disclaimer in part 1

Swan Song
By Diane
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THE HOMECOMING

"So, Angel, are you ready to go?"

He stared at the house. Buffy's house. They had waited out
the day, spoken with Giles, who had offered to help with
their Mohra problem, but they had refused. They had said
their good-byes. No need to prolong it. Dawn had been sad
that he was leaving so soon--there was no way it could have
been avoided, even if she'd stayed mad.

But he wasn't ready to leave...

He wasn't ready to go.

Not yet.

He stared at the house, memorized each plane, every surface.
The shade of green that carpeted the lawn, the broken floor
board on the porch. Every detail, intricately carved into
his burning memories.

< I'll never forget. I'll never forget... >

He blinked. Felt the cool moonlight on his face, stood
underneath the sky from which the clouds had fled and left
the night clear and crisp. The bitter chill of Sunnydale
fell on his face, along with all the memories, bitter,
sweet, horrible, wonderful. All of them.

Clean, warm, fresh clothes sagged over his skin. Inhaling
the air, he closed his eyes. Fresh roses and dew drops.
Dripping on the lawn, crawling over his clothes, floating
out of the house, creeping into his pores.

Fresh roses and dew drops.

"Angel?"

"I don't want to leave," he whispered. "If I leave, she's
really dead. And I'll never come back."

Wesley came up behind him and stood beside him, staring at
the house. "Perhaps, it's best, that you _do_ leave, then,"
he suggested, hesitant.

Angel opened his eyes. "I know. I'm sorry."

Wesley shrugged. "There's nothing to be sorry for. She was
a very remarkable young lady, and I regret that I was a very
unremarkable young man when I knew her."

They stared at the house for a few more moments of silence.

"Have you ever wondered," Angel asked, shifting on his feet,
"what life would be like if there really were happy
endings?"

"Ah, Angel, but there are. You just have to make them for
yourself," Wesley replied, his voice suddenly sounding old,
and wise.

"Sometimes, I just don't see the point in even trying,
anymore." Angel couldn't help it, even though he knew he
was probably bringing his friends down into his depression
right along with him. He was probably killing them, too...
He couldn't help it. So much had been left unsaid, so much
undone.

Because he had left.

And now, he was leaving again.

He peered back at his car, his beloved Belvedere. The poor
thing had traveled through other dimensions with him, and
now Cordelia was sitting in the driver's seat, adjusting the
mirror, applying lipstick while peering into it to test it
out. "I'm not that grief-stricken. I can drive," he
offered, even as his voice cracked and gave, and finally
collapsed into nothingness.

Wesley nodded. "I understand. Really, I do, but she's
offering her support in her own, special way. Let her
drive."

And then, Wesley put a firm hand on his back, and guided him
towards the waiting car.

*****

"Can I help you?" A cheery sales person greeted them with a
bright, fake smile. The store was closing in fifteen
minutes, it was more likely that she just wanted them out of
there so she could get off-shift faster.

Angel looked between himself, Gunn, and Wesley, and then
back to the lingerie section that they were standing in,
trying to be inconspicuous. Three guys, two in long, black
coats, one in warm-ups, all concealing weapons, although the
woman didn't know that. Three guys, surrounded by floral
prints and lace and underwear that could classify as just
elastic with the barest minimum of fabric...

Three guys, who looked utterly clueless about what to say.

Cordelia made the save, dragging Fred out from behind them.
"Yeah, Fred has been out of the country for a while. With
the, um. In one of those third world countries. She
doesn't have any underwear. Bleh, I know. She needs some.
Angel, honey, close your mouth and stop drooling, dear, we
made you come because you have the checkbook..."

Angel tried his best to play along and look like the
unwilling participant. He managed a depressed scowl without
much effort -- because it was actually how he felt. Close
enough.

The bleached blond girl took it in stride, a knowing smile
plastering itself across her face. "Oh, yes, I can help
you. This is Fred?" she gestured to Fred, who nodded and
smiled innocently. "Let's go measure you..."

She dragged Cordelia and Fred off to a far away register.

Gunn immediately turned to him. "When were you guys
planning on telling me the portal was opening here? Hmmm?
This would _not_ go down with my boys..."

Wesley sighed. "Where evil lurks, we must follow." His
tone was practically heaving with sarcasm as he took his
glasses off and cleaned them with his shirt. "Really, I
don't understand why women even bother with this..." He
picked a thong off the rack and rotated it about in the
light, looking at it with scrutiny. "Stuff..." he finished
lamely.

Gunn whistled. "Cuz they look damn fine in them, and they
know it! Why else?"

"I've always liked petticoats..." Angel said vacantly. His
lousy attempt at humor was lost somewhere amongst the full-
figured bras. He sighed, and slumped. He was losing his
grip again.

< Yeah? Well, what if I don't _want_ a friend? >

He had gained it back, shortly, long enough for him to leave
Sunnydale without breaking down entirely, but this... it
just wasn't working. Fred had been sympathetic, and there,
and offering to help the second they had walked through the
doors of the Hyperion to collect Gunn and some weapons.

< I didn't say I was yours... >

But it had only made him feel colder.

"Oh, darling, you'd look wonderful in the silk leopard
print! Let me show you some of the newest styles!" The
saleswoman had marched Cordelia and Fred over to the most
expensive section.

Angel rolled his eyes, but Gunn actually looked
contemplative. Gunn rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing. "She
must work on commission. I can smell it a mile away..."

And then everything went to Hell.

The air crackled with energy in front of them, splitting
apart into a gaping, scarlet yaw. Screaming lighting
crawled out of the portal and snaked out, knocking over
racks with its force, setting everything alight with the
burning heat of fire. Angel tried not to flinch at its
heat, his natural fear of incineration hard to subdue.

Wesley whipped out his mace, Gunn following suit with his
favorite homemade battle axe, and Angel with his most
trusted claymore. They were a walking triad of pain, quite
ready to dish whatever they received and then some.

The saleslady was screaming as Cordelia and Fred guided her
out. Screaming, piercing, shrill. Angel winced as the poor
woman simply refused to take a breath -- it hurt his ears to
an excruciating degree.

That was when the sprinkler systems came on and drenched
them. Angel was slightly thankful for the wetness. The
fires fought to stay alive, but they wouldn't last long. He
hoped. Weren't undergarments required by law to be flame
resistant, now-a-days? He couldn't remember if it was that,
or sleepwear, or both... Or maybe neither.

The maw was growing, gaping, and suddenly an army of Mohras
streamed out of the hole, like Armageddon itself. A
writhing, crawling, snarling Armageddon. Angel felt the
demon inside, clawing underneath his skin with razor tips
of anticipation.

Tingly.

He blinked, realizing that Wesley and Gunn had already leapt
into the fray, smashing jewels as they went. Two Mohras
down. Eight more left, it looked like, but these eight were
more prepared now that the enemy, the A.I. team, had acted
and given away its fighting style.

A growl, in his ear. "Herald, the End of Days. The Slayer
has fallen and the nights of a thousand deaths begin. Blood
will coat the waters, and darkness will prevail!"

Angel's eyes widened at the sound, saw a flash in the corner
of his eyes. Dodging just in time to see a great sword come
screaming through where his neck had just been, Angel
whipped out with his foot and tried to trip it.
Unsuccessful. The hulking green beast grabbed his boot and
flipped him on his back like a bird going for the soft
underbelly of a turtle.

He rolled out of the way with a pained cry, letting his
beast to the fore. He felt his features mold and shift into
the twisted, gnarled face of the vampire. Strength. Power.
He bounded to his feet, just as the blade came down into the
floor.

Flames licked up around them, sparking and dying under the
rain, but they were too severe. The sprinklers weren't
working. Not well, anyway.

Angel growled at his assailant. This one was larger than
the others, more skilled. Wesley and Gunn were dispatching
the others with relative ease because, unlike the first time
Angel had run across a Mohra, they both knew how to kill
them. But this one was different. Somehow.

More skilled was only the half of it, if even that much.

It snarled at him and claymore met great sword in a
screeching parry. Sparks flew off the old metal weapons as
his claymore slid down the blade of the great sword. The
large swords were simply not meant to parry, but Angel had
the better end of the deal, with the flat part of his blade
sliding down the razor edge of the Mohra's. His opponent's
sword vibrated cruelly, whining in protest.

Sensing his advantage, Angel shoved harder into the parry.
The Mohra grunted as its lethal, five foot blade was driven
lower with the force of Angel's strength and sword bearing
down on it.

"Together you were powerful. Alone, you are dead!" it
taunted, catching Angel's shock with a vicious up-swing,
Angel's blade almost being forced from his fierce grip.

< For any one of us that falls, ten shall rise! >

Angel flipped around and went for the Mohra's belly. Quick
head count. Three in combat. How many had already been
killed?

Seven. Somewhere, somewhere inside, he knew, even without
being able to remember the precise headcount he had made
before the fight had started. His gut went cold, and he
almost froze up.

The great sword flying towards his neck woke him up, and he
made a desperate parry. "Why are you saying this?" he
cried. "How do you know?!" he asked it as he drove it back
with a frantic thrust.

A vicious smile fell across its face. "Reversing time, does
not reverse all, warrior. We still remember the blood of
our warrior on your Slayer's hands."

He felt his head start to spin.

< I'll never forget. I'll never forget. I'll never
forget... >

It lunged at him. Angel failed to dodge in time. He
screamed as he felt the great sword slide through his
stomach and twist. The claymore fell from his hands as he
instinctively clutched at the blade that pinned him like a
bug under a microscope.

He coughed, blood coming up.

The Mohra twisted the blade again, sliced it up a bit
through his abdomen, and he screamed. As he was held there,
dangling above the floor, the Mohra leaned into Angel, its
hot breath cascading over Angel's pain-creased face. "For
every _one_ of us that falls..." It growled, gesturing
grandly to the savage fighters that were still hanging on by
mere threads.

Angel let his head fall back.

"TEN MORE SHALL RISE!" it screamed.

"HERALD, THE END OF DAYS! THE SLAYER HAS FALLEN AND THE
NIGHTS OF A THOUSAND DEATHS BEGIN!" A strange war cry fell
from its salivating lips, followed by the echoing cries of
the two others still fighting, dark eyes glowing with the
light of the flames.

It looked down at him. "You were to be our greatest
warrior, our greatest champion. But the scriptures were
wrong."

Angel felt his vision blurring as the water of the
sprinklers beat down on his face. He could hear sirens in
the way in the distance now, only audible through his
heightened senses. The firefighters. They would all die
if they came into this now.

With one last, mighty heave, he kicked out with both his
feet, not caring that it put all his weight on the blade and
made it cut into him further. "NO!" he shouted as the Mohra
fell backwards onto the floor, obviously not prepared for
Angel's retaliation.

With mammoth effort, Angel snarled and yanked the sixty inch
blade from his stomach, shredding his hands in the process,
before he managed to swing the hilt down onto the Mohra's
head in one swift and deadly, fluid motion. Three
explosions of dust at once, as Wesley and Gunn finally
finished their last opponents off.

Mindlessly, Angel stumbled, the force of his will no longer
strong enough to keep him standing. He gasped and fell
heavily to his knees as an avalanche of pain swept over him,
and he reached down. His gut was pretty much a gaping hole,
bleeding profusely, but still nowhere near the gushing wound
it should have been.

Wesley and Gunn were on him at an instant. "Get me out of
here," Angel cried, wincing in agony.

Gunn pointed to the glaring exit sign was sputtering and
choking, but futilely refusing to die altogether. "The
firemen will be here any minute, let's go," he grunted,
shaking off the streaming wetness.

The entire battle had been only a few minutes.

Angel was barely coherent as they pulled him down the stairs
and out into the parking lot -- away to safety, away from
the questions that the police and the crews were bound to
ask. He gasped as they laid him on the ground on the far
rim of the parking lot, only a single street lamp there to
illuminate them. Knowing he was safe there, in the haunting
glow, was somehow not very comforting.

"I'll go find the others," Gunn stated coolly, as he bounded
off back towards the department store.

Wesley placed a hand over the wound, his face pale and
worried as Angel tried to bite back his moans. "The..." he
struggled, shivering with shock, "End of Days. End... of
Days... Buffy... Ahhhhh."

More blood spilled from his lips as it came up from his
wounded stomach and lungs. The dry whistle and the building
pressure in his chest told him at least one of his lungs had
been punctured.

"Angel, calm down," Wesley was saying.

Angel's eyes rolled back. "She was... supposed to be
alive... for the End... of... Days..."

Cordelia and Fred were there all of the sudden, hovering
over him, Cordelia practically in hysterics upon the seeing
the fallen vampire. Wesley tried to make him comfortable
while Gunn brought the car around, but nothing would help.

"Oracles... promised..." he grunted as Cordelia cradled him
in her lap, tears streaming down her face.

"Calm down, Angel. It's all right. We'll have you patched
up in no time. Honest. Please, please, don't try to speak.
It's hurting you," she was babbling frantically, her hands
stroking his face.

He struggled in her grasp, pores dripping with sweat, mind
dripping with delirium. "They promised... p...
promised..."

The blurring world before him darkened even further, and the
he saw was everything moving in slow motion above him,
Cordelia moving her lips, but no sound coming out. The last
thing that occurred to him was that it was all very odd,
because usually hearing was the last thing to go.

continue