Wasn't my shirt white? Spike thought to himself as he looked down at his body. He'd been completely drenched in brimstone and blood , permanently staining his armor and shirt, spattering all of his shoes. There was the occasional spot of red where a monster had sliced at him, but it was nothing serious. That didn't mean he didn't feel like someone had backed up and run him over with a carriage. His arms felt like they were about to fall right off.
Spike glanced over at Pipsqueak, who was standing beside him, panting, his hands on his knees. He was about in the same condition—winded, covered in dust, and clutching his sword in his right hand. The monsters hadn't let up for quite some time, and though Spike hated to admit it, Tirek's army was pretty formidable, even if they could die now. Between exhaustion and wounds, Spike wasn't sure how much longer they could keep it up. Where was Twilight when you need her..
Pipsqueak shaded his eyes with his hand, looking at the oncoming wave of monsters. "Oh Luna's moon, here comes more."
"How long do you think he'd gonna keep it up?" Spike wondered.
"It's like a game of chicken," Pipsqueak muttered. "Keep going until one of us gives up and decides it's not worth fighting over."
"It's always worth fighting for," Spike said matter-of-fact.
Pipsqueak smiled tiredly. "Definitely."
They plunged back into the fighting, and Spike practically lost touch with everything that wasn't his body, his sword, and the monster currently in front of him (not that they stayed around long). He was hardly conscious of any pain or exhaustion, or anything that would slow him down because he just wanted to get this over with. He was sick of fighting, not for the first time in life. He'd give anything for a nice, long vacation—
Suddenly, his gut wrenched with that sense of dread that only demigods know. He whipped his head to the side, and saw Pipsquek, standing merely a few feet away from where Spike was swiping at a demon. His sword had been knocked out of his hand by a giant hellhound, which was now looming over him, it's fangs dripping saliva onto the ground...
Time seemed to slow down. Suddenly, Spike could hear nothing, and see nothing but the hellhound and Pipsqueak. His feet moved before he could even register the thought to call Pipsqueak's name, and before he even realized he'd eliminated the monster in record time. The hellhound raised it's paw—a good firm swipe that would probably take off Pipsqueak's head—and Spike launched himself towards the oblivious man.
He slammed into Pipsqueak's side, knocking him over just as the hellhound's paw swept downwards. All Spike could hear was the rush of blood in his head as claws dug into his stomach, tearing the fabric of his shirt to pieces. He didn't even feel the pain until they'd hit the ground, Spike rolling a few feet away from Pipsqueak from the force of the impact.
His vision blurred red, and he curled into a ball, vaguely aware of the dying howl the hellhound made as Pipsqueak ran it through, the shower of brimstone and drops of blood that rained down. He felt something warm and wet trickling through the fingers he had weakly clutched over his abdomen. Blood. His shirt wasn't stained with ash anymore, but it was crimson, the color of blood. It pooled on the asphalt of the street they were fighting on.
Too much blood. There was too much blood.
Pipsqueak shouted something Spike couldn't hear since his ears were ringing, and crouched down next to his wounded friend, grabbing his shoulder. He rolled Spike on his back, his face becoming a mask of horror as he stared at the gaping wound. Spike could see it written all over his face—the exact things that he'd been thinking just a moment ago when the pain had been duller, and he'd been able to think. Too much blood.
There were more footsteps on the pavement, and with a cry of terror and alarm, someone dropped on their knees beside him. Rarity, her curly purple hair pulled back in a ponytail, her own shirt smudged with blood and dirt. Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes as she slid next to Spike, gently cradling his head in her lap. Part of him was glad she was with him, the other half screamed for her to go away, to not have to watch him die.
Everything sharpened into focus in one painful swing, and suddenly Spike could acutely feel the gashes in his stomach, hear the monsters storming their way across the pavement, hear the words that Rarity was saying.
"Medic," she half-shouted at Pipsqueak, her voice laced with panic. "Is there a medic around?"
Rarity choked back a sob. Spike stared up at her, wanting to say something comforting—the last words of comfort he'd ever be able to offer her—but his voice stuck in his throat. What do you say when you know you're dying? What do you do? He suddenly thought of his mother, Celestia, of Twilight, and everyone at Ponyville... he'd never even gotten to see any of them again. Never said a word to his mother, never got to hug her one last time.
I'll make it home. I promise.
He was going to have to break that promise.
The restful, accepting peacefulness he'd been feeling about death abandoned him, and survival instinct kicked in. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die... Tears rolled down his face. He never cried. But maybe... maybe he was realizing that his was the first journey was going to have to make completely alone.
He grabbed out for Rarity, ignoring the fact that his hand was coated in blood. She held on tight, and murmured, "It's okay, Spiky," her voice was breaking. "I... we'll be together one day, okay darling?" She kissed the top of his head.
"No," he moaned, finding his voice. "I don't want to die." It was so childish, and he knew it was unavoidable and that he was making things worse, but he couldn't help it. This couldn't be the end. Two months of true happiness in his entire life... that he would find the one person he couldn't live without and then have to leave them...
A hero's fate is never anything but tragic... He thought as he remembered the words his mother would tell him when he was young.
Why had he thought that he could be different? That he would be the one to live?
Rarity ran her free hand through his hair. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I... just... wait for me, okay?"
"Okay," he murmured.. "Okay." Then, his mother's face flickered into his vision. "My mom..."
"I'll tell her..." Her voice cracked. "I'll tell her you love her."
He thought of Twilight, the way she'd hated talking about her family, the way she'd nearly lost everyone in her life due to Tirek. Pipsqueak meant everything to her. "Twilight..my..."
Suddenly, it became very hard for him to breath, and he coughed violently. He sank back against Rarity's lap, staring at her face and her eyes, determined to let it be the last thing he saw. She gripped the sides of his face, and kissed him one last time. "I love you," she murmured. "Always will."
"I..." the words choked in his throat, and he internally screamed, No! He had to tell her... had to... His train of thought slipped. Maybe if he just closed his eyes for a little while...
The yelling and sounds of the war muted, and the pain faded.
I'll see her again.. He thought sluggishly.I'll see them all again...
