//------------------------------//
// Never Broken 
// Story: Never Broken 
// by Torgaddon 
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 It sounded wrong. In the midst of an army of such magnitude the tumultum of iron shod boots upon the ground, the boasting and complaints of soldiers, both eager and reticent, the thunder of siege and artillery weapons, the flapping of house sized wings, all of it should have created the deafening roar of an army on the march. But throughout the assembled warhost of the Drconic Kingdoms not a single soul stirred. They all knew that no matter how hard they marched, they would never reach the Crystal Empire in time. To the east the warpacks of the Diamond Dogs stood in equal silence, to the north the Yak armies, much the same. The Minotaur Monarchy, the Saddle Arabian skirmishers, the Raiders of the northern oblast, the Draka in far Nippon, the troll clans of Frostedge, the Rok flocks of Everpeak, the warriors of Zevrica, the Leonic warprides of the Endless Savannah, the entire world stood in single minded awe, being fed the fate of Crystal Empire and thus the world, through the sadistic will of the abyssal gods. However what should have sent them to the depths of despair, gave them hope, what should have made them cry out in fear, made them bellow words of encouragement. The Abyssal Gods had wanted to make the world see the approaching end, instead all they had succeeded in doing was to show them that the Crystal Empire stood defiant, led at their forefront by a behemoth of purple scales, bandages and a disfigured face, his name carried by the winds of magic.

The Undying Draka, Spike the Veshanesh.

Not a single soul stirred as they played the witness to the battle raging within the Crystal Empire, knowing that the fate of all rested upon this tired mass of ponies, changelings and a single battle worn Draka.





Daemons screamed their final moments, bloodshot eyes bulging out of panicked faces, broken lips parted in horror as they were put face to face with the one simple fact of reality. Death. It did not care if you were mortal or daemon, slave or master, brave or cowardly, it simply took the lives arrayed before it, with the insatiability of glutton before a table of delicacies. These daemons, the utter elite of Ginun, monstrosities who had faced insurmountable odds and countless battles, killed thousands of both enemies and each other, if only to happen upon a single shred of their gods' favor, now found themselves before a foe that stood as an envoy, a harbinger, a giver of death, it's stride - the thump of hearts about to be silenced, it's eyes - glacial green dots of steel, as cold as the heart of frozen Jotunharr, it's body - a fortress carved out of the very granite of the mountain, it's bellow - the proclamation of the end to come. 
Such did the daemons think and wail, shiver and die, hesitate and fall as Spike strode through them, now more than ever, a force of nature, screaming death given form.

The claymore's blade shrieked as the Draka ran the black metal through three bodies in one stroke, reducing three daemons to battered meat. He pushed on, silent and unflinching as doom, every stroke and thrust of his blade ending daemonic lives, breaking his composure only to bellow at the dark red sky, yelling his defiance at the half formed faces that had taken shape within, visages too horrific to countenance by those of weak hearts and minds, the barely seen faces of the Abyssal Gods peering from beyond the veil of time and reality, eagerly anticipating the meal that was to be this world. Visages that would have sent even the most hardened veteran into a swirling world of madness and horror, served only to anger Spike further and he bellowed again, calling for the pathetic gods to witness him as he butchered and ground their daemons to grime and gristle.

All around the stalwart warrior the ponies and changelings fought with almost matching abandon and savagery, galvanized by his presence, driven to unheard of heights of bravery by the brutality given form that was Spike. They matched him in sheer mad fury driving the daemon horde back step by blood soaked step. Blazing coruscation cascaded upon the hellish hordes as unicorns and the four alicorn princesses struck out with magical spears, balls of flame and shocks of raw power. To his left the three changeling queens struck out with their weapons, cutting, carving and impaling anything that bore the mark of the abyss. To his right, Yog'yhod and Shining Armor bellowed orders to their units even as their shields held among their own adding to the impregnable fortress that was the defender's shield wall. In the middle of it all, Spike hewed his claymore around himself, carving through flesh and hell-iron with equal ease. What had mere minutes before been a desperate last stand had become a tide of unflinching fury driving the daemonic hordes back, matching and even overcoming the abyssal monstrosities in sheer savagery and merciless anger.

"PUSH. MAKE THEM HOWL" Spike bellowed launching a barrage of cuts, reducing the daemons before to grime before launching himself in the sea of monsters, his blade licking out to remove heads from necks and arms from shoulders. The entire battalion soon became a rut of panicked daemons, all trying their best to run as far from the enraged leviathan as possible. Another battalion of daemons became smoking gobbets of flesh as the concentrated magic of a hundred unicorns and four alicorns tore through them.

Those few daemons that managed to slip beyond the bulwark of the shield wall rejoiced in their achievement for mere seconds, their arrogance proven to be their undoing as they were pummeled to death by a sea of angered civilians, daemonic strength and durability made inconsequential by weight of numbers and the stones they wielded. Thunder rumbled through the ground and with a great yawn of stone and earth a battalion disappeared as the ground opened beneath and swallowed them whole, only to be set upon by the stag-beetle changelings that had burrowed the trap, armor and flesh splitting underneath the ministrations of their powerful mandibles. 
Swarms of changelings surged in and out of the fray, the din of thousands of wings all but deafening, eyes alight with fervor and spears wet with daemon blood. Again the cannons had been brought to bear, firing above the arrayed armies, cutting brutal swathes through the densely packed hordes.

Celestia and Luna rose above the din of combat and let loose with flame and shadow, gliding as the Valkyries of elder legends, their forms awe inspiring to the defenders and terrible to the attackers. Twilight and Cadence slammed bolt after bolt of raw power denting armor and crushing flesh, as they made the hordes of the Abyss privy to the fury of women scorned. 

The symphony of war had thundered into it's crescendo and Spike stood in the eye of the storm, as the maestro of the concerto, directing the song with the flourishes of his weapon, moving in tune with the pull and sway of battle, immersed in the battle with all the passion of a master compositor immersed in his magnum opus, his blade, the pencil, daemonic blood his ink and the flesh of his enemies, his parchment.

The scent of nine figures behind him made itself known and Spike grabbed the claymore in a two handed grip, launching three savage arcs that reduced more than a dozen daemons before him to gobbets of broken meat. He then turned as the nine reached him, the Mane Six, Celestia, Cadence and Luna.

"Hold the line" the grim Draka bellowed and a regiment of ponies fell onto place, their sergeant roaring out orders, encouragement and threats in equal measure. Spike took a few steps towards the girls and stopped as he saw the light of recognition alight in Twilight's eyes. The Mandala of Forsaken Memories had not been done. They all still remembered him. Spike glanced to Celestia and she answered the unspoken question. 

"I am sorry. I tried, but they were too strong... too stubborn to forget you".

"Damn right we are... " Rainbow began, fluttering into view. "Who the hell do you think you are... thinking you... get to decide... if we should... forget...". Her voice gradually trailed off as he walked towards them, eye as empty as the void, clearly not having heard the cyan pegasus start her ranting admonishment of his actions.

He towered over the shivering girls like a mountain before ants and it was all they could do to stand there shivering like lemmings facing a starving hawk. Suddenly Spike fell to his knees and scooped the girls in a strong but gentle hug.

"Gods above forgive my weakness, you did not forget me. Oh Ancestors, I am not yet forsaken". He said, his eye filled with what could only be described as resigned happiness. 

Whatever words of admonishment the girls would have had for him for taking such a decision in spite of them were lost, stuck in their throats, as they gazed at that sad, ancient eye and saw with brutal clarity the pain such a decision had put Spike through. As they saw just how hard it must have been for him to rather have them forsake his very existence better than see them grieve. 
It was all they could do to return the embrace with matching mix of joy and sorrow.

"Of course we didn't forget you, you big lug. You can't get rid of us that easily" Rainbow's voice came, rugged and distorted by her attempts to cover her encroaching cry. Nothing more was said as the girls and the titanic sized Draka sat in their embrace, drawing succor from the closeness of one another. But war will ever be an uncaring mistress and the embrace ended much to soon with the shriek of a warning cry.

"HE COMES" cried Chrysalis, her eyes glued beyond the defenders, beyond the smoking ruins, beyond even the hordes of the gibbering daemon hosts. A figure, as beautiful as it was monstrous, as glorious as it was terrible, a monstrosity of contradictions, the godly manifestation of chaos came into view as it rose from between the press of daemons, sat upon the depraved parody of a throne that bore him, a horrific conglomeration of daemonic writhing body parts. He rose to his feet, the opalescent robes it wore shimmering with a diseased, otherworldly light, it's skin a thing of ivory perfection that spoke both of the glittering smoothness of a pearl and the mortality of bleached bone.
Kilmaiil the Half-Born, so far away though he was, spoke in low, measured, even bemused tones as he addressed the crowd before him, his voice carrying through the aether to all present, as clear to those around the god as it was to those spectators in their far away countries.

"My, my, are you not persistent" it chided, voice as sweet as honey and as debased as a dying man's death rattle. "To think i shattered you, skewered you, left you to die, and instead of being reasonable and sparing me of your accursed existence, here you are, alive and fighting once again, and bringing with you the deposed queen no less, how quaint". He turned malevolent eyes to Chrysalis.
"Tell me my dear, how fare your beloved children?" he ended with a smirk.

"MONSTER" Chrysalis's voice came, magnified by her magic to carry to the abomination that glared bemusedly so far away "You'll pay for robbing me of my children and my kingdom. I'll see you suffer for it". She ended as her wings expanded, readying to make a beeline for the newborn god. To her sides she saw her sisters and her fellow changelings tense, ready to follow her into death's jaws.

"DO NOT BE PROVOKED!" the clarion call of Celestia's voice shouted and Chrysalis opened her eyes, realizing the poisonous compulsion that laced the abomination's voice. All around her, ponies and changelings shook their heads, breaking from the spell that would have had them charge into certain death. Chrysalis turned her head to the massive hand that had engulfed her shoulder and had held her in place. Spike's eye caught her own and reminded that the plan they had devised had to be kept. It was their only chance. The Draka and the alicorns had been the only ones to resist the compulsion and Celestia had been the one to break the spell. Chrysalis made a mental note to thank her if they survived what was to come.

Kilmaiil sighed with a grim smile and lifted his ivory hand.
"As you wish. I would have preferred if you had simply run like the meaningless rabble you are to your deaths and spared me of having to countenance your existence further. However, you stubbornly insist on aggravating me further. No matter then. Spectate, as your world becomes the grand tribute to the Abyss".
Even as he said the words, the cataclysmic sound of earth and stone groaning and ancient magical glyphs breaking roared from behind the defenders. With a shower of earth, stone and residual magic, the ground shook and split upwards as an object from deep within the bowels of the Light Embraced Castle shot from it's depths, tearing through soil, stone and masonry, bathed in the light of the outside world for the first time in millennia.

The Alicorn Princesses gazed in horror as the dormant Portal to Ginungagap hovered lazily, one hundred feet above the assembled ponies and changelings, a black stone circle of spiked protrusions, carved faces stuck in rictuses of pain and baleful runes that whispered of long forgotten secrets from the first night of the world. The Portal to Ginungagap, inactive though it still was, cast of dark shadow upon the world around it, it's aura as malevolent and oppressive as the gaze of an elder beast.
The very stuff of the chaos emerged shrieking into existence as a small, almost invisible vortex, in the middle of the baleful artefact-portal, howling it's maddening presence across the world. A new portal between creation and the oblivion of the Abyss had begun taking form.  Slowly but surely, as if to draw out the horror of witnessing the object of their undoing, ponies and changelings watched as the portal morosely began to hover towards the far away Kilmaiil, the abominable god gliding closer with the same pattern and inevitability, the chaotic vortex inexorably growing with each passing foot.

"NOW" Spike roared, his deep baritone ripping away the entrancement that encroaching doom had caused among the defenders. Emerald magic burst into life around the artifact and, with a shriek like a wounded animal, it slowed to a crawl as the portal opening in it's depths began to slowly close again. As soon as it stopped, the twirling song of silk-moth changelings filled the air as a thousand of them emerged from a hidden tunnel covered by a superficial layer of earth and swarmed the portal. The slow grueling crawl it's trajectory had been reduced to, turned into a complete halt as a thousand times a thousand threads of changeling silk caught hold of the portal and whatever lay near it, each thread as strong as steel and pulsating emerald as it conducted the magic of the changeling queens, strengthening the trap to unbreakable resilience.

Kilmaiil's look of disbelief cascaded into itself, as he witnessed the defiance of the mortals, making a mockery of his divine will. The masque, feeble facade of ivory and cherubic beauty, fell in it's entirety revealing the abomination that lay beneath, as the newborn god launched itself into a flying plummet towards the portal, ready to rip both the magic and matter that held it in place. No more than a few passing breaths into it's plummet that the god was slammed full force by a wave like the impact of a charging titan, heralded by the defiant Draka's bellicose roar.

"BURNNN!!!" Spike bellowed, and the Word of Sovereignty flowed out, the world around it devoid of any choice save obeying. Daemons screamed as they burst into flames, even the stone beneath them cracking into fissures that bled fire. Kilmaiil, god though he may have been, roared in pain as the Word reverberated through his body, forcing blood, bone, meat and sinew to billow out in blazing coruscation, cooking the self branded god from the inside out.
He slammed into the ground, flight cut short by the blinding pain, and groaned as he rose, fatal wounds flowing and closing like wax, only to be met with an enormous fist that lifted him from his feet and threw Kilmaiil a good hundred feet, back to where the god had stood so self assured mere moments before, slamming into the diseased parody of a throne that had been his perch, reducing it to gobbets of rotting meat.

Kilmaiil struggled to his feet, coughing chunks of mushed, pulpy lung, his caved in chest already reforming to it's original position, his many wounds closing to once more form the ivory marble that made it's immortal body. Carbonized stone cracking underneath heavy boots grabbed hold of his attention and he looked to see Spike walk the mile long and hundred feet wide corridor of scorched earth that the Draka's Word of Sovereignty had created. The Draka set himself a scant few feet before the "god" and drew a line in the carbonized ground with the tip of the claymore.

"No further" he declared and drew the scavenged zhanmadao from his sash.

Kilmaiil rose to his full height and glared daggers at the defiant Draka. This man who made him feel as if he was still the weak, deformed Half-Born, not the god he had become. This man who stood before a god with all the petulant, infuriating self-assurance of a veteran standing before a child.
"You are slow to learn Draka" Kilmaiil snarled in a thousand voices, no two voices sounding alike. "I will have to educate you once more. Just as I have before".

Spike spat on the ground before him and glared at the angered god, disdain obvious in his eye.
"You have fought naught but a rabid beast, boy. Now you fight a wolf". He lifted the zhanmadao and pointed it at Kilmaiil. 
"I WILL BREAK YOU UPON DISCIPLINE'S ALTAR, HALF-BORN" Spike bellowed, his body swelling with power, his muscles standing out against the bandages that covered him like effigies of strength. Kilmaiil drew himself in a ready stance, a bone sword protruding from the palm of his hand, an ivory edge that promised death, when suddenly his ears picked up the odd sound. 

It was the sound of a heart beating faster and faster until it became an incoherent hum, like the wing beat of a dragonfly. It was the same sound he had heard when Spike had vanquished the Mountain Eater, the same technique. The familiar corona of red mist, evaporating blood, began to waft away from the raging Draka, enshrouding him in a crimson mantle.

The world seemed to stop, as daemons, changelings and ponies stood in awed silence, their own battles all but forgotten, eyes drawn solely to the small war that was about to unfold between the two adversaries. The battle between the god and the eternal warrior, between unholy divinity and raw brutality. Through the telepathic link Kilmaail had opened to force the world to witness it's demise, every creature no matter how big or small, stood in witness of the battle and silence gained dominion of the world.
In far Nippon, in one of the many mountain top villages of the Draka, a male and a female Draka gazed intently at the oddly familiar Spike. Their scales were purple and they crests were as green as their eyes. They were neither lords nor heroes, the female was the village blacksmith and the male was the village Lead Huntsman. The two had made peace long a go with the fact that their family would never exceed the number of two, when their egg had been lost to them, carried away in the talons of a Garuda. Yet, as they looked at the Darror through the emphatic link, they could not shake the feeling they knew him from somewhere. The male smiled and roared to the sky, despite knowing that the bandage-covered Draka could not hear him. 

"Break him, lad".

The world exploded with roars of encouragement for Spike as the giant Draka shot out like a missile, covering the distance between him and Kilmaiil in a heartbeat. With a roar he brought the claymore down, chopping against the bone blade of the false god. Kilmaiil took the hit upon the unbreakable bone with a single hand and smirked when he saw the claymore stop against it. For all the Draka's bluster and oaths, this battle would be no different than the one before. His smirk turned to a pained grimace as he felt himself being pushed. In desperation Kilmaiil gabbed the tip of the bone blade and pushed against the force that threatened to crush him with all the might he could muster. Divine power strained against cultured strength as the world witnessed a mortal challenge and equal the impossible power of a god.

Veins bulged against Spike's forehead, and green flames erupted from his mangled mouth as he pushed against the ivory abomination. 
"How can you hope to challenge me. You are nothing. An insect before a god. What could you do against me?" Kilmaiil screeched, his amber eyes glowing with hatred. "What can you ho..." his voice turned into a wet gargle as Spike's fanged mouth snapped shut and the abomination's throat disappeared in a welter of blood. Kilmaiil staggered back, shocked by the vicious attack, only to shudder as the claymore pierced his skull. Impossibly, the mortal Draka was matching the abominable god's speed. His massive frame, empowered by the technique he was using, twisted and shot out at ludicrous angles as Spike slammed into the unholy god again and again, ripping, tearing, slicing and pummeling every inch of ivory flesh he could reach. With an ululating bellow he twisted in the air, the claymore and zhanmadao shrieking as he impaled both blades through the god's skull. Snarling viciously he ripped at the weapons, breaking both hilts off and brought both in an overhead slam that buried the hilts deep into Kilmaiil's chest and crushed him into the ground, rupturing meat, stone and earth into a deep cauldron-like crater.

Spike's eye widened in surprise and he jumped back, just in time to avoid the geyser of black flame that erupted from the crater. The flame danced into the sky and Kilmaiil emerged from it, his skull and chest already healed, as if the fatal wounds he had received mere moments before had not even taken place. 
Unlike before however, Kilmaiil smug self-assurance was now replaced with a hateful scowl.

Suddenly, Spike's muscles contracted insanely as his heart began to slow it's crazed beat and the side effects of the technique emerged. He shuddered and staggered back, his hand pressing against his chest.
"What is this? Already over?" began Kilmaiil, arrogance and conceit rising in his voice once more. "Good, then maybe now you will finally realize the futility of resisting the Abyssal Gods. Maybe you will realize their power, compared to the weakling gods you follow".

Spike rose an angry glare to the unholy god and drew back his clawed hand, resting the tips along the upper part of his spinal cord, close to the nape of his neck. With a grunt, four claws pierced scale and flesh to dig between the vertebrae and dig into his bone marrow. Grinding his fangs against the weakness that would have made him scream and stop, the Draka ripped into four specific nerve clusters. 
As the pain subsided, he got back up, his heart beating once more like the wingbeat of a dragonfly, his frame once more bloated with muscle, the corona of crimson mist hovering about his body like an awaiting bird of prey. The nerve clusters that had been responsible for keeping his own body in a semblance of safety, the natural limiters any living organism had, were now naught but gristle upon his claws. Without them, his heart would beat faster and faster until it burst, his muscles would overflow with energy until they tore. This  was the length of Spike's determination.
"And what do you know of my god, fledgeling? Your gods offer you gifts, power and boons, but my god offers obstacles and through the overcoming of those obstacles do i gain power. What would one such as you know of the god that is Perseverance".

The ground beneath Spike exploded as he pounced upon the false deity and engulfed it's skull in his massive fist. Steam and the sound of sizzling meat overcame Kilmaail's shrieks, desperate screams born of the realization of just how resolute the Draka was. Resolute ... or simply insane.
With his heart beating at the speed it did, his entire body functioning as if in overdrive, it was no wonder that Spike's body temperature had risen to such a level. To the point where his body felt like a blacksmith's forge. The crazed Draka was fighting even as his own body was being cooked from the inside out.
Bellowing a crazed shriek, Kilmaiil slammed a clawed hand, raking dirty-yellow talons across the Draka's chest. Bandages tore and flesh parted as a thousand contagions from those diseased claws entered Spike's body... and died. Kilmaiil's rapidly carbonizing face twisted in a grimace of disbelief as he saw the Draka's wound cauterize itself in a waft of steam and flecks of embers, and felt the pestilent diseases burn into non-existence the moment they entered Spike 's body. In a shock of horror he realized the true purpose behind the bandages that Spike had covered himself in.
Their purpose was not simply to keep his body from falling apart. Their main purpose was simply to keep all the heat his body was exuding from escaping his insides. Every wound he would receive would cauterize in moments. Any amount of pain Kilmaiil would manage to inflict on him would be virtually non-existent compared to what the Draka was already enduring. The Draka had emerged resolute in grinding his own body to dust in order to challenge the unholy god and the terrible lack of self-preservation inherent to that fact shook Kilmaiil to the core.

How? HOW? HOW? How can a mere mortal show such defiance in the face of overwhelming power? How can a mere mortal show such resolve and determination? He was Kilmaiil the Half-Born, he had fought and strived his entire life to achieve this moment, to gain his apotheosis and now, NOW, at the moment that should have been his greatest triumph he faced this single Draka that made all his efforts seem like the twaddling mewlings of a petulant little child. Compared to Spike, compared to his resolve, compared to the amount of pain Spike had willingly gone through, Kilmaiil could not help but feel that his efforts had been minimal at best.

"I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS FOOLISHNESS" Kilmaiil roared in frenzied anger, more to himself that anyone else "To the depths with your challenge, to the depths with your defiance. If i cannot offer this world to Ginun yet, than i will bring Ginun to the world" he shrieked and brought his hands above him. Without being close to the artefact-portal he could not fully open the rift, he could not plunge the world screaming into the grasp of Ginungagap, he knew that. But while Spike would still draw breath, he would never get close enough to the portal to enact the ritual. Still, even from so far away, he could still do something. He could force the portal to open partially and make it belch forth the innumerable legions of daemons that resided in Ginun. If he could not end the battle swiftly, than he would bring forth such numbers that they would drown the defenders and this defiant Draka in an ocean of daemonic enemies. What did it matter to him if the tribute was made now or later? He was immortal. Spike could grind him to dust for a thousand years to come and it would still not make a difference. Kilmaiil only needed to wait. He would wait until Spike's own body would burn itself to nothing. He would wait until the innumerable armies he commanded ground the defenders to nothing. A minute, a hour or a day more, the inevitable would still come to pass. He would win.

With a crackle of power, the artifact burst into life once more, unhealthy light billowing from the portal's face as the gate partially opened. It was not much, but enough, enough to allow a grey mist to billow out from it. Kilmaiil's call had been heard, and Ginun would answer. As the mist fell to the ground with unnatural speed, it billowed out, encompassing the battle ground, then surging out more and more until it past beyond the forest, beyond the highlands and further towards the horizon. Like horrific nightmares, the pony defenders watched as forms coalesced from the mist, forms of monsters, of beasts with heads of animals and bodies of ogres, raw red things that mewled and cried in hunger, the reek of daemon flesh engulfing all. The limitless armies of Ginun had begun making their way into their world and the half-seen, transparent figures were becoming more solid with each passing breath.



Pony and changeling defenders, so brave and determined mere moments before, began retreating, panicked screams merging with the laughter and the grim promises of daemons, as they found themselves facing not only the hordes that stood before them, but also the half-formed monstrosities that were forming in their midst. There was no more flank, no more line, the moment the summoning would be complete, the defenders would be overrun in moments.

"Hold the line! Hold the line!" Shining Armor bellowed trying to cull the panic before it took hold, but it was an exercise in futility. To have your enemies before you, comrades at your side was one thing, but to be surrounded by them, awaiting the moment for the slaughter to begin was another situation entirely. Already he noticed the furtive eyes of the soldiers that made the shield wall, the only obstacle that separated them from the sea of gibbering daemons. Now monstrosities were coalescing from the mists behind them and they did not know what to do. Soon the fear will turn into a rout and they would all be doomed. Shining looked to the alicorn sisters and his wife for any support but they were completely overwhelmed by the act of adding their strength to that of the changeling queens, keeping the portal from moving any closer to Kilmaiil.

A shout from the right flank alerted him and he turned to gaze in impotent frustration as a few soldiers abandoned their posts in the shield wall to run through the mist and coalescing figures to their families. They wanted to die embracing them. 
"Sweetheart... where are you..." one yelled.
"My daughter... i want to hold my daughter one more time..." bellowed another, holding his sword menacingly, ready to cut down even his own comrades if only to be given another chance to see those he loved.
"Mother... Father... i need to see you... " shrieked a sergeant.
Like starving sharks smelling blood, the daemons beyond the shield wall began pushing against the defenders with bestial ferocity, rapidly bringing about the emergence of pandemonium.

Light blazed above the defenders, a star of hope formed of a thousand colored spectra. The glare hit the grey mist with the force of a cannon, and the mist cringed away from the painful blaze, until the entirety of the area occupied by the defenders, a circle almost two miles in diameter became free of mist, a point of calm in a sea of unholy mist and gibbering daemons. But the multicolored spectrum did more. Those daemons closest to the sanctified ring shrieked as they disintegrated into dark dust.

"HOLD FOR EQUESTRIA. FOR YOUR FAMILIES. FOR HARMONY" came a sixfold voice and the defenders looked up at the blazing light projected by the Six elements of Harmony, their manes long, their bodies surging with raw power. Far beyond the borders of the Crystal Empire, deep within the Everfree Forest, the Tree of Harmony blazed with a similar light, resonating with the Elements, pulsing more power than it ever had before in it's Avatars. The world had to be protected and it gave all it had, the ancient intelligence buried deep within the Tree holding nothing back.

Twilight yelled and the spectral light flowed around and out like a flaming serpent, ripping and tearing into the daemon horde, reducing the daemons it touched to naught but dust. Below, the changeling queens and the alicorn princesses howled as they maintained the overwhelming stream of magical power into the artifact, keeping it from bulging even a single inch. Shining Armor and Commander Yog'yhod shouted encouragements to the soldiers, bringing their considerable field experience into play as they capitalized on the show of power and raised the morale of the defenders. Deserters fell back into lines of pike and shield, tears of shame in their eyes and desire to make amends pulsing in their hearts as grateful comrades took them back into their midst without a second thought.



Kilmaiil clicked his tongue in annoyance as he saw the blazing light serpent reach him and disintegrated it with a single back hand. But the damage had been done, the mist had been pushed away from the defenders. No matter. Daemons would soon emerge from the mist and the limitless hordes would ensure his victory and the eternal gratitude of his Abyssal Masters. The Elements will not be able to sanctify the ground for much longer, the alicorns will soon expend all their power and the portal will come to him, the defenders will be suffocated under an avalanche of daemons and the defiant Draka before him will soon fall under the effects of his own technique. Their resistance, their efforts will all have been rendered useless. He turned a conceited glare upon Spike, ready to gloat and taunt, and he froze...

The Draka's mouth could form no smile but his eye shone with the vicious grin of a predator who had cornered it's prey. 
"Sooner than i expected. You truly are just a petulant little greenhorn" the draconian behemoth grumbled, ember flecked mist exuding from his mouth with every word, his body heat so high now that the very air in his lungs was almost aflame.
"I had expected to have to fight you for a while longer until you would have become desperate enough to partially the Mouth of Madness, the gateway between worlds. Foolish of me, to expect so much of you. What could one such as you, a coward who has never braved the Mouth of Madness in solitude, know of the bridge between realms".

"You... dare... to insult me... insolent cur... i have open the portal Ginun... it's numbers will drown you. The daemons of Ginun are countles and they will come forth in waves of such magnitude not even all this pathetic world's armies can hope to hold it at bay... you will all fall... and when that is done, I will open the rift in it's entirety and this world will be given to the Abyss" Kilmaiil shrieked his voice a fever pitch of frustration.

Spike' spat on the ground and, when he spoke, his voice came filled to the brim with disdain.
"Exactly boy, you have partially opened the rift between realms, all realms, including the realm of the honored dead".

"W-What do you..." Kilmaiil began, as he slowly began to realize what Spike's words meant, but whatever he would have said was lost as Spike turned to regard the portal and bellowed, his voice a beacon of impending war.

"VOTIN. VESHANESH VOTIN. FATHER OF THE DRAKA, FIRST OF THE VESHANESH, HAVE MILLENNIA WITHIN THE HALLOWED HALLS ROBBED YOU OF YOUR SPINE? HAS THE MIGHTY ALLFATHER OF THE DRAKA FORSAKEN HIS OATH? DO YOU NOT SEE THAT RAGNAROK IS UPON THIS WORLD? DID YOU NOT SWEAR TO JOIN THE FINAL BATTLE? IF SO, THAN I, SPIKE, DARRAOR OF THE LEGION, THIRD NAMED AS VESHANESH, OATHBREAKER AND KINSLAYER, NAME THEE COWARD".




The mist pushed from every side and Twilight quivered under the pressure, only for it to flow out once more as a fresh surge of power came from the Tree of Harmony and empowered her. She and her friends could not move or speak, every ounce of concentration dedicated to holding the unholy mist back and attacking the daemonic hordes that littered the land. In the depths of her mind, behind the encouraging whispers of the intelligence hidden within Tree of Harmony, she could also hear the baleful groans and roars of the millions of daemons awaiting to escape the mists and devour her world whole. She could not allow it. 
"Look child of Harmony, look upon your friend and draw succor from his strength" she heard the Tree say and knew the other five girls had heard it too, for they were all looking at the same point, hundreds of feet away, where Spike fought with Kilmaiil in a display of indomitable bravery and savage abandon. She saw it all, with dreadful clarity.

She watched as Kilmaiil screamed and charged at the turned Draka. In the last moment Spike twisted and drew Ildezgherdi, raking the wailing blade across the god's eyes in a single motion. Kilmaiil yelled in pain, blinded and shot out with both hands catching the Draka in the belly. Spike surged forward, driving the hands even deeper, his flesh burning them to carbonized husks even as he drew the straight sword in a downward thrust that took Kilmaiil through the neck, only to stagger back as the god twisted and ripped free of the blade, his hands, now healed and turned to bony bludgeons slamming against Spike's temples. Spike took a step back, staggered by the impact and bellowed out a Draka warcry pushing against the assault, ripping into the god with the straight sword, blow for blow, strike for strike. The assault dragged on for a few more seconds until Spike's foot collided with Kilmaiil's shin, reducing it to bony splinters, the distracting pain forcing Kilmaiil to stagger back. Spike ignored his own wounds and advanced again, launching a savage backhand against the prone god that snapped his neck and sliced the bony bludgeons at the elbows, sending the false god tumbling in a heap.
Even as he tumbled, Kilmaiil rose, wounds already healed and shot out a ray of green energy against the Draka only to jump away when Spike took the magic against Ildezgherdi, the wailing blade drinking it whole, and launched a blaze of pale green flame from his mouth. They stopped not even for a second and surged towards one another, Ildezgherdi wailing in Spike's grip, a shimmering green blade in Kilmaiil's, resuming their deathly dance. 

"Damn it" she groaned. She wanted to help him, she wanted to be there for Spike, but leaving the spot would mean certain doom for the ponies and changelings and she could not do such an atrocious thing. Tears welled up in her eyes as she swallowed her own selfish desires and stood her ground for the greater good. If she had learned anything from Spike in the past few days, it was that she HAD to be strong. She HAD to protect her subjects. She was not a child anymore, she was a Princess and she had to do her duty.

"Fear not child of Harmony. Fear not and listen. The dead heed the call of your friend. They come. THEY COME. THE ROAD OF SKULLS HAS OPENED AND THE HALL COMES TO THIS WORLD" the voice of the Tree no longer whispered, but roared in her mind. She had heard Spike's bellowed speech but she had not known what to make of it. Now she was beginning to understand his actions.

It came with the clattering of spears and shields. The sound of armor hitting against armor and the staccato boom of war drums. A steady guttural chant  howled with the winds and grew in strength until it boomed fully into existence. Half coalesced daemons that had emerged from the mists began to shriek and die, pierced, ripped and cut apart as different forms emerged, translucent and ethereal, armored forms of giants that dwarfed even ogres in size and bulk, ornate weapons held in gauntleted hands, tower shield aloft and unbreakable, scaled hides hiding knots of cultured muscles and fang filled mouths expelling war chants as often as they did flame.
Twilight watched dumbstruck as thousands upon thousands of the honored dead of the Draka emerged into semi-existence and pounced upon ethereal daemons as the war in between realms began in earnest. Above, the half seen faces in the clouds grimaced in disappointment and opened their mouths in silent screams of frustration. Wherever Twilight looked, she saw ethereal ranks form and cut down translucent hordes of daemons, blocks of infantry marching in perfect discipline, lines of arquebusiers let loose with wave of gromril shot and avalanches of cavalry boring down upon hapless hordes. The sounds rang hollow and echoed as if stuck in a large mausoleum, but the war was happening nonetheless. Between worlds, between the fabric of existence and non-existence, the long dead Draka residing within the Halls of the Ancestors had emerged to bring war upon the countless daemons that were trying to tear into her world.

A surge of power coming from a point in front of the defenders drew her attention and it was all she could do to stare as the mist coalesced into two pillars. 
Twilight watched in stunned silence as two figures emerged, one from each pillar. The first was a female Draka, curved with muscle and undeniably powerful in build, easily fourteen feet in height, her body thick but preternaturally elegant, her savage beauty bearing a countenance reminding of an amazon queen. She wore only a golden chainmail kilt and a leather hauberk edged in silver lining and, in her hands, balanced the most ornate ax Twilight had ever seen, an edge of doom that radiated it's desire to cut and carve the world itself. Her face was still and stern but not unkindly, scaled flesh of bright red and a large spiked crest of deep black adorning her head. Slim, long eyes with the slanted pupils of a snake surveyed the battlefields with the cultured, calm gaze of a veteran that had passed through a thousand times a thousand battles. With sure and steady movement she rose the ax and brought it down in a strong diagonal slash, ripping into three ethereal daemons like a butcher cutting into venison. As if by signal, as her strike ended, the mists around her bloated and three score ghostly Draka cavalry emerged from it atop their Kirin mounts and charged into another horde of daemons, their lances ripping into the formation with terrifying ease. An ululating warcry came from the female Draka and was soon taken by the draconian army rising into a world-cracking tumultum, galvanizing them to greater depths of mad bravery. Twilight watched in awe, but not even this sight prepared her for what came next, when the second pillar of mist exploded upwards like a geyser. 

The figure that emerged from the geyser of mist was unlike any Twilight had ever seen before. A giant of pure muscle and armor plating of such intricacy one could have spent millennia trying to read the odes and decipher the bas-reliefs sculpted on it. Upon the seventeen foot tall giant's wide shoulders lay the pelt of a monstrous wolf, it's many canine heads encrusted with gemstones in place of eyes. Beneath the vista of armored plate, the small bits of flesh that were noticeable were covered in scales of the darkest ebony, shimmering in the light like polished obsidian. A stag-horned helm encased a face covered in battle-scars, and the warrior displayed them with pride, markings of so many battles, the count of them had been lost long ago. Two blue eyes, shimmering like sapphires in the dark, looked beyond the armies of daemon and Draka and upon the broad back of Spike as the Darraor fought his own personal war against Kilmaiil. A smile twisted the horn-helmed warrior's face, a smile that held no enmity but pride and joy. Twilight though she could feel the earth shake as this warrior, possessed of a vastness that appeared almost all encompassing, began moving towards Spike. 

She could not move, could barely even breathe as this warrior's presence threatened to crush her. The female Draka which had appeared first was strong, immensely strong, almost as strong as Spike himself. But this one. This horn-helmed warrior was in an entirely different league, the aura that permeated his ethereal body reminding more of the god that Kilmaiil had become, rather than anything else. Twilight did not need to ask or wonder as the name of the warrior came to her, born aloft upon the winds of magic.

Votin Veshanesh, All Father of the Draka, First Of All, Master of the Hall, He who had first trod upon the Road of Skulls, First Named as Veshanesh.

Twilight watched in awe as the grinning giant began his stride towards Spike. Awe turned to stalwart courage and her mind filled with determination. 
"Tree" she yelled in her mind, the call reverberating within the hearts and minds of her five friends, calling upon the ageless wisdom of the Tree of Harmony, "How does one kill a god?"




Spike spun against Kilmaiil's green blade and reversed Ildezgherdi, taking the god through the chest even as a surge of concussive force shattered three of his ribs, expelled from the unholy blade wielded by the abominable god. With a roar, he slammed the blade in a two handed strike that forced Kilmaiil to his knees, an enormous crater forming beneath the prone god, only to shoot back, the ground around him splintering and ripping as another wave of concussive force slammed into him. Spike shot Ildezgherdi into the ground and forced himself against the wave of power, the forest behind him flattening under it. He snarled and, taking Ildezgherdi in a two handed grip once more, sliced down with all his might, sending a massive burst of cutting wind roaring towards Kilmaiil. Blade, flesh and earth split as Kilmaiil and the ground beneath him were bisected, the cutting wind travelling beyond to the forest behind Kilmaiil, taking rows of trees down as if they were wheat.
The two halves began to fall, only to reconnect and heal, and Kilmaiil let loose with a banshee's scream that tore the ground around him. Spike likewise let loose his own roar, cracking and ripping the earth around him. The two concussive forces slammed against one another with a cataclysmic impact that threw stone and the few daemons foolish enough to stand too close, like rag dolls. The settling dust burst apart as the two creatures slammed into one another with the speed and fury of comets, ripping and tearing into each other with berserk fury, one an immortal who could never die, the second a mortal who's body had become so used to pain he paid it no heed.

His steely eyes focused like never before, Spike sliced and cut again and again, searching out and exploiting every momentary weakness, every small distraction and keeping Kilmaiil pinned under an onslaught of rending assaults. The entity before him may be immortal, but pain was a stranger to Kilmaiil, it made him wince, made him cry out, and every single distraction nothing more than an opening for Spike to inflict even more pain upon him. In comparison, Spike took even the strongest hits from Kilmaiil without flinching, wincing or intent to retreat. Pain was as much of a companion to the veteran Draka as his blades, and he accepted it all with silent endurance.
It was this and his technique that had allowed Spike to stand against Kilmaiil for as long as he had. With the technique that was slowly breaking and burning his body to nothing, Spike was just barely strong and fast enough to stand against Kilmaiil's godly power, his only advantages being his far greater experience and his monstrous tenacity that allowed him to fight on, irrelevant of the damage and torments his body was going through.

Kilmaiil screamed violently under a particularly strong blow that tore his arm and collarbone off, and in an explosion of chaotic energy, propelled himself away from the Draka's range, unable to stand against the rabid assault any further. As the dust cleared, Spike remained defiant, in the same spot, a dark, still smoldering patch of black on his chest, where he had taken the explosion point blank. The wound did not bleed, his body temperature cauterizing it closed as soon as it had been made.
Spike made to charge again, to not allow Kilmaiil even a moment of respite, but as he took the first step, his vision blurred and his leg gave way under him. Spike stared in disbelief forward for a few moments, only for his eye to roll back in it's socket and frothy blood and crimson steam explode from his mouth.

"Curse it... not yet... not yet" he growled. His body heat had risen too much, to the point where it was boiling his brain inside his own skull. "NOT YET" he roared and rammed his fist into his cranium, his outstretched thumb claw, digging a hole straight through his forehead. A stream of reddish steam poured out of the hole and Spike got back up, only to duck the green blade speeding towards his throat. Kilmaail had attempted to capitalize on the Draka's momentary diversion. 
Spike twisted beneath the blow, avoiding it by the tips of his hair, raking Ildezgherdi against Kilmaiil's stomach in the same movement. The black blade bit deep enough to scrape against the unholy god's spine with a sonorous screech and Kilmaiil bent over against the pain. Spike pivoted, slamming the pommel of the blade against the monster's temple, caving in the skull and sending Kilmaiil flying like a cannon ball into a stony outcropping, more than thirty feet away. But this time there was no attempt to follow and continue attacking and Spike fell forward, propping himself up with Ildezgherdi and breathing heavily.

Even with the hole he had made in his forehead releasing some of the excess heat in his body, he would be unable to hold much longer. His heart and muscles were slowly tearing themselves to shreds under the effects of the same technique that was allowing him to fight. His lungs were beginning to collapse under the heat of the air in them. His bones and body were being burned from the inside and over a third of his blood had evaporated as red mist. He may have bought himself a few more minutes, but it would not be enough. No matter what he did, he could not kill Kilmaiil. As if to mock him, the stones shifted and Kilmaiil emerged from the debris, his wounds healing with dreadful quickness.

Any other would have surrendered to the pain and futility long ago, but Spike was Draka and the concept of surrender was alien to him. Drawing slow, laboured breaths he rose from the ground again and set himself in a ready stance prepared to weather another assault, another wave of torment.

A clap and jovial laughter to his left made both him and Kilmaiil look away from one another. They could only gaze as two figures had emerged into their personal battlefield, the first, a truly enormous Draka, larger even than Spike, the second, a fierce looking female Draka, cultured muscle flexing beneath scaly skin.
The large male Draka laughed and clapped as he walked towards them, every step seeming to echo across the world, his blue eyes alight with a warlord's battle-loving joy. He stopped a dozen steps away and extended his arms wide, as if to present himself.
"The coward has come then hasn't he? What say ye now Spike Veshanesh, Third of that Title?" Veshanesh Votin asked, but there was no challenge in his voice, no anger, and the smile had never left his face.

Spike drew a few more labored breaths and spoke.
"I am surprised you are here, old one. Did it take a shamed Draka to finally rouse you from your lethargy? Did you not see Ragnarok taking place? Did you not swear to be here on the Final Battle".

Votin laughed uproariously, his hands held to his sides.
"Ragnarok? This? This was never to be Ragnarok, young one. This is 'naught more than the tantrum of an overreaching insect that fancies itself a god" he spat as he glared at Kilmaiil.

Kilmaiil the Half-Born went livid with fury and made to say something but was cut off by the female Draka.
"DO NOT TALK, PUP. WARRIORS ARE SPEAKING NOW. TRASH NEEDS TO STAY QUIET AND WAIT TO DIE" she roared at Kilmaiil, disdain obvious in her eyes. She turned to Votin and balanced her ax in her hands.

Votin nodded.
"Go Skoghjolod, I want to speak with this youngling for a while longer" he answered and, bearing a manic grin, the female Draka charged away, slamming the ax into Kilmaiil's awaiting guard. The other summoned Draka may have been stuck in the realm between worlds, but these two were much too strong to be limited by the borders of reality and the female Draka made that painfully apparent as she slammed her first into Kilmaiil's throat.

Spike watched it all happen, and leaned on Ildezgherdi, taking advantage of the few moments of rest he would get before invariably having to fight again.

"Forgive her outburst" Votin chuckled "She has ever been impetuous, even for a Draka. Do you know who she is?"

"Skoghjolod Vala Veshanesh. Second of the Title of Veshanesh", Spike answered. "She is legend among the Draka". He may have only heard the sagas of her from Sekeolath and the Legion but there was no mistaking the warrior woman when one saw her.

Votin smiled. "Aye lad, that she is, that she is" he said, never taking his eyes off Spike. The wounded Draka expelled a deep, wheezing breath and rose back to his full height.

"If this is not Ragnarok, then why are you here? Have my sins been so great that Votin himself comes to reprimand me? Has the First Draka come in person to slay this one Oathbreaker and Kinslayer with his own hands? If so, then i ask that you wait your turn, there is still a god for me to slay. If not for Ragnarok, why did you answer my call? Why are you here?".

Votin kept looking, as if he had not heard Spike words.
"Look at you, lad. Your bones are breaking, your body is burning to nothing, your muscles are tearing, and yet here you stand, still fighting. By the Endless Pillars boy, even I would hesitate to name you adversary".

"Why are you here?" Spike asked again, ignoring his words. Kilmaiil was still alive, still a threat. There was no time for idle conversation, but he wanted the answer.

Votin began walking towards him once more, the smile never leaving his face.
"Do you know how much we in the Hall hated you when you were born lad? Do you know how much I despised you for your weakness? A Draka birthed by the magic of pony kind? How can anything be so small, so weak, so pathetic and be of Draka kin?""

"Why are you here?" Spike asked again, his ire rising with every spoken word.

"You even fell to the Blood Madness at such a young age, and so easily, wounding and betraying the ones who had loved you with such fervor that they had looked passed your weakness. That was the day i turned my back to you. Even when you took up the Oath of the Damned and joined the Legion, i refused to recognize your existence. I swore that even if you were to die in glory against the armies of Ginun you would NEVER have a place in my Hall".

By now Spike was shaking with fury. It was one thing to know one's shame, but to have thrown in your face, spoken of with such clear disdain. 
"Why. Are. You. Here?" he growled this time, threat and hatred clear in his tone.

No more than three paces from him, Votin stopped and said.
"And then you proved us wrong" 

Spike's eye went wide with surprise. 

"You showed all who dwell within my Hall, myself included, how blind we were. As weak and as pathetic as you were you did not stop. It was as if you did it just to spite us. Bludgeoned, cut, battered, burned, it did not matter what happened, it did not matter how often you were shattered into the dirt, you simply got up and fought again." Votin smiled even wider as he gazed upon Spike's stunned face.
"With each battle you only got stronger. Every time you got up, you did so just that tiny little bit stronger, faster, more experienced, until there came a point where none could make you fall. A point where we found ourselves within my Hall, staring at a Draka as strong and enduring as the mountain. A Draka that could easily stand, head held high, amongst the great Draka heroes of the past that now reside within my halls. We found ourselves toasting for you, rarely, at first, then more and more often. We found ourselves singing songs about your deeds more and more. We found ourselves watching you grow into what you are today, not because of talent, not because of the favor of some divine entity, but by grim determination and the sweat of your brow" Votin closed his eyes, as if captured by nostalgia.
"You should have heard it, lad. By the time you had challenged and vanquished the Avatar of the Abyss, we were all chanting for you. When you had taken the mantle of Darraor, we were all toasting and singing our approval. When you had been deemed worthy of the title of Veshanesh, the Halls of the Ancestors had shaken with cheers of joy and oaths of approval".

Votin opened his blue eyes and looked at Spike once more.
"Once, a long time ago, none in the Halls, myself included, would have ever even countenanced your presence within our realm of honor. But you have proven us wrong, so very wrong, and for the past millennia we have ever stood ready, our gates open, to finally meet you, to finally have the honor of toasting with you, to praise you in person. Aye lad, long ago, i had said to the nine hells with my vow of never allowing you in my Hall, and for the past thousand years i have waited for you to finally meet your doom and take your place at my right as the Third Veshanesh, just as Skoghjolod sits to my left as the Second".

By now Spike stood stunned, barely able to process the information.
"But I am... Oathbreaker... Kinslayer... h-how can..."

Votin did not let him finish. He lifted his arms to the skies laughing.
"Oathbreaker? Kinslayer? What oath have you broken lad? You have protected your family no matter how much it hurt you, no matter how much you had to sacrifice. What kin have you slain? Have you not heard their praise and gratitude as you gave your Legion their freedom? As you allowed them to walk the Road of Skulls with their honor intact? Their bodies were already dead, boy, you simply liberated their souls. And if my words cannot reach you, then hear it from them once more" he said and turned as the mist billowed behind him in a mountainous form, dissipating only to reveal an armada of shapes, dressed in the regalia of the Heroes of the Hall, their eyes moist with tears of joy, smiles of gratitude adorning their faces. Those shapes, so familiar, so beautiful, so beloved by Spike.

Spike cried out, weeping as tears cascaded down his face, sizzling into vapor against his overheated flesh as he saw them all, his beloved Legion, all of them, as he saw Goromandy, his jovial smile ever present, Mika'il, his hawkish face covered in tears, Sekeolath, stoic and grinning, like the father he had never had,and Shagga.
Sweet, gentle, strong Shagga, her fist to her chest, tears running down her grey-scaled face, her red mane covering the left side of her face, as it always had, a gentle, loving smile on her face. 

Votin looked to them and, raising a fist into the air, he asked.
"Former Legion of the Damned. Who is this Draka to you"

A thunderous tumult rose as hundreds of Draka answered.
"Spike Veshanesh. Third of the Name. Darraor of the Legion of the Damned. Elder Brother to us all. Our Savior".

"Is he Kinslayer, as he claims?"

"We say nay, we claim he is our Savior".

"Who could deny his right to walk the Road of Skulls? Who could deny his right to enter the Halls of the Ancestors?"

"NONE. NONE. NONE" they chanted, fists in the air, as Spike wailed, gratitude and joy warring for dominion over his heart.

Votin turned once more to Spike.
"This is NOT Ragnarok lad, for you are here to stop it. We did not come here for Ragnarok. We are here to witness your doom. We are here to witness you, Spike Veshanesh, Third of that Title, Darraor of the Legion. Dry your eyes, Spike, your final challenge awaits, show the world your strength. Show it your determination. RISE NOW AND FIGHT AS YOU ALWAYS HAVE" Votin bellowed and cried out an ululating roar, soon taken up by the former Legion and all other Draka present.

"UUUUOOOOOOOOOOHHHH" Spike bellowed himself, as he charged towards Kilmaiil. But the pain of his body, he no longer felt. The torment of his mind was a thing of the past. The scars upon his soul, faded, balmed by the medicine that was the love and respect of his kin.




Skoghjolod Vala Veshanesh jumped back, her side bleeding, her left arm numbed and awash in crimson, watching Kilmaiil walk towards her, anger disfigurating his cherubic face,
"You are a tough one little insect..." she spoke to Kilmaiil but stooped when she heard what could only be described as a charging mastodon behind her. She turned and her smirk turned into a manic grin as she jumped out of the way of Spike.

"HE'S MINE" he bellowed as he passed by in a shower of dust and splintered stone.

"Aye lad, that he is" Skoghjolod thought watching Spike collide with Kilmaiil in a cataclysmic impact.

Kilmaiil watched transfixed for a moment, awed by the sheer fury of the charge, then, howling with fury of his own, channeled his magics, raising a wall of granite between himself and the raging Draka. Spike made no attempt to stop, instead increased his speed, bulling through the dozen meters of granite as if they we naught but paper. With a deafening explosion of stone shards he emerged from the collapsing wall, right into the waiting blades of Kilmaiil.
The chaos "god" sliced against Spike again and again, but still found himself backpedaling, pushed back by the rabid onslaught the Draka laid upon him. Whatever wounds he could inflict upon the leviathan, gruesome though they were, barely seemed to have any effect. In a moment of desperation, Kilmaiil turned, drawing upon his magic once more, surrounding himself in a cocoon of raw magic. Like an ethereal octopus, strands of raw magic expanded, thrusting and slicing like blades at Spike, even as the cocoon rendered any attack against the god meaningless, even Ildezgherdi's bottomless thirst for the aether unable to drink the entirety of the cocoon, the magical shell replenishing itself as soon as it was absorbed.

Slamming his hands together, Kilmaiil worked his power once more, and the ground around Spike began to twist, turn and liquify, muddy dirt heaving as if struggling to draw in ragged breaths. Boils as those that plagued the flesh began appearing upon the ground and grow until they were almost as tall as Spike, only to burst in showers of blood and bile. Shapes, vaguely representing bipedal creatures, rose from the fleshy masses, taller and broader than minotaurs, filthy yellow clouds exuding from misshapen mouths, their empty fish-eyed faces slowly turning to glare at Spike. Plague-dead of Ginun, the abominations were walking contagions, their breath filled with such vile plagues they could kill a dragon within minutes, their bodies so bloated with diseased and unholy power they could readily overpower a Stone Troll, their minds and nerves so rotted and maggot-filled they could feel neither fear nor pain. It would have the taken the greatest magicians and alchemists of the world put together a decade in order to create even one such monstrosity, but Kilmaiil had created a hundred in moments, changing the surrounding land with the ease of snapping one's finger.

"So be it... So be it... if i cannot kill you with steel and strength... i will kill you with magic".

As if responding to an unspoken command, the hundred plague-dead surged towards Spike, empty idiot faces locked in hungry grimaces, slime covered claws outstretched and grasping, moving with terrible speed despite their bloated frames. Spike met the putrescent onslaught with the stoic endurance of the mountain and struck out with matching abandon. The world around him devolved in a swirling, hectic melee within seconds, Ildezgherdi licking out greedily to lope off heads, feet and arms, but the plague-dead did not hold nor hesitate, fighting on despite wounds that would have killed a living thing many times over. There was no room for finesse nor strategy, it was butcher's work and Spike put his monstrous muscles to such use carving through the sea of death like a stone cliff splitting the ocean's waves, reducing all before him to quivering lumps of flesh. His movements became methodical,  almost automatic as Ildezgherdi rose, fell, killed and Spike advanced cutting, carving, killing and the bludgeoning blows and carving claws of the plague-dead turned from threat to momentary nuisance to him. Every blow that connected with Spike fell upon wall of unyielding muscle and smoldering flesh. Every strike served only to fuel his anger and empower his retaliation. The joy of combat thrummed in his chest and the peace of simplicity encased his every thought. 

In such a mind, did the voice come, as clear and welcomed as a summer breeze, drawn upon telepathic links through the aethyr, straight into his mind.

"Spike, can you still fight? I have a way to take Kilmaiil down" Twilight's voice came, filled with concert and newfound hope.

"So it is done then... tell me the path to victory" he answered. Seconds passed and no answer came. Spike chuckled to himself.
"Are you so surprised that you can no longer speak? What do you think my entire plan hinged on? Since the beginning of this fight my whole strategy was to buy enough time for YOU to find our path to victory".

When her voice finally came, it was choked with gratitude for the trust he had placed in her. With each word of the plan presented to him, Spike's eye grew alight with feral joy. 

"Do you think it will work?" Twilight asked, as she finished explaining her strategy "Do you think we have a chance?".

Spike closed his right hand upon the hilt of Tenchi Kaijin.
"A chance as close as death and as distant as hope. Witness me, Twilight. Witness me, my family. Witness me, Veshanesh Votin and Vala. TODAY I KILL A GOD".

With that proclamation, he drew Tenchi Kaijin, the many seals and talismans upon the hilt and scabbard tearing audibly. Flame exploded around the miasma covered blade, billowing out with all the strength of a small sun. The blazing coruscation licked out to crack scales and carbonize his flesh as Spike whirled the sword around, covering all around him in a blazing firestorm. But pain meant nothing to him and his wounds were mere inconsequential flies, flicked away by unyielding will and boundless tenacity. The plague-dead around him were not so lucky, and even their monstrous endurance counted for nothing as their bodies became ash under the tender mercies of the firestorm.

Howling oaths and promises of doom, Spike emerged from the blazing storm and charged the magical cocoon of Kilmaiil once more. Shrieking in impotent anger at the relentless Draka, Kilmaiil lifted his arms to the sky and called upon the entirety of his godly power. The sky darkened, red and lavender clouds burgeoning like tumors upon the plateau of grey, striking down with black lightning. It forked and arched like a malevolent serpent, striking in front of Spike peppering him and the land around him with dark, soundless explosions of pure Abyssal power. But the dark flames did not smolder out, instead they heaved and gibbered as things alive, daemon-"lights" so dark they seemed to devour the light around him. Inside the dark voids, Spike could see writhing shapes, horns, claws and slobbering mouths that whispered dark, unwanted secrets as red, bloodshot eyes gazed at him from the void with baleful hunger. The daemon-"lights" shrieked and surged towards him with monstrous, starving howls, only to be met with equal ferocity as Spike waded into them, Ildegherdi cutting and Tenchi Kaijin burning, their own shapeless, dark appendages carving deep furrows into Spike's flesh.

Within the safety of his cocoon, Kilmaiil fell to his hands and knees. God though he may have become, the act of summoning the Moroi, the ancient and corrupted essences of the Outer Ones, the enforcers of the Abyssal Gods themselves, had been a taxing effort. An effort that had angered the Abysaal Gods, whose ire Kilmaiil could feel like a burning rod. This would be their last gift to him. His last chance. The Abyssal Gods were growing restless in waiting for their tribute, angered at the fact that with all the power they had given him he could not end the life of this stubborn mortal fool, could not offer this world to them. His daemon hordes were being held at bay by ponies and ghostly Draka. The hundred plague-dead he had created, a force powerful to bring a country to it's knees, had been ended in blazing fire and his personal efforts to slay the Draka had resulted in naught but failure. The Moroi were to be his last chance.

He opened glazed eyes and smiled as the Moroi exploded into black embers under Spike's wilting strikes, only to reform moments later and strike again. The Moroi were undying and relentless and the only outcome for the Draka would be a slow death, devoured to nothing by their ethereal jaws.
Kilmaiil broke into a sadistic laugh as he saw one Moroi pierce a hole through Spike's abdomen and a scond carve off an entire section of his thigh with a swipe of his ethereal tentacle.

Spike fell back as ten appendages struck him in the chest impaling his flesh and lungs, devouring meat and scales at the merest touch. Blood-ridden froth bubbled from his mouth and he charged again, striking a powerful overhead with Tenchi Kaijin that reduced the Moroi to ribbons of dark smoke, only for the smoke to reform behind him and whip at his back, consuming a deep trench into his trapezius muscle. Another Moroi struck from his left and impaled him through the shin even as a third bulled into his side, knocking him off balance as it devoured his flesh.

"Move accursed body" Spike reprimanded himself, feeling his breath and heartbeat slow, his sight glazing, as his body, pushed beyond all limits, was finally beginning to shut down. "Move, damn you, Move, just a bit more, just a bit more. Let me do this, before i finally die, let me do this. Let me keep my family safe, let me rid the world of it's executioner".

Spike rose and surged forward, only to be pushed back again by a wall of dark flame, the Moroi in front of him billowing the Abyssal fire, shrieking like the possessed.
"MOVE, MOVE, MOVE DAMN YOU, MOVE" he roared and charged into the flaming wall, impacting the solid flames as if impacting a mountain side. Kilmaiil lay just behind the wall, just a mere few steps away. Flame billowing around him, scales, flesh and muscle sizzling, Spike took a step forward, then another.
"MOVE, MOVE, MOVE, ANOTHER STEP, ANOTHER STEP, MOVE DAMN YOU, MOVE" Spike repeated to himself like a mantra, punctuating each word with a step forward. "DON'T YOU DARE STOP. DON'T YOU DARE SURRENDER. TWO THOUSAND YEARS OF LIFE ARE ENOUGH FOR YOU, YOU'VE LIVED YOURS, IT'S TIME FOR THE YOUNG TO BE GIVEN A CHANCE TO LIVE THEIRS, NOW MOVE OLD MAN, MOVE".

Like a leviathan emerging from the ocean, Spike shot out from the flaming wall with a thunderous bellow. He stumbled, propping himself up with Ildezgherdi, desperately trying to draw breath. One of his lungs had finally collapsed, reduced to a charred husk by the heat of the flaming wall and his own smoldering body, the other lung teetering precariously on the edge of failure.
Bubbling blood edged his lipless mouth and he lifted his single green eye, red-rimmed and almost glazed over, fixing the stare upon the magical cocoon and the ivory shape of Kilmaiil.

With a dull crump the Moroi behind him ended their flaming assault and reformed into the nightmarish blobs of daemon-lights, spreading their ethereal appendages, ready to rip and tear into Spike's flesh once more, the triumphant laughter of Kilmaiil echoing troughout the battlefield.

"Stand"


Spike struggled to rise, the Moroi edging closer and closer.

" Stand"

With each laboured breath, his sight blurred further, darkness crawling at the edges of his vision. 

"Stand up, damn you"

Kilmaiil stood no more than three paces away, his sadistic smile half seen beyond the protective cocoon, but no less mocking and infuriating. Yet, when Spike tried to rise and make for him, his feet betrayed him as did the rest of his body, too many muscles ripped to be able to sustain his massive frame. His heartbeat, like the thrumming of war drums mere seconds before, was now reduced to a quickly faltering echo, barely able to pump the remaining lifeblood through his body. The bandages upon his upper body had been reduced to a few forgotten scraps, the many wounds they had held closed or cauterized, now opened once more to join the fresh ones. So much of his blood had evaporated that the wounds barely even bled anymore.
The Moroi lifted their ethereal apendages and Kilmaiil's mocking laugh grew in intensity, but it was all Spike could do to lean against Ildezgherdi, his knees into the cold stone, doing all he could to at the very least not pass out, to witness his own end.

"Will ye stand, young one?" Time seemed to slow as the gravelly baritone of Votin spoke within his mind with dreadful clarity.
"Or has even Spike the Darraor, the third Veshanesh reached his limit. Is now the moment of your doom?" In his mind's eye he could see Votin stand before him.
"Even if you die this very moment, not a single entity in this world would be able to say that you have given anything less than your all. Even if you die this very moment, we would celebrate your doom and hail you as the hero who has challenged a god on equal footing, singing your saga as we escort you upon the Road of Skulls to take your rightful place within the halls". In his mind's eye Spike could see the smiling face of Votin, the pride gleaming in his azure eyes.
"But i ask you, young one, is this doom worthy of you? Is this doom worthy to be named the Death of Spike, Darraor of the Legion? Is this doom to your satisfaction?"

"No" Spike growled, his arms and legs shaking violently as he struggled to get up.

"Then why do you lay prostrate upon your knees? Why do you not rise and strike again? Have you given up? CAN YOU NOT HEAR THEM?"

As Votin asked those last few words, Spike suddenly became aware of the myriad of voices that lay just at the edge of his conciousness, half-heard before but clear as day now.

Six voices at first, his six beloved girls calling for him to get up, to not stop. Ten voices as the three alicorn princesses and Chrysalis shouted words of encouragement. Hundreds, the voices of Shagga, Sekeolath, Goromandy, Mika'il, the entirety of his Legion chanting war-songs for their Darraor. Thousands, the voices of the pony defenders calling for their savior to rise once again. Tens of thousands, the armada of ghostly Draka who had come to witness his doom and protect his family, howling for him to show the Abyss the strength of the Draka.
Hundreds of thousands, millions, tens of millions then so many more as the Tree of Harmony fed the emotions and words of the entire world directly into his consciousness, the world that was bearing witness to this battle through the emphatic link set up and forgotten by Kilmaiil.
He could hear and see Dragons, Griffons, Minotaurs, Diamond Dogs, Zebras, Ponies, Strigoi, Elk, so many more creatures who he had never seen, met or even known existed and who, in turn, had never known of Spike's existence but who nonetheless, now watched him and put the entire weight of their hopes and dreams upon his shoulders.

"Have you surrendered? Why do you not stand?" Votin asked again, his smile never fading, knowing full well how alien the very concept of surrender was to Spike.

"Be quiet old one. I'm just catching my breath" Spike growled grimly and Votin's face split into a wide, happy grin.

"Aye lad, thought as much".

The world seemed to shudderand Kilmaiil's face became a rictus of fear as the Draka, so close to death's door mere seconds before, suddenly rose, roaring like mad beast. It was a howling bellow, guttural and monstrous, filled with defiance. When the roar stopped and Spike looked back to Kilmaiil, the god felt the painfully familiar and mortal sensation of fear's grip grabbing hold of his heart. 

"Nnno... No... NOOO" the god shrieked in abject terror and the Moroi, reacting to their master's fear, shot out with their appendages, impaling Spike through the arms, legs and back, only to latch on to the flesh which they had pierced. No sound escaped Spike, no sign of pain showed in his single blazing eye. Veins peppered his body, his muscles swelled with strength and his pupil contracted to an almost imperceptible pinprick of focused single-mindedness, the white of the sclera glaring at Kilmaiil as he took the first heavy, labored step towards his target, dragging the Moroi latched to his body with him.

Three steps away.

Shrieking as if caught in a waking nightmare, Kilmaiil pointed his hands to the advancing Draka, and ethereal blades launched from the cocoon, aethyric scythes that carved deep trenches into the Draka's body. The Draka took a second step.

Two steps away.

The Moroi howled and roared, pulling back on the hooked and barbed appendages they had latched to Spike's frame. His step did not slow, his eye did not falter and his determination did not waver. Even as his flesh shredded and bones shattered, Spike still took a final labored step towards his target.

One step away.

In that unmoving grimace of stoicism Kilmaiil could see the face of the mountain and in a single moment of despair, he realized the simple reality of his situation. That no matter how much he fought, no matter how much he struggled, no matter how many lifetimes he would waste, no matter how many times he would crush this one Draka into the dirt, he would simply rise again, every time. And that simple reality was more horrific to him than his own patron gods. Panic overwhelmed him and it was all he could do to look as Spike lifted his left hand, Ildezgherdi keening and wailing frightfully in his grip.

When the Draka spoke, his voice came as barely a raspy, wheezing whisper, blood bubbling from his mouth with every word.
"Drink your fill... Ildezgherdi" . The black blade's keening wail rose to a crescendo, the hungry daemonette within the steel finally allowed to fully awaken. With a grunt of effort, Spike slammed the blade, point first into the aetheric cocoon. The wail of the black blade rose to a fever pitch, the ever starving Ildezgherdi tasting of the titanic amount of magic pushed into the shield, howling her joy at the bounty she had been offered.
Shards of light and rampart shocks of magic ran from the cocoon as Ildezgherdi glutted herself, drinking the power faster than even the godly power of Kilmaiil could replenish it. Spike ground his teeth, knowing what was to come and held the hilt of Ildezgherdi with a death grip. Ildezgherdi would drink the magic only as long as it was held, but even then, whilst the daemonette's appetite knew no limit, the enchanted steel of the blade had reached it's breaking point, bloated to bursting by the power it devoured. The black blade was turning red, blazing like a miniature sun, veiny cracks spreading upon it's surface. Too late did Kilmaiil see the peril he was in, too concentrated on keeping the shield standing, too afraid of allowing Spike to close in on him. Only when the wail turned to desperate scream did he understand.

With a cataclysmic crump, the blade burst, releasing all the magic it had absorbed in a shock of raw, wild and compressed magic of such magnitude that it would have rivaled a thousand storms. Caught in it's blank point Kilmaiil shrieked in pain, his chest burst, his skin ripped, his bones shattered. Black, tar-like blood billowed from his body, ruined face and the remains of his mouth, the visible meat sizzling where the burst had charred it to the bone. Immediately it began mending itself together, his mortal form maintained by his godly power.
Darkness gave way to sight as his eyes regenerated first, only to be met with a sight as if plucked from Kilmaiil's darkest nightmares. In front of him, drenching the prone god in the darkness of his shadow, obscuring the sky with his monstrous frame, Spike stood. His torso was a ruin of ripped and singed flesh, muscle, red and raw, visible alongside bone. Where his left hand once was, a stump barely connected with the shoulder now spat a thin trickle of arterial blood. Red trenches, wounds that should have been fatal a dozen times over, lay raw and bleeding upon his body, the left side of his face obscured by his singed hair, but not enough to completely hide the ruin which it had become, further adding to his facial disfigurement. 
Still, the Draka stood, gazing at the trembling god, with all the hate and disdain of a dragon looking at a particularly disgusting cockroach. In a slow, painful motion Spike drew his right arm back, Tenchi Kaijin billowing with flame more than it had ever had, the sound of the coruscation barely enough to mask the noise and scent of the Draka's hand burning upon the overheated hilt. Kilmaiil's fearful gaze turned to confusion when, instead of striking and granting further pain, Spike moved the flaming blade from side to side as if wielding a signal brazier.

A heavy, massive object slammed into the ground behind Kilmmail, sending waves of dirt into the god's torn back. Snarling like a cornered rat, Kilmaiil turned to see what fresh hell awaited him, only for his snarling visage to turn amazed as he found himself looking at the dark, rune-inscribed stone surface of the portal. Inside it's depths the chaotic vortex of the Mouth of Madness swirled morosely. All thoughts of the monstrous Draka fled his mind, any questions regarding his strange signal drowning beneath the incomparable waves of joy and gratitude at the appearance of the Portal. It did not matter to him how it had appeared. It did not matter why it had sounded as if the Portal, kept in place for so long by the alicorn and changeling rulers had appeared to be propelled so close to him. No, none of that mattered. Panic, fear and frustration had made certain that it would not matter. All that mattered was that all he had to do was touch the surface of the Portal, speak the words of power and it would open in it's entirety, swallowing the world whole, sending it plummeting into the Abyss, where all of Spike's determination would count for naught. Where his hurts would disappear. Where his victory would eternal and complete.

Desperate chuckles escaping his ravaged throat, Kilmaiil slapped his bloody hands upon the cold surface, the broken meat still in the process of regenerating. Scintillating syllables, words so abhorrent, not meant for the mortal ear to hear, the malefic sounds of the Dark Tongue belched out from his throat, the needed incantation to command the portal to fully open. 

Kilmaiil's smirk froze upon his face as he heard the emptiness of the words. As he saw how grey the world had turned. As his head turned slow, hellishly slow and saw the pillar of light rising from the Six Elements of Harmony. As he felt them draw in and absorb this world's winds of magic like some wicked black hole. Without magic to empower them, the words of the incantation were naught but the incoherent ramblings of a dead man. The six mortal girls, avatars of Harmony though they were, could keep such a feat up for moments, seconds at best, but it would be enough. Heartbeats seemed to become entire lifetimes as realization hit him. This had all been a ploy. A strategy. Spike's signal with the flaming blade, the Portal thrust so close to him at such a convenient time, it had all been a ruse. The Portal had been the bait. Give him just enough hope to goad him into making a mistake and then, snatch it away, with the entirety of the world's magic. Kilmaiil cursed his own idiot inexperience as he had made his greatest mistake.

He had turned his back to his opponent. He had left himself defenseless against Spike.

Shrieking in fury, the god made to turn but his body went rigid as the flaming blade of Tenchi Kaijin pierced the small of his back, crawling up his spinal cord only to emerge from the crest of his head in a shower of blood, bone and flame. Entire new vistas of pain, torment impossible to conceive even by the most diseased mind opened before him, his immortal body entering a terrible cycle of regeneration followed by flaming oblivion, the volcanic fury of Tenchi Kaijin lodged into the length of his spine, burning him from the inside out as quickly as his body regenerated, with a blazing, furious pain that paralyzed his body and hollowed his mind. Dimly he could feel the world regain it's magic, the Six Avatars of Harmony faltering in the titanic effort they had made, but it would count for nothing. It was too late for him. The curtain of pain that had enveloped his mind and body was all consuming, robing him of the knowledge of even the most basic spells, reducing his limbs to quivering, twitching, worthless appendages.

Tears flowed freely from his eyes, his powerful voice reduced to yelping mass of pathetic sounds as the burned but still strong hand ripped free of Tenchi Kaijin's hilt and engulfed his head. Clawed fingers as strong as steel raked across Kilmaiil's skull, ignoring the flames that clung to it, maintaining a death grip upon the skull. Unlike Kilmaiil, Spike was well acquainted with pain. As the Draka lifted the paralyzed Kilmaiil off the ground and moved him closer to the swirling vortex of the Mouth of Madness, fresh despair and rabid fear engulfed the god's frame.
Any who had ever traversed the Mouth of Madness, the bridge between creation and the Abyss of nothingness knew that to tarry, to stop moving, even for a second within the Mouth of Madness was to invite damnation. Few however, knew why. There were things in the swirling vortex of chaos. Things as old and malevolent as the Abyss itself. Things with bones of ice and brass, with blood of molten steel and the empty eyes of the Outer Darkness. Things for whom mortal and god were the same. Meat. To tarry within the Mouth of Madness, to stop moving forward was to invite the attention of those abominations. 

How does one kill a god? By feeding it to something worse.

Kilmaiil's mouth opened to scream but only a strangled yelping sound escaped his trembling frame, barely audible over the sound of Tenchi Kaijin burning his flesh.
"N-No... I... am...a god..." Kilmaiil croaked pathetically.

Spike's lipless, mangled mouth came close to his ear and his whisper was like the declaration of the Reaper himself, as merciless and vicious as the things that awaited within the Mouth of Madness.
"Yes... you are... now die a dog's death, oh mighty god"

With that and nothing but the strangled shriek of Kilmaiil to accompany the motion, Spike slammed the Paralyzed god face first into the depths of the swirling vortex. Kilmaiil and Tenchi Kaijin dissapeared in the depths of the vortex, but Spike did not retract his hand, keeping it there even as he felt icy claws dig into his forearm. 

Kilmaill screamed as Tenchi Kaijin dissapeared from his spine, reduced to dust by the swirling magics. Liberated from the flaming blade, he trashed violently within the expanse of the Mouth of Madness, slamming clawed hands into Spike's forearm. But the Draka's grip was that of a vice and did not relent. Even though the rabid power of the Mouth of Madness had torn skin, scales and flesh from the hand, reducing it to muscle, raw and red, he did not let go.
And then, Kilmaiil stopped. He had not moved forward for too long, and the things had taken notice. Shadows bloomed at the edge of the god's sight and swirling vortex turned to a black void of boundless eternity. In that void he saw them. Mouths that could swallow galaxies and millions of eyes gazing at his flesh and soul, none of a similar color. A scream emerged from the eternity of the void, a scream formed by millions upon millions upon millions of entities, mortals, gods and worse still, for all their power, reduced to nothing more than the final death-cry before the things that lurked in the Outer Darkness. 
Mad, crazed laughter escaped Kilmaiil's throat as a hand, simultaneously large enough to engulf a galaxy and small enough to engulf Kilmaiil, tore the god from Spike's grasp. He laughed as his world became pain, death and the disdain of his cruel masters. He laughed as he died and was born a thousand times in one moment. He laughed as he saw Spike's hand recede back beyond the boundaries of the gate and through the shimmering surface of the portal, only a green, glacial eye staring back at him, ruthless and unforgiving. He laughed as the thing snapped it's eternal maw shut and his death-cry became just one more within the infinite scream that was the song of the Outer Darkness.




Cracks burgeoned upon the stone surface of the Portal and it finally ruptured, the Mouth of Madness too bloated by this new meal to be contained by mere stone and enchanted masonry. The stones were sucked within the vortex and with a final moan, the portal collapsed in on itself, closing this one of many doorways into the Mouth of Madness.

With the closing of this portal, the daemons left howled as their corporeal forms began to fade and turn to mist, forcefully returned to Ginun without the portal's power to sustain their essences. A chorus of bellows exploded into being as the ghostly Draka, fists into the air roared the victorious cry, even as their own forms began to dissipate, returning to the Halls and their afterlife.

"Godslayer, Godlayer, Godslayer" the chant rumbled. Votin, Vala, Shagga, Goromandy, Sekeolath, Mika'il and all other Draka grinned as they roared, the sound of their chant fading long after they did, making the world shudder. 

The pony defenders looked in awe at one another, amazed that they were still alive, the lingering and slow to fade emphatic link making them aware as the entire world celebrated the victory and the world's continued survival. 
All around the world, king embraced peasant and warrior embraced weakling, equal in the face of gratitude for their salvation. Tears of joy, gratitude and lingering fright flowed in equal measure as they laughed, cried and cheered together.

The cheers of joy subsided quickly, when the Mane Six, the Alicorn and Changeling princesses, Shining Armor and Commander Yog'yhod emerged from the press of bodies, running like mad towards the cloud of dust where Spike had been.

"Spike, SPIKE" the Mane Six screamed.

"Gods, gods please let him still be here..." Celestia shouted.

"Curse it you overground lizard, answer us" Chrysalis shrieked.

"Medics, move gods dammit, MOVE" Shining Armor and Yog'yhod  roared orders.

The world grew silent, suddenly reminded of their savior, wondering of his fate. The pony defenders charged after their leaders at once, medics, field surgeons and soldiers bearing stretchers and medical supplies at the forefront. Spike's name became an echo on their lips. With the fear of impending doom finally subsided, they feared the worst, they feared to witness the sacrifice that had been made to assure their survival.

Teary eyes and baited breath turned to cheers and howls of joy as the dust cloud dispersed and they could see the indomitable form of Spike, still standing as he always did. As they had come to expect of him. 

Twilight ran and stumbled, fell and rose, but did not stop. They were too exhausted to fly, to teleport, to even speak, but still they ran. She laughed, her five friends laughing around her, every moment passed bringing them closer to embrace Spike. He was still here. Daemons, gods or death itself could not take Spike from them, he was still here.
The closer they got, the more they saw his wounds. His missing left arm, his shredded right arm, an entire side of his torso reduced to raw muscle, the plethora of wounds that covered his body. But they did not stop, did not cringe away from the sight, they ran all the harder, calling for medics and field surgeons. Wounds would heal, scars would fade, all that mattered was that he was still here. After believing that he had died, after having seen him suffer for so long, no amount of wounds could deter them or make them wince. All that mattered was that he had not left them.

The thrumming of feet grew around her, field surgeons, the least battle-weary of all the assembled forces overtaking and passing them, running like the possessed, rummaging through their satchels for the tools of their trade, scalpels, tourniquets, bandages even while they moved. 
By the time the six girls had finally arrived before Spike, falling into exhausted, wheezing heaps, the field surgeons had already prepared themselves and were rummaging about Spike, trying to find what to begin first. There was so much blood it was hard to find the worst of the wounds. Poultices, surgery tools had been arrayed on leather strips for easy access and the Master Surgeon, an aged, bespectacled unicorn was hurriedly ordering for boiling water and disinfecting his hands with alcohol, calling for Spike to lay on the improvised bed of ramshackle pieces of cloth. 

Twilight rose from the ground and looked at Spike, a worried smile on her face.
"I knew it" she said "I knew you could do it".

"He-Hell yea big guy. I didn't doubt ya' a second" Rainbow Dash chimed in.

"Damn kiddo', ya sure are somethin' else I tell you that" Applejack mused, her stetson on the back of her head as she took deep gulps of breath.

"Oh...Oh you are so hurt. So brave... but so hurt" Fluttershy spoke timidly, making straight for the surgeons ready to add her own hands to help.

Pinkie Pie on her hands and knees near them, trying and failing to say something, her lungs too devoid of air to manage speech. In the end she settled for a "Woo-hoo" and fell on her back, breathing heavily.

"You truly are magnificent Spikey" Rarity added, not even caring that her clothes had become mostly dirt and dust. 

The rest of the defenders arrived, the alicorns and chagelings at their forefront, a mass of cheering, whooping, happy faces. Soldiers and civilians cheered, ponies and changelings hugged one another yipping with the happiness of survivors. 

The Master Surgeon rose from his preparations.
"Alright everypony give us room. It's time for US to help HIM" he said smirking. The mass of ponies and changelings shouted their approval and moved back in a disorganized but effective mass. The surgeons turned to Spike and the Master Surgeon gestured to the improvised cot.

"Please lay on the bed. Leave it all to us. Once we stabilize you, we'll bring a stretcher and carry you to the palace's hospital wing".

Smiling ponies, alicorns and changelings waited, grinning and happy, waiting for the taciturn Draka to move.

He did not.

As the moments became drawn out, the surrounding mass became silent. 

Twilight took a tentative step forward, stretching her comparatively tiny hand up to touch Spike's torso, paying no heed to the scalding heat that still came off the Draka.
"Spike, w-what's wrong... it's over, y-you can relax. Sit down, let us help you... Spike?" she asked, the smile never leaving her face.

As still no answer came, the Master Surgeon used the little magic he had left to levitate himself to eye level with the giant Spike. He remained there for long seconds, his hands moving across the bloodied neck and face, touching, pushing, prodding. Slowly he floated back to the ground, his hands stained crimson, in the waiting silence of all those who had amassed there. He rose downcast eyes but when he saw the expectant, hopeful faces of those surrounding him his mouth clamped shut, his bearded chin quivering. Previously hopeful, cheerful faces began to turn to worried and pained grimaces as the surgeon took off his spectacles and began rubbing at his eyes with his hands, ignoring the blood that was staining his face and fur. Scalpels, gauze and tourniquets fell from the limp arms of the field surgeons as they saw their superior's reaction and their shoulders began to shudder, eyes cast to the ground.



Understanding like a cold rain enveloped the mass of ponies and changelings. Shoulders slumped and faces turned wet as they wept. Some wept in silent contemplation, cementing the magnitude of Spike's sacrifice in their minds, others wailed, ripping at their manes and clothes screaming at the injustice of it all, all cried tears of regret and gratitude in equal measure. 

"Nooo..." Celestia moaned softly, like a stricken, dying animal, only Luna's embrace preventing her from falling to her knees. The Princess of the Moon cried alongside her sister, concepts such as dignified nobility and appearance as irrelevant as dust.

"Damn you, you don't get to do this" Chrysalis shouted slapping her fists into the dirt in impotent frustration at her silent avenger, embraced by her two sisters.

Cadence wailed in Shining Armor's breastplate, the stallion's frame shaking with strangled cries of his own.

Yog'Yhod slapped the end of his spear into the dirt again and again, tears rolling down a stoic face. One by one soldiers, pony and changeling alike, mimicked his action either with spear or by slamming the hilts of their weapons against their battered, battle-worn shields.

Through the emphatic link, weak and fading as it was, the realization was born aloft upon the aether, presenting itself for all the world to see.
In far Nippon, the mountains shook with the songs bellowed by the Draka, honoring the name of Spike the Draka.
In the Draconic Kingdoms, dragons, balaur, wyverns and drakes roared to the sky, praising the name of Spike the Darraor.
In Griffinstone, flocks of griffons flew into the clows, bellowing for all to hear, the name of Spike the Warrior.
In Luparia, the mournful howls of Diamond Dogs overtook the land, yelling for all to bear witness, the name of Spike the Unyielding.
In the Minotaur Monarchy, burly minotaurs and cows slapped meaty fists against chests or shields, chanting the name of Spike the Mountain.
Around the world, many yelled in gratitude, more yelled praises and many more yelled in geniune sadness, crying for one who they had not even known mere hours ago.

Tears flowing freely down her face, the smile did not leave Twilight Sparkle, her hands still outstretched to touch Spike's torso. 
"Spike... Spikey... c-c'mon wake up" 
So soon after believing he had died, a familiar dread was gripping her spine, momentary denial the only thing stemming the coming sorrow.
The smile faded from her face and her eyes widened as tears cascaded down her cheeks and Twilight started towards Spike. Five pairs of hands grasped her gently and drew her slowly to kneel on the ground, her friends holding her in a tight embrace, weeping all the while.
Rainbow hiccuped with sobs, her frame shivering with each passing moment. Applejack mumbled through wails, her stetson forgotten in the dirt. Pinkie Pie cried, her face obscured by her lank hair. Fluttershy only shook, heartbroken to the extent she could no longer give voice to her sorrow, only shake and cry. Rarity wailed into Twilight's back, pulling at her own hair in grief. Twilight finally let her hand down, and opened her mouth to cry and mourn the loss. She sat there, surrounded by her friends crying to the sky.
Even though they knew Spike had earned his place in the Halls of his Ancestors, they accepted their own selfishness as they mourned. It was not fair the Draka of old would get to have him while those who had loved him for so long had to go on without him.

With a deafening roar, thunder and lightning rolled as the cloudy sky finally opened and fat drops of rain mingled with tear stricken faces and the bloodied flesh of Spike, as if the sky itself was sharing it's sorrow at the sacrifice. But none tried to move or find shelter. Nothing could have made the mass of gratitude filled mourners leave and they sat in the rain and cried.

In the middle of that weeping mass, Spike stood, imposing and indomitable as he always had. His green eye half opened but glazed and seeing nothing. His muscled chest, massive and mountainous but as still and quiet as stone. A small trickle of smoke wafting from his half-opened mouth, the last vestiges of the flaming inferno that had raged inside him, unperturbed by even the smallest breath. Rain fell upon the motionless and peaceful face of one who had no regrets.

Family, friends and strangers cried alongside the world, mourning and praising in equal measure the name of Spike, Darraor of the Legion of the Damned, Third Veshanesh of the Draka, the Mountain Father, the War-Mourner, the one who even now, stood before them, his body still refusing to fall.

The man who had challenged and overpowered a god.

The man whose doom had been a blaze of glory, unlike anything the world had ever seen.

Spike, the man who had died standing.