The Wolf, the Ram and the Hart: The Wolf
by redmoon
The Wolf

And he shall have two faces. One in death, and each for life.

Spike sloshed out of the water, shivering in the darkness. His hand was out in front of him and his foot tested the ground before he put weight on it. He could feel the wide open space he was in. No walls, no drips, not even any reassuring cave slime.

Abruptly, after about fifteen careful steps, his hand and toe met solid rock. He approached, feeling along the face of the wall, the cold clammy rock covering his leather sleeves with mineralized water. He searched on either side for a doorway or tunnel but found none.

After nearly resigning himself to defeat, his eyes began to sense a faint glow from above. He looked up, squinting. This was no wall, but a cliff face. At the top, over the top, was the source of light. He began to climb.

The climb was not easy, by any means, the rock could likely not have been slipperier, or its edges sharper. When the water clinging to the surface of the rock crossed his lacerations or soaked into his scrapes, the stinging was infuriating. Finally, however, he reached the top.

He threw his arms over the edge, heaving his weary body after them. The glow was now enough to let him see his own condition. He made a face at the wet leather in which he was clothed, the soaked pants and dripping shirt. If he had been human he likely would have had hypothermia from the exceedingly cold water. He looked up from his person just long enough to see the hundred eyes glaring back at him.

He did a double take, stepping back, checking his retreat before he fell from the cliff. His hand went to his coat’s collar, pulling from his back the short sword he carried. Finally, a fight.

The demons swarmed about him, he drove into them, trying to make his way away from the cliff’s edge, hacking and swinging hard. They were short, a few inches less than he and were all identical, grimacing little goblin-like things. He took off their heads and they fell to the ground, their corpses remaining. What came as a surprise to Spike was that they seemed to feed on their own dead, or even their own wounded. But that didn’t significantly detract from the multitudes who were surrounding him, hissing and gnashing, making swipes with wooden stakes.

Spike dodged and swung, running his sword tip through a creature’s face. He took off the head of another. The glow was behind him now, meaning he was facing the cliff. He hacked his way closer to it, then with a roundhouse kick he sent one flying off the edge. He finished the spin, separating a goblin from his lower half.

They were pressing in on him now, careless with their lives as he made piles of them around him. Soon they were against him, giving him no room to swing his sword. He shouted in fury as he felt wood pierce him. His stomach. He gave a mighty punch to the face of the attacker, sending the little thing tumbling over its fallen fellows. He grabbed another by the lapels, which seemed to be part of their anatomy, and tossed it entirely over the cliff. A kick sent another to follow.

Spike looked down in shock at the wooden tip protruding from the left side of his chest. It was soon followed, in his moment of inaction, by another to his stomach and side. He groaned and fell forward, feeling his flesh become ash. He cursed his destiny now, as his lips turned to dust.

But as his body hit the floor, it was solid. Angel stood, looking about himself, confused. His clothes were covered in ash, and he was in the middle of a mob of little minions. He quickly began to fight, sweeping the sword he found in his hand around in one wide arc to give himself some space. Between kills, he looked around. He was not where he had fallen in the tunnel, with Buffy.

Angel shook the ashes from his jacket, noticing the three wooden stakes lying on the ground at his feet. He looked back up to notice all the creatures were equipped with the deadly instruments. He quickly redoubled his attack, dismembering the mob as quickly as he could, but they pressed in too quickly. He was soon overtaken, pulled to the bottom of a swarm of tiny, grimy hands and stabbing stakes.

Angel felt the wood enter his flesh, cracking his ribs. He cried out as the hands of the inexperienced slayer demons finally drove one home. He could not believe what had happened. He had drank the Cup, burned, come back to life, somehow and been staked. It was not a good day. He let out one breath as his body collapsed in a cloud of dust.

Spike twisted away from the wooden objects as they tried again to pierce him. What the hell just happened? he thought, swiping at the legs of the stocky little things. They fell, letting him see the ceiling. He stood quickly, aiming a series of quick punches to the little heads that surrounded him, clearing a space around him, knee deep with bodies.

Spike jumped over them, seeing more dead here than he remembered killing. His sword flashed around, removing heads and limbs. An isle cleared among the little things, revealing three of them holding crossbows. Spike was too slow. A wooden bolt lodged itself in his chest. Fucking-! he shouted and dissolved.

Angel looked about himself in surprise, ducking just fast enough to get the bolt in the shoulder instead of the chest. “What the hell is going on!” He shouted to no one. He was no longer lying at the bottom of a mess of hands and stakes, but standing atop a pile of their corpses. Another bolt flew at him and caught him in the side. He twisted away, pulling it from his flesh as soon as he could, noticing his clothes again thick with ash. This was no where close to making sense.

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