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The Vessel

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Summary: After the battle is over in the Alley - the 'God-King' is not particularly satisfied. What if she empowered and crafted a 'vessel' to sail backwards in time and change things? What if that 'Vessel' was Spike? 'Post-Chosen. Post-NFA.'

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Highlander > Spike-CenteredIncompetentDreamerFR18511,3900114,2157 Nov 098 Apr 12No

Prologue: All Our Heroes Are Gone

Author: IncompetantDreamer

Rating: M (No Sex, 'cuz I'm horrible at writing it, yet there will be strong descriptions of violence and adult subject matter)

Timeline: Post-Chosen, Post-Not Fade Away, AU from Season 3 on going through Season 7. Highlander, is completely open-game the whol way through.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, that's for certain. Nothing I write about is for profit or to slight any of the established characters. They are property of Joss Whedon, ME and whomever else can legally claim right to Highlander, in any of it's concoctions.. I'm a broke, starving salesman. If you sue me, you can have my shoelace.



At the end of the world, after all ashes and dust have gone their separate way, what's left?

It's assumable only a cockroach could know. You know what they say about assumptions though...

Sometimes they come back to bleedin' bite you in the ass.

'Urgh...,' a slight moan is audible underneath a grayish, plumed sky. Seems inverted somehow, colorful and vibrant, yet the ambience is utterly halted and brought back to reality through the decadent smell of death within the small, corkbottled alley.

It is so... pungent, at that.

Not to be surprising however, when littered across the strips and on the streets, throughout buildings and... what is seemingly, everywhere, lies smoking carcass. With only one left standing in the midst of such destruction.

You'd expect sirens to blare, rescue missions or something else to still have some type of... resonance, after all is said and done. Guess those cockroaches didn't have shit on the God-King of the Primordium.

Illyria - sole combatant, left standing. Sole reason why earth and it's plain was not currently over-run by a viciously pissed off horde of demons at the beck and call of the Wolf, Ram and Hart. Her brilliantly blue hair is streaked crimson, bits of marrow and flesh mar every square inch of her compact, lithe form. The veins in her face now seem a road map to death as they wilt away from her cold, unyielding eyes. It does not escape mention though - that the spine of the last enemy standing, was within her grip, it's dead, demonic owner at her feet.

Eyes which close slightly as her lips unleash a victory cry the likes of which the world has not heard in many eons.

The booming shout echoes throughout the alley, throughout the world, it seems.

The grunt from before makes quite another muffled sound, as if some caged animal has been injured. Probably an accurate description.

The 'Maker of Things', shuffles on her feet for a moment, seemingly coming out of her reverie. As she meanders through the wreckage of bodies, she listens intently, honing in on the sound. After but a few moments, she has found her way into the 'pile.' It's where she was forced, through sheer practicality to toss her dead enemies. The pile was nearly four stories tall and just as wide. It is a mountain of flesh and limbs.

AIt is looking at this bloated pile of membranes that the battle came back unto her mind. It was a vicious battle, one worthy of her contribution. Should one call it a contribution when there is not much or whom to contribute to? We see Illyria's shoulders visibly slacken as she takes what is most likely an unneeded breath. Yes indeed, a war happened in this alley. There were not two armies, however. Only one - only one, squirming, marching army full to the hilt of lusting, blood-thirsty demons and their opposition? A dying man whom could barely stand and two 'enlightened' vampires. Not nearly the makings of an Army, not a Batallian - no, this was more of a weakened unit, with which she had to helm.

The one they'd called 'Gunn', had lived a warrior's life and been given the gift of such. He haphazardly charged the enemy himself, along with all of them, managing to slay a great many demons before his life's blood flew outward from him. Dying and taking his last breath, he'd managed to slam two daggers into the two demons toppling him, taking his enemies to the afterlife - along for the ride. She had not known him well, however in thos final moments he revealed and starkness of dignity that could not be ignored. It stuck out among the thousands of dead here, now. He was what they would call so dutifully,
a 'Hero.'

Her Wesley was gone before battle commenced - his mission fulfilled. The 'shell' had loved him - so had she. It was mostly through this that her anger was sparked and vengeance was needed. Illyria was exhausted and for a 'God-King' that was saying quite something. They took her love - she took... all of them.

Not without the help of the vampires, however. The two aged, brilliant fighters were a sight to see, she would bear nod to. They moved as if they were fluid death. Angel, still empowered by the blood flowing through his veins, was more then a formidable alley. He may have been a greater contribution in battle however, if he had not been so adamant as to 'slay the Dragon.' No mere thing Angel had done - yet it cost him dearly. He had first charged the enemy,
taking out dozens of vampires as he scaled the nearest building. His timing had been precise yet deadly. He had catapulted himself unto the flying beast and with many a vicious strike - toppled into the ground, killing quite a few demons, along the way.

Yet what it had done had stranded him within the enemy camp. Far too embedded was he - he fought for hours. He was Death, beholden. He must have fought for his world, for his soul - for his ison./i And his Son, did come. He came, Connor did. He entered the fray as Illyria and Spike smashed enemies into the ground with great joy. He flew into the enemy encampment and fought for all his superhuman ability to get to his father. Yet, it was not to be. Eventually, after many hundreds of demons were viciously killed by Angel, he was succumb through sheer exhaustion of bone and cramping. He had fought for a thousand man's worth, yet no man is Armada. Only... Illyria can be.

She thinks idly, as she plucks her way through the, 'pile', that he would have been her greatest General. He certainly embed a respect into her that convinced her he would be able to bend his men's eyes downward and lead them to certain death. As he had - as his 'men' did so willingly. Yet, they were all gone. All of them and everything, at this - the end of the world.

Connor had fought his way only to see his Angel, die. The grief had eventually overwhelmed young Connor and the 'God-King' knew not of his exodus.

The other vampire though - her 'pet', he was something angelic in the battle himself. She understood that throughout history he had been known as 'the Bloody.' He had earned that name ten-thousand fold this battle. He cut a swathe of death beside Illyria, taking on the back end of the battle, himself alone. He feasted off the demons he could, in-between mauling them. It seemed to have a maniacal,vicious advantage. Spike seemed to have grown stronger and more confident as the battle wore on - as if the mere certainity of death only encouraged him to fight that slight degree harder.

Eventually, Illyria had lost sight of her 'pet.' He had been somehow left behind amidst the carnage as it neared it's end. She had noted a brutal strike to his leg from a club held by a Polgash demon, before she had lost sight of him, as she neatly built the 'pile.' She had assumed he had died, as well.

... there's that assumption thing again though, isn't there?

'BLOOOOOOOOODY HELL!!!!!!!!" A thunderous, booming roar is heard from the pile. No, make that - from WITHIN the pile. As she had loosened bodies from it;s grasp in order to meet the mewling noise, she had been shocked.

Apparently, a huge crevice had formed from under the mountain of bodies. She had effectively, buried Spike alive with enemies, as she killed them so efficiently. Caged him with limps and dying demons.

As she peels one dead limb away from the pile, it reveals a startling pair of blood stained, electrically blue eyes, steeling towards her.

"Blue, we're gonna' have some bleedin' words..." Spike revealed, as he began to crawl his way out from underneath the bodies.

The 'God-King' of the primordium was naught but a stone, unturned. Thousands were dead, the city was destroyed - yet they were victors, She and her 'pet.'

The only ones, it seemed.

After having brushed himself off, Spike leaned against the pile, deftly produced a fine, full-flavored cigarette from his 'new' duster and slowly, blissfully took a puff.

"So, 'ow many are we down?" he asked, not truly wanting an answer. Having survived the 'Pit of the Smurf's Unending Rage' as he had so come to call it, he knew that if she and himself were the only ones left standing - chances were from good.

'You are the only one whom has survived the slaugther, all our allies are dead." The despondent, detatched voice of the 'God-King' intoned.

The cigarette still clutched in his hand, fell silently to the ground.

The downcast eyes of Spike were all that greeted her. He took a walk forward, towards Illyria.

"That's the way it's 'otta be then? That's 'ow it is... that's how it's gotta be....alright, alright...." so Spike walked on. He struggled and after a moment, fell to his knees. Feeling for all the world that he had somehow died himself and been cast into this madness - that, which could so effectively be considered Hell.

Then, the greatest moment in history - as it would later become known as - transpired. The 'God-King' shed a tear.

Before it hit the ground - within a fraction of a moment - a million thoughts had rushed through her head. Most prominently - the fact that she was the 'God-King and nothing... absolutely nothing, within this world could cause her dismay. Dismay had been caused to - for her 'pet', seemed broken, fetal on the ground. Her ... friends? No, wait... and at this precise moment - Illyria knew that her shell still survived, or it least it had. For as the greatest invasion of the 'God-King' ever conceived of - the one known as Winifred Burkle - from deep within the well of Illyria's mind, shouted out valiantly.


So, she did.

She could annihilate all of her pain and that of others. She could take back many thousands of lives which hadn't need end, here and today. To take the flow of the universe and time it's very self within her grip and give it a slow, nurturing twist. For her, as easy as slicing a piece of bread. Life and death had no chains to bind her. As she was the Alpha - the Maker - she held sway at the end of days.

This was NOT to be that day.

She would wind the foul hands of time backward until they bent and broke. She would yield herself towards the universe in the only way she knew how - she would 'craft a vessel.'

One that would have enough fortitude and power to sail along the current of time. One that could carry her intentions backwards and implement the change she desired. She knew what must be done.

Then her tears hit the ground at the same moment that she appeared before Spike.

"Luv, it's not the time. I'm bleedin' exhausted and everyone is bloody dead. Need a moment to... to grieve, or such somewh---" as Illyria's hands overcame his shoulders, she spoke to him.

"It is not time for grief, vampire. It is time for changing. This result is not compatible with my desires. I wish to change it." She responded, as her grip on Spike, held him in place.

Spike wasn't sure he was ready for this - to have such a timid talk of things.

"Quaint, love. Not much to change, though? They're all gone, dead. Probably in soddin' Heaven or somewhat, so best to let it be. Let it be," he said, his sad blue eyes roaming over Illyria's.

With that, Illyria seemed to faintly glow from a moment, her hairs standing and floating above her head.

"I AM THE GOD-KING OF THE PRIMORDIUM! I, LET NOTHING BE!!!!!" Her voice had such resonance that the skies blackened overheard and Spike himself, felt his entire being blown backwards from the strength of her gale force winds! He was tumbling through space and his entire being felt as if it was being electrocuted from beneath his flesh. Not even burning to a crisp with the First, felt anything resembling as he did now.

Time, as it was - is, or will be - such a fickle thing.

Illyria pushed her essence into her 'pet.' Into the 'Bloody Awful Poet.' Merged all her powers and strength into 'crafting' a vessel. Making it strong enough to be a bringer of change and act as her mantle in the past - as it was to be.

Suddenly, a great hole in time ripped open above the streets and city of Los Angeles. It had the same visage as one would imagine a miniature black hole to have - simply a void in the clouds where one continuity had reigned, now this shrill blackness consumed attention. Yet with it, in the blink of an eye, the 'vessel', otherwise known as Spike, was cast back through the ages.

To forge a changing. Under the cover of not only the stars but the sun and light as well.
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