135 Fic (including poetry): Go Tell the Spartans (Spike, PG13)
Title Go Tell The Spartans
Author Bruttimabuoni
Rating PG13 for language only
Word Count 536
Prompt 135 Deciding to take down the Black Thorn
Characters/Pairing (if any) Spike
A/N I make no claims that I can write good poetry. My only defence is that canonically, neither can Spike. Apologies if it makes your eyes bleed.
I’m standing with my hand in the air like a prat. In the middle of an office in the City of Angels, surrounded by glamours and magicks and necrotempered glass and fuck knows what else. Half modern, half mystic, like all our lives.
And while I’m standing there, waiting to hear whether we’re going to go out in that glorious blaze of honour I’ve tried before (and failed before), what’s going through my mind?
Well, oh fuck oh fuck we’re all gonna die. Obviously. But also, I’m thinking how heroic we are, right now, at this moment. Making that choice to die in defence of a hopeless cause. Thermopylae here we come. It should be commemorated.
And my bloody brain... well, I’ve been letting the poet out a bit lately. Haven’t been cranking out half-arsed heroic verse for choice, but that’s what my subconscious selects as the soundtrack to the last major decision I’ll ever make.
So here it is, some epic stanzas to suit the occasion, as composed without pen and paper in about ninety seconds of waiting for the others to make their mind up about glorious certain death (cleaned up a smidge because a man’s got his pride, even when he’s a vampire, you know?). Because these guys deserve a memorial.
My sire, my rival, bloody boss of all
Yes Angel, now you’ve really thrown the dice
And we’re all in the game with you. But what
A plan, to go down flaming martyrs (or
Good angels if you will). You’ve asked us all,
To lift our hands, and join the sacrifice.
For some, for Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, for sure
The choice is simple. Will to live is gone.
It’s time to face the end; he can’t endure
Alone, mere guardian to a shell he loved.
When nothing matters, death is kind; at once,
He lifts his hand, and joins the sacrifice
Now, Krevlornswath, (a hero’s name) a choice
You never thought you’d make. A peaceful fiend,
A force for calm. How will you vote? How will
You reconcile yourself to violence, death
And all that ‘yes’ would bring? But nonetheless,
You lift your hand, and join the sacrifice
(God, Charlie Gunn, don’t vote with us.) He’s too
Damn young. He’d live for sixty years;
Do good, find love, have kids, become a fine
Example of a family man. Escape!
But no, inevitable as the dawn,
He lifts his hand, and joins the sacrifice
But then there’s one more hand that can’t be raised.
The absent She; whose loss was that one straw
Too much. A straw? Too thin a word for Fred:
A warrior born. Who loved us all, and fought
Our fight with every breath. She left too soon.
She couldn’t vote; she was the sacrifice.
There won’t be a burial mound, funerary offerings and all. There won’t be a monument carved with stirring verse (even better verse than mine). The world isn’t going to know our story, unless we tell it ourselves. And so far as I know none of the others is going for the post of Bard to Team Angel. So, probably, this less than perfect verse will be our epitaph.
Well, I was never in this for the publicity.
Author Bruttimabuoni
Rating PG13 for language only
Word Count 536
Prompt 135 Deciding to take down the Black Thorn
Characters/Pairing (if any) Spike
A/N I make no claims that I can write good poetry. My only defence is that canonically, neither can Spike. Apologies if it makes your eyes bleed.
I’m standing with my hand in the air like a prat. In the middle of an office in the City of Angels, surrounded by glamours and magicks and necrotempered glass and fuck knows what else. Half modern, half mystic, like all our lives.
And while I’m standing there, waiting to hear whether we’re going to go out in that glorious blaze of honour I’ve tried before (and failed before), what’s going through my mind?
Well, oh fuck oh fuck we’re all gonna die. Obviously. But also, I’m thinking how heroic we are, right now, at this moment. Making that choice to die in defence of a hopeless cause. Thermopylae here we come. It should be commemorated.
And my bloody brain... well, I’ve been letting the poet out a bit lately. Haven’t been cranking out half-arsed heroic verse for choice, but that’s what my subconscious selects as the soundtrack to the last major decision I’ll ever make.
So here it is, some epic stanzas to suit the occasion, as composed without pen and paper in about ninety seconds of waiting for the others to make their mind up about glorious certain death (cleaned up a smidge because a man’s got his pride, even when he’s a vampire, you know?). Because these guys deserve a memorial.
My sire, my rival, bloody boss of all
Yes Angel, now you’ve really thrown the dice
And we’re all in the game with you. But what
A plan, to go down flaming martyrs (or
Good angels if you will). You’ve asked us all,
To lift our hands, and join the sacrifice.
For some, for Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, for sure
The choice is simple. Will to live is gone.
It’s time to face the end; he can’t endure
Alone, mere guardian to a shell he loved.
When nothing matters, death is kind; at once,
He lifts his hand, and joins the sacrifice
Now, Krevlornswath, (a hero’s name) a choice
You never thought you’d make. A peaceful fiend,
A force for calm. How will you vote? How will
You reconcile yourself to violence, death
And all that ‘yes’ would bring? But nonetheless,
You lift your hand, and join the sacrifice
(God, Charlie Gunn, don’t vote with us.) He’s too
Damn young. He’d live for sixty years;
Do good, find love, have kids, become a fine
Example of a family man. Escape!
But no, inevitable as the dawn,
He lifts his hand, and joins the sacrifice
But then there’s one more hand that can’t be raised.
The absent She; whose loss was that one straw
Too much. A straw? Too thin a word for Fred:
A warrior born. Who loved us all, and fought
Our fight with every breath. She left too soon.
She couldn’t vote; she was the sacrifice.
There won’t be a burial mound, funerary offerings and all. There won’t be a monument carved with stirring verse (even better verse than mine). The world isn’t going to know our story, unless we tell it ourselves. And so far as I know none of the others is going for the post of Bard to Team Angel. So, probably, this less than perfect verse will be our epitaph.
Well, I was never in this for the publicity.