Long Time Dead 7
War raged; Spike’s head a battlefield for a conflict drawn out between another’s desire and his own will.
A voice, a terrible, brittle voice, spoke on a cracked, dry tongue inside his mind. It suppressed his thoughts with vile words, filling his head with whispers and poisonous lies. It sought to take over everything he was, to take control and drive his consciousness out of his own head until he was its servant. He was being consumed from within by force he could not touch, nor pummel.
He fought this voice with all he had; a tug of war where he refused to surrender, and yet he could not fight the pull that moved his feet forward towards Mortifex’s nightmare tower. Leaving Buffy and his cosy crypt behind as only a distant memory he could not quite grasp, he found himself within the ragged throng. Strangely conscious, yet still compelled, he found he was not like the rest of these dead things. They had surrendered utterly or were merely the empty shells left behind by their departed souls; they did not struggle, were not tormented by some internal voice. They knew of but one thing, and they were walking towards him with one purpose: to become his forever.
And so, they crossed the streets of the frightened town, filing past places familiar and dear, then over the scrubby desert of the outskirts, where the earth now sunk into noxious, fetid marsh. Before them then, the great tower of Mortifex rose up like some lofty giant, piecing the sky with castellated black teeth that bit into the dark shifting clouds.
This was not a place that Spike wanted to be. He summoned up his last effort and hummed to cling to some filament thread of what he knew and tune out that domineering voice, even though this time, he really didn’t want to sedated. In yielding response, the voice reluctantly retreated, if just a little, and Spike could resist as the horde surged forward through his enemy’s ebony gate.
Soon he was alone. He could hear Mortifex’s cursing him, in his head, from somewhere high above; yet the more the necromancer ranted and spat his rage, the more he lost his grip.
Spike was free, but only just and for who knew how long.
A voice, a terrible, brittle voice, spoke on a cracked, dry tongue inside his mind. It suppressed his thoughts with vile words, filling his head with whispers and poisonous lies. It sought to take over everything he was, to take control and drive his consciousness out of his own head until he was its servant. He was being consumed from within by force he could not touch, nor pummel.
He fought this voice with all he had; a tug of war where he refused to surrender, and yet he could not fight the pull that moved his feet forward towards Mortifex’s nightmare tower. Leaving Buffy and his cosy crypt behind as only a distant memory he could not quite grasp, he found himself within the ragged throng. Strangely conscious, yet still compelled, he found he was not like the rest of these dead things. They had surrendered utterly or were merely the empty shells left behind by their departed souls; they did not struggle, were not tormented by some internal voice. They knew of but one thing, and they were walking towards him with one purpose: to become his forever.
And so, they crossed the streets of the frightened town, filing past places familiar and dear, then over the scrubby desert of the outskirts, where the earth now sunk into noxious, fetid marsh. Before them then, the great tower of Mortifex rose up like some lofty giant, piecing the sky with castellated black teeth that bit into the dark shifting clouds.
This was not a place that Spike wanted to be. He summoned up his last effort and hummed to cling to some filament thread of what he knew and tune out that domineering voice, even though this time, he really didn’t want to sedated. In yielding response, the voice reluctantly retreated, if just a little, and Spike could resist as the horde surged forward through his enemy’s ebony gate.
Soon he was alone. He could hear Mortifex’s cursing him, in his head, from somewhere high above; yet the more the necromancer ranted and spat his rage, the more he lost his grip.
Spike was free, but only just and for who knew how long.