, now cold in death. Then he allowed his lips to claim those of the other, whispering against them with sorrow and pain, a kiss so dissimilar from the passion and heat of the few they had stolen. So few, in fact, that he could count them on one hand and remember each one.
“Wesley, forgive me,” he whispered as he stepped away and took the torch from the boy who waited patiently to offer it so that Giles could light yet another fire on the hill.
============================================
Written for lostgirlslair’s prompts on watcherlove of ‘lost’, ‘never’, and ‘dream’.
Oh, yeah...and this isn't betaed, so feel free to point out anything that needs a'changin'!
On the Eve of Ragnarok
AUTHOR: PhenDog
AUTHOR E-MAIL: PhenDog@gmail.com
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Giles reflects that even when death is a way of life, some deaths are harder than others…
DISCLAIMER: They belong to Joss. I know that, but *sigh* oh well.
WARNINGS: Angst, death, apocalypse, all the bad stuff
============================================
He pretended the redness about his eyes and the burning in his throat were merely a result of the smoke which darkened the skies and wolfishly swallowed the moon and the sun. It rose thick and heavy from the funeral pyres that dotted the grassy hillside with countless fires-too many of them-from this, just the latest battle in the war that very likely would defeat them all. Already many of their best had fallen-Slayers, magic wielders, evil fighters of every shape, size, and species, mixed with the ordinary citizens who couldn’t help but be enlisted-lost forever as the flames consumed them all. The fires were horrible, stinking affairs, but they were the best alternative, it seemed. Burial took too much time and lacked the assurance that the dead wouldn’t walk again, a terrible lesson they’d had to learn all too well.
Reaching out, Giles took the hand of the body that laid on its pile before him, and, as he intertwined the fingers with his own, he remembered how it had all started: Sunnydale and the battle against the First Evil. Lord! To think they had thought they had won. But that had been their mistake; evil was not a finite thing, and never would be. Just because something was the First, did not mean it was the Last, and that certainly was the case with Evil. Sometimes it was dormant, and sometimes when they clashed, Good proved to be just a little bit stronger, but it couldn’t always be so, and the Evil they faced now seemed as if it might finally be the one that would succeed.
So far the battles had been won, but Giles knew they were losing the war. The whole planet knew it. Burned cities, plagues of disease and things far more hideous, and the sudden and utter fall of most of civilization’s technology as the survivors fled into hiding. Entire societies were seemingly just…gone, like some horrible dream from which humanity could not seem to wake. The idea of what it would take to rebuild, when he let himself to think of it at all, boggled him. More often, though, he wouldn’t even allow such thoughts. Chances were humanity would never even get the opportunity. No, the hope in his heart was dead, and he knew now that the end was as sure as if it had been already written. It might take years or mere months, but it was inevitable. The only person who had ever made him think otherwise was lying here now on the pile, just one more of the fallen.
He’d lost so many he’d stopped feeling the pain of their deaths, but this one…this was the one he’d dreaded for months now, and at last it had come. They’d started out comrades in arms, then friends, fighting side by side as others they loved had fallen. Eventually, they’d become more-each became a reason for the other to fight. Still, they’d never quite admitted just how important they were to one another. They hadn’t needed to. And then one night it came to a head; the night they burned Xander. Tearfully, they’d consoled one another, until their lips met for the first time, hot with need and desire to end the suffering. Startled they’d pulled back. There wasn’t time for such things-not now, in a world such as theirs had become. Giles knew he didn’t dare let himself grow too attached, and his closest companion apparently thought the same. The problem was, one could only avoid loving and losing if one avoided loving at all. Although they’d withheld a physical relationship, hearts and minds couldn’t be curtailed, and now Giles knew he was the one being asked to pay the price.
Now, it was over. Giles wished they had allowed themselves be what they should have been to each other, and he suddenly decided he didn’t care who was watching, for what did it matter now? He had other things to attend to, and in such times Evil dictated that not even love could be mourned properly and allowed to linger. Carefully, he leaned forward to the body laid out upon the sticks and caressed the face of the one who would have been his lover, now cold in death. Then he allowed his lips to claim those of the other, whispering against them with sorrow and pain, a kiss so dissimilar from the passion and heat of the few they had stolen. So few, in fact, that he could count them on one hand and remember each one.
“Wesley, forgive me,” he whispered as he stepped away and took the torch from the boy who waited patiently to offer it so that Giles could light yet another fire on the hill.
============================================
Written for lostgirlslair’s prompts on watcherlove of ‘lost’, ‘never’, and ‘dream’.