The Never Ending War
"That's really the question you should be asking yourself, isn't it? See, for us, there is no fight. Which is why winning doesn't enter into it. We go on, no matter what. Our firm has always been here on Earth... in one form or another. The Inquisition. The Khmer Rouge. We were there when the very first cave man clubbed his neighbor on the head with a rock for stealing his dinner. See, we're in the hearts and minds of every single living being. And that, friend, is what's making things so difficult for you. You see, the world doesn't work in spite of evil, Angel. It works with us. It works because of us." -Holland Manners, "Reprise"
2004 – Alleyway, Los Angeles
A dull thud sounded as the body of a K'Lagrouf demon fell, Illyria ripping the heart out of its body. Angel, Spike and Illyria were the only ones left standing as the last of the first wave died. The alley was filled with blood and corpses, the fires from the dragon was slowly burning out, its corpse on the roof above them where Angel had slain it.
"It's not over," Illyria stated.
"I know." Angel clasped his hand tightly over one of the larger wounds on his stomach, trying to keep his innards from falling out.
"You'll not make it any longer, half-breeds, once they come again."
"We probably won't, Blue," Spike sighed wearily, leaning heavily on his sword. He looked from the Hell God in front of him to the slumped form of his Grandsire.
They were all exhausted; even Illyria was working with her last dregs of energy and Spike could feel the unpleasant itch of sunrise on his back.
He stared down at Angel wondering what their next move would be, listening to the low roar of oncoming demons from the portal that was still open in front of them. As much as he was willing to follow Angel to the darkest dimensions of hell, especially if promised a good fight, he wasn't quite ready to die again, and the longer they fought and survived, the more he didn't want to die.
He also knew, however, that the fight wouldn't end until they were dead or dust.
"Even so, ain't no bleedin' demon gonna make us Aurelians run from a fight, ain't that right Sire?"
Angel grunted, lifting his sword in preparation for the second wave, not paying mind to the word of honor that hasn't been spoken towards him in nearly a century.
Footsteps rang through the silent alley, a shadow slowly forming shape within the portal. Stepping through were a dozen beasts nearly three stories tall, with skin sickly grey and seemingly un-sliceable. Behind them were beasts nearly twice their size. The roar's of dragons filled the air, and above all were three strangely familiar shapes.
"Yeah," Angel finally spoke.
He felt as though he was finally fulfilling his purpose, doing what his friends, his family, died to allow him to do, but something was telling him that he'd done his part, there's nothing left for him there and it's not his time to go. His body screamed for him to leave, especially when his eyes landed on those three.
"Your right Spike, no Demon will scare us from a fight. But we're also not stupid. Perhaps we can win our pride back another time, let's go."
Angel glanced up once more before running, looking at the glowing eyes of the three above them.
It was the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart.