2019.02.27 - The End of the Apocalypse

**Emitter:** Staff

*As the rite of conjunction is completed, Michael and the forces of the Outside move openly against Rowanwood. The champions gather for a last stand as the witches prepare to enact the enact the ritual spell that they hope will save the world.*

January 5th, Year Unknown; Midday

Rowanwood

The Great Hall has been cleared of furniture. The floor is painted with a complex magical circle. At its center is a triangle made up of three other triangles, and at each of the vertices stands a witch, forming three full triads--the power of three times three: Myrtle Snow, Cordelia Goode, Nessa Du Valle; Bubbles McGee, Madison Montgomery, the young witch known only as "Queenie"; Prue, Piper, and Phoebe Halliwell. Each triad has joined hands. Each chants a different mantra, each in a different long-dead language. The air around them literally snaps and shimmers with power.

In the center of the triangle stand two mirrors, one framed in black and the other in white, both shattered and cracked, facing one another. Pulses of power flow freely between them.

Surrounding the triangle of triads is a circle of six. Three focal points: Cordelia Chase glows with the power of an emergent higher being, bathed in bright white, funneling power into the ritual. Lorne of the Deathwok Clan stands opposite her in the circle, his voice raised to a harmonic pitch beyond the range of human hearing, resonating with the Music of the Spheres to keep the power between the mirrors in balance. At a third triangular point on the circle stands Carlisle Cullen, quietly lending the strength of his own unshakable will and resolve to steady the ritual as a mystic representation of steadfastness. Alternating between these three are three more: Edward and Alice Cullen stand to either side of their adoptive father, representing the power to know the present and the future, respectively. Opposite them, between Cordelia and Lorne, stands Lance De Leon, an ancient Old One who very literally, physically embodies the ancient past. These second three are temporal anchors, ensuring that the ritual exists in balance with time, as well as power.

Finally, an outer circle of many others gathers around the perimeter. These are well over two dozen, who by their very existence represent World Anchors. They are people of significance to the reality around them: champions, healers, and more. There are even quite a few refugees, rescued by our heroes, many of them schoolboys or frat brothers from San Francisco and Seattle. A handful of slayers, women now well used to battle, stand guard at the door. As the ritual reaches its peak, there is a pulse of iridescence and the sound of perfect musical harmony, swelling around them. Then, it passes.

The two mirrors are gone. In their place now stands a single mirror, identical to the other two but framed in a medium shade of silver. Where the other mirrors were shattered, their broken glass reflecting fragments of reality and, beyond, the interiors of the Black and White lodges, the solitary mirror's surface is now whole, simply reflecting the room around it.

As the power fades, the triads begin to separate. Nessa smiles, the expression thin but sincere in its warmth. "It is done. The worlds converge. What was broken is now made whole." She looks to each of the other witches, her gaze lingering for a longer moment on Cordelia Goode, and then finally to Myrtle.

The ritual is more than Micki expected. It's different, grander than she's ever seen. Even when they fought against the evil coven, their magic and ritual was never so impressive. And she's self-conscious too, wearing just a simple white gown that thankfully isn't too sheer. She's been prepared for what is to happen, but her head swims with everything she's supposed to remember. Nearby, Ryan looks on, having already conveyed his well-wishes to his dear cousin and one of the very best friends he has in the world.

Quentin stands right next to the group of young men, and when he glances to River and Stiles, then nods to Rey. Whatever he's signaling, they should know it's time to begin. This has to go like clockwork.

Jason Christopher has been on edge since he performed the Song of the Great Beasts. Most of his life has been spent in a state of eliminating problems. Sometimes that meant knowing when a fight was going to be coming for you. He had that feeling now. Michael had demonstrated he could breach the defenses before. They had bloodied his nose, twice over. Jason had known his type before, many times over the centuries. He would retaliate, and now as they prepared their end game. The power of the ritual reaches it's crescendo, and what was two, becomes one once more. The residual magic washing over him. Jason Christopher stifles a growl. Michael would be coming, he was certain of that. It was just a matter of time. For now, he stays close to Jacob Black, and keeps an eye on his son in the ritual circle.

Rey Devoss stands to one side of the room, surrounded by a goodly number of the young men whom the heroes had rescued from various forms of peril. He wears his sword on his hip, his duster draped around him. He's been training them as best he can, particularly the more robust of them, in combat. Hopefully, when the attack comes--as they all know it will--the boys won't be entirely helpless. It's been better than sitting idly by, certainly. As the ritual completes, Rey looks to Quentin with a knowing smile and says, "Well. That's one down. You suppose the other will go half so well, or ought we call it best it gets now?" He doesn't really expect an answer, giving Quentin a knowing wink.

Merek had put on his attire, with black shirt adjusted to above the cargo pants which he wears. He has on a set of soft black chainmail which is enchanted for a little protection, his beltcape shifted back from the belt he has on. He has upon his hip a magic sword which is enchanted with special energies, and he listens as well as watches.

His arms folded across his bare chest, Jacob Black stands beside Jason. He smiles fractionally at the completion of the ritual, but all his senses are on alert. They can all feel it. *Something* is going to happen, and it probably won't be good. When is it *ever* good?

Stiles hardly notices the completion of the ritual. He's got a spellbook open in front of him, muttering to himself in passably pronounced Latin. There's a slightly frantic quality about him, as he licks his lips and scrubs a hand through his hair. He knows he has a part left to play in this before it's done, and he's not half terrified. No, as he would assure everyone were he speaking right now, he is *entirely and completely* terrified!

A circle has no begining and no end. It is with this concept in mind that the Round Table was once made, for no man was greater than another. Thus, Angel stands at his spot in the circle. A warrior blessed and cursed with vampirism, even if it is heavily modified. Wielding a sword from the Fae Realms, the great sword Caladbolg glows with a rainbow shimmer, as the fight for all existence is likely to soon begin. He knows his duty here, Cordy gave him the heads up before the fight started. The Slayers bring him both sorrow and joy, both the fact there's any here at all, and the abscence of those two closest to him who started the concept of every girl a Slayer. He knew a day where he outlived them would come, but he never wanted to actually see it. Of course, he wears his usual jet black outfit...along with a token Cordy placed there that actually has a color on it. Just this once, he gave in. A little bit.

He can only hope Xander and Oz make it home again...he knows far too many left behind who would shed entirely too many tears. And he can't assume a warrior that doesn't win this fight will be right there waiting as if nothing happened when they get home.

This is his duty as a Champion. Nobody said it was a fun job.

Tachi is dressed for a battle, his usual hunting leather replaced by light battle armor, meant to allow him to move fast but still offering excellent protection. His sword is at his side unsurprisingly, but he has a gloved hand resting very near, ready to draw lightning fast should he need to. He knows, like everyone else, as he stands in his own place in the circle, a warrior cursed with vampirism much like Angel, that his time to fight o what is right will come soon. Very soon. And he's ready.

Derek stands at the ready, silent and smoldering. He has remained at the side of Stiles, right next to him. Something's on the air. He looks up, sniffing and looking around. Something's coming. A storm, perhaps.

Ryan has his silken cord wrapped around his fingers and clutched in his hands, clutched with all of the reverence of a time-worn rosary. He finds himself lost in the mix of emotions in the room, but he knows there is no time to succumb to the waves. He lightly, nervously, rests a hand on the back of Stiles's shoulder for a moment, wishing the fellow courage. It was probably the first time he'd seen Stiles since their argument, or anyone else, really.

Since the events in the Black Lodge, Darius has looked far less joyful and has been a touch unpleasant even. Not snapping, but totally focused now on his tasks, whatever they might be. He had taken to making a variety of spears in the relatively quiet period leading up to the ritual, perhaps to give himself something to do, or perhaps for the necessity of it. With spears at hand, he stands, watching. Prepared to step forth as necessary to represent the Aesir but apparently, he wasn't, and that was that. So he's silent and watchful. Playing the part of the sentinel.

Last night, in the courtyard, looking at the grounds, Cordelia Chase stepped out and gently shut the door behind her. She walked over to stand by Angel, first lifting a hand to place on his shoulder and then simply stepping beside him and resting her head on that shoulder instead. The air was cold; she breathed slowly in and out, deep and deliberate. Her throat felt a little dry from the cold.

Then she circled around more in front of him, reached up with both hands, and smiled to him. A sad smile. Sad all the way in her eyes. "It's going to be okay."

She leaned up to kiss his lips, softly, almost innocently, before patting him on the chest. Almost as an afterthought, she pulled off the scarf around her neck, bright and cheerful, silky and elegant, and reached up to tie it delicately around Angel's neck. It's the only way she'll ever get him to wear color, even if it's not his own.

Smiling to herself still, she walked back into Rowanwood.

And now, in the moment, Cordelia Chase is radiant. She shines brighter as the ritual continues, and then she's surrounded by white light and brilliant sparkles, shimmering in the air around her. She's almost blinding, for that time, rising, ascending. And when she feels herself fading from this world and into something else, something greater and more beautiful than anything she has ever known, she looks to Angel, tries to catch his eye, and whispers, "You're welcome."

And then the ritual is over. Cordelia Goode immediately ushers most of the participants out of the hall. Everything has been planned out, evidently. Like a well-oiled machine, she remains toward the back of the group, turned back to protect them with the power of the Supreme. The moment has been prepared for; as everyone who has seen her painstaking and detailed preparations in the last few days will know, Delia has taken great pains to account for every eventuality. She spares a glance to Ryan, a silent invitation for him to go with the others if he chooses to. But if she is the Supreme, then she must be responsible for the lives of all those touched by magic around her. Now is the time to move to the next phase.

That's when the doors explode in off their hinges.

Michael Langdon didn't walk into Rowanwood. He just... arrived. Still dressed in his fine clothes, still wearing his golden hair in long locks... but that's where his resemblance to the man they met before ends. His skin is pale and sallow, almost hanging loose on his frame, and his eyes are unfocused, vacant, save for motes of *something* occasionally passing across them, like tiny specks of Unbeing. His stride is powerful as he enters the room, but awkward, more like a robot or a puppet moved on not enough strings. He stops at an appropriately dramatic distance into the room, walking heedlessly past the slayers at the door, and smiles--a horrible, inhuman rictus of a smile, more like something is smiling through his face than he is, himself, making the expression of his own accord. When he speaks, a wheeze of breath escapes his lips, but his mouth does not form the words, not properly. Whatever voice comes from him, it is highly doubtful that it could still in any way truly be called Michael Langdon.

But for all it is unwholesome, the voice is powerful enough to carry easily through the hall. "What do you think you've accomplished with this?" he demands, gesturing in a jerkily sweeping motion with one hand. "You disable the bombs. You rejoin the broken worlds into one. For what? All you've done is rob yourselves of anywhere to flee! Now both worlds will be mine, and they'll have no swift, easy ending. Now, the combined world's suffering will be long before it ends."

Nessa is already moving to position herself, not front and center against Michael as before, but back within the ritual circle. She continues to feed it a trickle of power, keeping it active, and this seems to occupy her sufficiently that she has little else to give, certainly not enough spare energy to bandy words with an Outsider-possessed madman--or what remains of him.

Outside the house, the front gates stand sundered and open, and a horde of things beyond simple description begin to prowl inside. They are monsters--no, horrors--far worse than any yet seen, things that crawl and ooze their way into the grounds.

Then the storm hits. The full, unbridled fury of Winter itself descends upon Rowanwood, and in a matter of seconds, an impenetrable blizzard surrounds the house and grounds on three sites, a storm so fierce that nothing will make it through--the cold is that severe. Somewhere, swirling and dancing through the storm as he rides the wind, the voice of Jack Frost can be heard, coaxing this mother of all storms along. But it leaves the front gates wide open.

Michael's head jerks in the direction of the front door for a moment, then back, and he snorts, a wet and vile sound. "You think to hem me in? You're playing at futility. Each move you make only dooms you further."

"No, no, no!" comes another voice, familiar and yet, not. The tall man in the leather coat who follows Michael in, walking in a much more normal fashion, even with a bit of a swagger, is the spitting image of Angel, save that his face is distorted by the twisted, feral features of a demon-possessed vampire. He idly twirls a wicked flamberge in one hand, the sword's long blade utterly, light-drinkingly black. "They're doing what they always do," Angelus says. "They're trying to pull off some absurd, last-minute heroics." He lifts the blade, pointing it at Angel, and says, "It won't work, not this time. This time, you're all going to die... just like Buffy Summers did when I tore out her throat."

And Angel has business to attend to. "You wish." Nonetheless, Angel engages immediately with his Dark Alterego. "And as she once said to us, if we're going to Hell, save me a seat." Angel rushes forward to engage. He understands, of course, that his double has all his skills, amped by dark forces. On the other hand, what he doesn't have is anything new he's learned since the ritual to seperate them occurred. It's almost like quoting things she once said makes it feel like she's still at his side. That's what his heart wants to believe, anyway.

Too wise by far to have his rush lead to something all out, he instead feigns such a rush, and turns it into a parry of a probable counter...in fact, he's actually preparing to counter the counter he himself would use if somebody rushed at him.

Last night, he found himself gifted with a colored scarf, tied around his neck. He continues to wear it now.

The kiss made him realize a couple things. In another time another space, he might've loved Cordy another way. She might've been so much more than just one of his two best friends. It was in her to be that. And so her sorrowful look was met with a softer version of his usual brood, as a whole mess of what might have been scenes go through his head.

He responded, "It'll be okay, as long as you make it." He didn't say she had to be unchanged, just that she make it.

And as she disappears into white light...he realized...she made it alright, but not in a way in which he was likely to ever see her again. Further might've beens flood his mind. But the battle is coming...

Micki hurries quickly to Myrtle, as she was instructed; that will be the part she has to play, and it will come soon. She knows the chamber, she knows the preparations, the deep tub of water. Before she leaves the room, though, she's sending Ryan along with the Supreme. He must be kept safe. He'd only throw his life away in a desperate attempt fueled by fury. Her white gown flutters in her wake as she's swept along with the elder witch, rippled out and teleported away to the place where the ritual must occur.

Everything hinges on this. Everything.

Jason Christopher stiffens up and growls as Michael Langdon arrives. The walls and floor vibrating with the power of it. But preperations have been made. As the hideous abominations of the Outside slither and crawl for the violated doors of Rowanwood. He shifts immediately, fluidly into his man-wolf phase. Throwing back his head in a howl. Different from any he has unleashed in his over four centuries of life.

The final note of the Song of the Great Beasts.

Jason Christopher phases to his man-wolf form.

From outside a powerful, primal roar replies, staggeringly loud and followed by others. The Great Beasts have come to fight for the world they once called home. The great ape, the massive reptiles of ancient times, the legendary thunder bird and Willawau, the lumbering yeti. The legends and myths of Earth's past gathered to defend it's future from the Outside.

Jacob rounds on the door as it bursts in, and without even a word of snappy dialogue he's fairly leaping out of the loose shorts he wears. By the time he hits the ground, it's on all forms in his massive wolf phase. He leaps in front of Jason, between him and the incoming threats, baring his fangs in a snarl as he prepares to defend his mate until the summoning ritual can be completed. Once that's done, then Jacob will charge right for Michael, going right for the throat. If ever there was a time when that was the best approach, it's surely now.

Jacob Black phases to his wolf form.

Merek looks as the two people enter into the place, and he takes a moment to draw his sword from the hip. He shifts around his weapon and begins to chant an incantation, then he holds up his hand to move it in a circle and draws an illusion around those assailing the foes to mask their movements as best he can.

"Definitely best it gets." Quentin smiles to Rey, not really in a very jocular mind at the moment, but still charmed by the attempt at humor. Everything else happening, everything that has passed, all makes his heart hurt. Gently he reaches out a hand to slide his fingers along Rey's, squeezing, before he leans closer, whispers silently in his ear, kisses his cheek, and pulls away, turning to go and join Stiles and River, and seeming to sort of herd the seemingly otherwise mundane young men with them.

While others move to engage, Darius is watchful, a spear cupped lightly in his palm. His morose demeanor has forced him to think of things even more tactically, and instead of looking to the funnels, he looks for how they might play on expectations. The unseen thrust. Waiting for the right moment to strike. No wasted movements. "Why do they always monologue?" he asks of no-one in particular.

It takes all of two miliseconds, quite literally, for Tachi's sword to be drawn and in both hands. He moves not to engage the others necessarily, he can break away if he must to do that, but to help Angel. He's seen the way Angel and Angelus fight, he knows their patterns, and he knows how to fit in the gaps, on Angel's side. His movements are as beautiful as they are deadly, an easy calm about him as he fights, his sword a part of him, an extention of his arm, each motion flowing smoothly into the next. But, his fighting style is anything but predictable, he's learned that if an enemy can predict your moves, well, they can easily counter. So, he's learned to fight a different way every time he fights, this time no different. He's fighting on the offensive this time, anywhere where he can get in a strike or a slash he will, but if the need arrises he can switch to defense fast. "What makes you think you can kill us, Kiddo?" He asks Angelus, voice as calm as his actions, fast and fluid as they may be. "You didn't last time. Or the time before. Or even the time before that. What's different?" His face isn't visible under his battle helmet, but there's a bit of a smirk in his voice. He's more than capable of beating Angelus, but the guy's too cowardly to just accept his fate when it comes down to it. But he's also alert for any other fights he may need to attend to just in case, Angel can handle himself if he really needs to.

Derek, knowing Stiles must step away and that they must part for the moment, abruptly wraps his arms around Stiles and squeezes. He presses a kiss to his lips and then, as they part almost immediately, reaches up to ruffle his hair. Derek affords a soft smile, looking into his eyes. It's practically glowing, from Derek Hale -- so normally restrained and stoic. He doesn't need words to express how he feels. He makes it clear with his actions. And then he pulls away to engage wherever needed, because he can see plenty of options presenting themselves already. Glancing back, he signals with a jerk of his head to Liam Dunbar, hanging around the edges of the room, to keep frosty and find a place to apply himself without going into danger too deep.

Derek pulls back his lips and snarls, baring his teeth and shifting, claws popping, eyes gleaming alpha red.

Stiles is definitely no longer buried in his book! fiercely returns Derek's hug and kiss, lingering on them for only the seconds they dare, before he's hustled off. Even as he goes, Stiles meets Derek's gaze and mouths "I love you!" to him before being hustled out of the room along with the other non-combatants. It's almost bizarre how little heed he paid to the bad guys bursting into the room. He's completely passed up the opportunity for snark or shenanigans, focused on his task, but he does look meaningfully back at Derek and Lance, willing them to be safe, before he slips from the room along with Quentin and River.

It's Oz's time to shine, again, sort of. He's not far behind Derek physically or in his transformation, letting his wolf side take over again and shifting, growling as he prepares to leap at the attackers and tear them apart, just like last time.

Oz phases to his wolfman form.

Once the rest are through, Cordelia ushers Ryan Dallion and Ryan Hayes both from the room, then slips out completely herself. The battle has begun, and she needs to be elsewhere for the moment.

> The past few days at Rowanwood have demanded much from the new Supreme. Cordelia Goode has been seen everywhere, with a touch of power here, assistance in a ritual there, shoring up the defenses of Rowanwood, speaking with those who needed her advice or wanted her presence. She studied long years, worked hard to keep a weakened school afloat, and tried her best to impart the essential knowledge to the next generation of witches.
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> Stiles sat, surrounded by books in the library, all open around him, and him looking at none of them. She knew she would find him there. Walking to the table, she leaned on it with a slight, almost tentative smile.
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> "I don't think you'll be able to read them that way," she started, a playful lilt to her voice. "Unless you know some magic I don't."
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> He looked up to her and managed something, some semblance of a smile, himself. Maybe because he felt he owed it to her, as the Supreme. Or because she always seemed to be so nice.
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> And always so sad. Like Luke and Leia's mother.
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> "I don't really feel like I did too hot in the Black Lodge." He shakes his head. "Bugs me."
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> She reached a hand out, to place upon his own. "The test of Descensum requires that you go and return. You did that. You passed the test." Her smile widened, and for a moment it looked like the sun had come out in the sky, surrounded by the golden waves of her hair. "You should be proud of yourself. You accomplished one of the Seven Wonders. Not everybody does that." And maybe some memory of unhappiness passed behind her eyes, but she pushed it out of her mind. This was more important: empowering that next generation of witches. Building them up, rather than tearing them down. Giving them strength. Being the leader they need.
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> Being the friend that they need, more than leader, or teacher, or headmistress. She stayed and talked with him, telling little stories. Giving little tips, advice on spells and powers, and most of all stories putting it all in context. Oh, she reminisced about her childhood, which wasn't a happy time sometimes, but the time she spent with Myrtle was the best of times. She always wanted to be a witch. She always loved knowing that magic exists in the world, that real hope exists, and that the right word or gesture or mindset could shape it.
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\*         \*         \*

In the ritual space, Myrtle sweeps Micki towards the tub of clear water, looking to Nessa to join her. "This will require the most exacting of focus," she murmurs, in her songlike way. "And I believe I just detected the presence of what could only be called a leviathan of obscenity on the grounds." Pursing her lips, she looks right to Nessa. "The phrase I'm searching for, I think, is smoke 'em if you've got 'em."

> Early that morning, before the sun was quite up, Nessa had taken leave from her ritual preparations and found Jack, who had fast come to be known a Jack Frost, skating about on the surface of the snow in the rear grounds. She smiled at him warmly, ironic though it might be, and offered him a cup of cocoa with marshmallows. "Are you ready for what's coming, dear?" she asks, sounding even more weary than she looks. Jack nodded dutifully, sipping his cocoa, and Nessa laid a hand on his shoulder, giving it a fond squeeze. "Good. When it happens, just remember to bring your storm. We may need to draw on its power. But most importantly, you must focus on keeping the woods sealed off from the rest of the grounds. I don't want anything sneaking in from our rear or flanks, but more than that, I don't want anything escaping *into* the Ways. When they get here, we must keep them contained. We can't risk any disruption of the ritual, once it's begun. You understand?" Jack had nodded and given his promise, to which Nessa once gave her tired smile. "Thank you, dear. That will be a tremendous help."
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In the present, Nessa stands sill and quiet, hands held to her sides, as she waits within the ritual circle for... whatever she anticipates coming next. When Prue Halliwell touches her arm and nods, Nessa returns it, casting one lack book at the others with deep sadness in her eyes, then follows the Charmed Ones from the room. Joining the others in this new circle of power, the Lady of the Vale gives the strongest smile she can muster. "Indeed," she says to Myrtle. "Gods and goddesses, but if ever I craved a pipe, it would be now." And then they're back to work, levity slipping past in the swift stream of the moment.

\*         \*         \*

In the Great Hall, Angelus' blade snaps out with speed and confidence to counter Angel's--block, counter, riposte. At his vicious lunge, Angelus lets out a low snicker. "Oh, Angel, buddy. I'm almost sorry to break it to you--hell, who'm I kidding? No I'm not. She cried for you when I killed her, y'know. Screamed your name. Or was it... *my* name? I figure she always did like me best." A swipe, a dodge. "But she really is dead, boyo. That's why you've seen no sign of her. I'd love to tell you that, after everything, it wasn't what I thought it be, wasn't as satisfying, or that I just feel," he puts on a mock sad voice, "empty and unfulfilled now." His tone goes dead flat. "But that's not true." He leaps forward again in a vicious stab. "It was the best thrill I've had in years."

Michael meets Jacob's lunge with a contemptuous jerk of his hand, and a wave of telekinetic force knocks the leaping wolf back across the room, careening toward one of the walls with punishing force.

Merek's illusion doesn't immediately seem to take effect--at least, not until the first of the Mead golems bursts through the door. The slayers there tackle it, making brutal work of taking it down, but three more are already on them by then. They're holding their own, thanks to Merek's illusion managing to turn aside greater numbers of the attackers. Outside, it's far, far worse.

Michael twists around, finishing his last move with a twitchy kind of grace, and comes up with a second blast of pure force, propelling Rey upward toward the ceiling like some kind of humanoid rocket, or as if he'd stepped into the bowl of a catapult as it launched.

To Darius, Langdon offers a half-limp sneer, as if one side of his face had suddenly quit working, "Simple answer," the voice speaking through him rasps, "hearing our own voice is the only chance we get at decent conversation!" The snippy retort, though, rings hollow, as if it were being repeated from something he heard without really even understanding it. It's a token gesture, a distraction tactic at best, as Michael's hand comes up and effortlessly looses a bolt of lightning toward the center of Darius' chest.

Angelus barks a laugh at Tachi. "Oh, things are different this time, sweetheart," he says, putting a touch of the old Irish lilt into his voice. "You just don't know it yet!" And then dives to the side, snagging a chair from where it's stacked against the wall, and flings it with great force, directly at Tachi's center of mass.

Michael, meanwhile, continues to dance like a damaged but still rather energetic marionette. He flings a hand at Derek, sending a wall of flame sweeping toward him, and his other at Oz, this time a wall of frost. Despite all the power he's throwing around so casually, the broken man hardly even seems to feel it--until Derek bursts through the wall of flames, heedless of the danger, and slams into him up high, and a moment later, frosted but undeterred, Oz hits him low, and between the two of them they bring the self-proclaimed Anti-Christ to the ground!

Angel isn't buying it. His beloved was never that easy to get rid of. "You keep forgetting I know you...cause I was you." And this sort of psychological game is what Angelus DOES. It's how he unnerves people, tries to break them. But since he's only taking shit at the moment, he hasn't get any proof to back his words up. At least not yet.

Tachi's aid is welcome. This is a mirror match for Angel, of course, and fighting yourself is the hardest thing to do, because your opponent knows your moves because they're his moves too. Angel is trying to make sure his swings stay one step ahead, focusing on the fight more than what he for sure lost in Cordy, and...no. He isn't believing that. He will not believe that! "I remember everything you did, through my eyes." The thrust is something he can parry...Angel isn't looking for a killing blow yet, he's not that foolish. He's looking for advantages. Half steps, positioning, being on one's toes instead of one's back foot. Small positional advantages make all the difference in an even match.

Jason Christopher looks around the room as the chaos began. There were so many people he knew, had come to know. His massive head swivveled as he looked at his mate thrown by Michael and Jason saw only red. He loved Jacob Black more than he ever expected to love anyone ever again. He reflected that he didn't say that enough. Once this was over, he would.

Cordellia Goode had ushered his son Sly away. His son, returned to him after nearly a century of believing him dead. When this was over he would let Sly date.

In exactly two hundred years.

Because he knew damn well they were going to end this apocalypse here and fucking now! With that obscene little meat puppet's head in his palm! Jason's lips pulled back over his fangs in a snarl, claws dragging furrows through the stone tiles of the floor as he leans down to lunge at the on-coming tide of horrors. Wanting to get close enough to the thing wearing Michael to rip the smug look off of it. To slice deep enough that whatever was inside him had no more room to hide. Charging forward as Michael was tackled to the ground by Derek and Oz, Jason fadeed from the senses. Looking to get close enough to try and tear Michael's face off. Had to start somewhere, and that sneer needed to go.

Jacob is sent sailing through the air by the telekinetic attack, but when he crashes into the wall it's with all four legs, rebounding off of it with sound that's half-snarl, half-roar, and then sails through the air to fall into place beside Jason and charges into battle beside his mate, fangs exposed and flashing, and then they part. Jason vanishes, and Jacob charges ahead--the indirect and the direct approach, respectively--but then Jacob breaks at the last moment, the direct charge a feint, as he wheels around to try to attack Michael from the flank, instead.

It would seem like his illusions are assisting, though he watches as the fight continues on. Merek lifts up his magic sword which has a use as foci, and he moves to intercept the foes that are coming in, his magic still on the others but a bit of that power shifted to him also as he uses his magic to chant and teleport back where Angelus is, from behind him.

The man takes a moment to swing his weapon at him with fire energies within. This is mostly a distraction, he knows that he can't take the man, he is hoping to assist Angel and Tachi with him, though he does speak, "What is with you... And your Master, MICHAEL!" He speaks where he can hear, "What purpose does this serve, to sell all the world to these dark forces? Don't you understand, you will go the same route as them, and if that is the purpose... Have you ever thought about what you'll do after? Do you deserve the right to rule, to control, you can't change things this way!" After the Black Lodge, after all he has been through within it, he understands a lot more now, "Listen to reason! You can do better! You," he tells Angelus, then he speaks, "As well as to you!" to Michael. The black sword of his, with the golden details upon it is shifted about as he tries to keep attention from the others. "WE WILL WIN, REMEMBER YOUR FIGHT WITH TRUE DARKNESS!" This to Angel as well as to others.

\*         \*         \*

In the library, Syllables suddenly fill the air, chanted between Quentin, River, and Stiles. This is what they've been practicing for. This is their moment! It's not something Quentin thought he would do again any time soon, but here he is, in a ritual of three, for their specific, crucial purpose. This is his time.

As much as his depressive thoughts may numb him occasionally, as much as he always says he's lost hope for the world, it's in this that he shows what hope remains, what he can believe in -- that where there is life, there *is* hope, and there's always going to be another sunrise, another morning, another beautiful evening, with the Moon calling court and the stars presiding over the destiny of the universe.

The ritual had been hours in preparation. Far more than Quentin, River, and Stiles had put it together--but it fell to them to complete it. Some almost perverse part of Stiles' brain notes that they embody a certain "maiden, mother, and crone" archetype, but he's not sure he likes being the maiden, suspects that River (annoyingly, younger than him but far more magically experienced) would care to be called the mother, and Quentin... yeah, Stiles is definitely not going to ever refer to Quentin as "crone" out loud. The thought stay buried deep in his mind, though, for on the surface Stiles is fully engaged in the ritual before them. He'd have rather someone more experienced be taking his place, but he, River, and Quentin were the best candidates in that moment, so he didn't argue. Well, not much. Myrtle Snow was no one to be argued with, and Cordelia Goode was just so warm and sincere, she made Stiles think, in a way that carried more of a pang than ever lately, of his mother. But those thoughts are all distant, now, floating far from him. In this moment, Stiles' whole world is incantation, gesture, ritual. His eyes light up, literally as it happens, and he can feel it, the power, tingling at his fingertips and rushing through his body. The spell's working!

\*         \*         \*

Rey impacts with the ceiling hard enough to smash through it, not quite penetrating into the upper floor, but he twists into a spiral on his way down, whirling into a driving spiral, sword-first, as he becomes a living tempest, the funnel of wind propelling him toward Michael like the missile from a cannon, aimed with deadly and hateful accuracy directly for the bastard's heart, be it living or dead! On another day, he'd have great respect for Merek's tactics, this attempt at reason. On any other day. But this is not that day. Were Rey giving speeches, he'd likely quote something about fell deeds and wrath and ruin, but he does not. Instead, he just does his best to physically embody the sentiment at the end of his blade!

Blooded by the lightning that courses at least partially down his metal crudely rune-engraved spear, Darius comes away with a black flaking of skin across his forearms and up his arms into his neck so that he looks partially cooked where the lightning lingered longest. Coughing up his own smoked lungs as he speaks and regenerates, he says with a crackled voice totally appropriate for one recently struck by lightning or having just finished a carton of Camels, "Well I suppose when you let a bunch of snarling hell beasts into the world to replace all the good conversationalists, that your new go to becomes your only lover," this time said to Michael directly. Along with a very expressive "dice shaking" hand gesture at the man. He doesn't like to engage in too much of that standard exchanging of quips, but he can't help himself sometimes.

Like this was just a distraction to keep him focused, he snags up another of his hand-made spears and lobs it with well, Darius-level force at the guy and simultaneously tries to roll to avoid whatever the return blow might be.

"If you say so, Kiddo," Tachi says, the chair Angelus threw missing him by a mile. "A chair? Is that the best you can do?" He seems to understand what Angel is doing, then what Merek is doing, and his movements give Angelus exactly 3 choices. Deal with Merek and get his head sliced off, take everything Merek's throwing at him, or teleport away to avoid them. He's giving the evil vampire absolutely zero room to avoid by dodge, his movements far too quick for even the heightened eye to track. He seems to have a skill advantage, barely over Angelus, but it wouldn't be enough to say who would win either way, but what he does have is a speed advantage. And he seems to be drawing attention to himself rather than Angel, giving Angel openings to get his advantage over Angelus, his blade clashing with Aneglus's in powerful strikes and slashes that seem to be precisely aimed and calculated, yet completely unpredictable, basically forcing Angelus to go on the defensive to avoid being torn to shreds.

Derek is quick to strike to finish this if he can, even in the face of the advancing extra forces that come to add their power to the assault. If he has to tear at the man with his teeth, then so be it. If he has to rip at him with his claws, then he has to do that. The feral side of Derek comes to the fore, but the blood isn't right. The flesh isn't right. Nothing about this is right. He stumbles back, face a mask of disgust, and spits whatever may have got in his mouth.

Lance looks on, eyes going solid black. He cracks his knuckles, stretches his neck from side to side, and starts to step in Michael's direction.

Oz seems to have the same idea as Derek, but unlike Derek, whatever this stuff is, it doesn't seem to phase him. He notices Jason, and he moves enough to have let Jason have the honor of tearing this guy's throat out, claws and teeth tearing and ripping as much not right flesh as possible.

> "Good advance planning."
>
>
> The day before, Myrtle stood at a table in the workroom, filtering a liquid mixture through into another glass bottle. She looked up as Cordelia spoke, and smiled brighter to her than she would to most. "Whatever do you mean?"
>
>
> It sounded almost comically innocent, and both of them knew it. The two laughed pleasantly together, drawing closer as Delia leaned to look into the blue, then green, and finally dark red liquid. "I think you know what I mean."
>
>
> "Of course, little bird. I could never keep anything from you." Myrtle reached her hand over to clasp Cordelia's, leaning shoulder to shoulder. "Our collection is complete. Those strapping young men..."
>
>
> "If this were any normal situation, I'd say that the Slayer spell was too dangerous," Delia commented, leaning back against the older witch. "But it's not."
>
>
> "It's irresponsible magic. Shadowy men in the shadowy shadows, obsessed with some misconception of the feminine mystique." Myrtle commented, shaking her head, all but tutting at the concept. "But it's magic, and it's active, and it's easy enough to appropriate for our own means. This is how it must be, I'm afraid. We have no better options. My own attendants seem to have vanished in the wind."
>
>
> "I was wondering if they...made it through the school." The memory was still tender for Cordelia. "We lost so much that day." Her tone lowered, softly, mournfully.
>
>
> "We still have each other, my dear dear Delia." Myrtle reached out to brush the blonde hair off her shoulder. "As long as that's true, we can go on. It's hard to lose someone, but...it's hardest of all for those who have lost. I am here for you. I always will be, as long as I can be."
>
>
> "I know, Myrtle." Cordelia looked down, at the floor, then quickly back up to her friend. "You know, I always loved you like a mother. The mother I never had. I...I resolved things with Fiona. I loved her. At the end, I..." She trailed off.
>
>
> "I know," Myrtle murmured back, smile soft and light. "I know."
>
>
>

In the present, Angelus responds to Angel's parry with a twist of his own sword, metal ringing on metal, and he whips the blade around defensively, laughing joyfully. "Oh, I've been so looking forward to this part! Wait for it!" He then gives a sharp whistle, clearly a signal of some kind, and one of the Mead golems comes charging into the room, smashing past anything in her way, with something all in black crouched on her back. She blasts right past Angel, charging at Merek instead, her fists flying like rocket-powered pistons.

"From Darkness we come, and to Darkness we must go!" she snarls at him, eyes wide, rabid. "You know nothing of our master, but you'll meet him soon!" The fanatical construct presses her attack, swinging magically enhanced fists, snapping out with stone-shattering kicks, and otherwise coming on like a freight train with a grudge. It would be a comical image, were it any less deadly.

But there's nothing comical about the female form that leaps nimbly off of the Mead golem's back, sailing lightly through the air to land beside Tachi, producing a sickle from beneath her robe--no, two, one in each hand. She slashes at Tachi with both, seeking to drive him back from Angelus, and that's when the hood falls back, revealing a blond ponytail. When she sneaks a glance at Angelus, beaming at him with a too-bright, sickly grin, it's plain to see that her features are very familiar to him, but pale, bloodless, beyond even vampiric. A zombie, a revenant? It's hard to say. But whatever the creature before him is, it's very clearly the warped, distorted, and very clearly undead body of the person nearest and dearest to his heart. When she speaks, her voice sounds creaky, disused, a mockery of its once bright, witty tone.

"Hi!" she says to Tachi. "I'm Buffy. The Vampire Slayer! But I don't feel so good." Without turning her attention away from her foe, she calls out to Angel, "Not tonight, honey. I got a headache! Do you think I should see a doctor?"

Simultaneously, of course, Angelus is leaping forward in a brutal, wounding strike, seeking to drive his blade directly into Angel's stomach, if possible, preferring a crippling, wounding strike that's more likely to land over a riskier but more decisive blow.

Michael, meanwhile, piled on from all sides, ravaged by werewolves, evem impaled through the chest by one of Darius' spears and then slashed by the spinning strike of Rey, suddenly snaps to his feet, arms leaping up to his sides, as though his puppet's strings had been pulled tight. As he moves, a wave of overwhelming telekinetic force pulses around him, knocking everyone engaged with him back, very likely hard enough to slam them into the walls, if not through them. "Come, then," he growls in that borrowed voice through his wheezing breath, "you bore me with your trifles of violence! Surely at least one of you knows how to properly spill *blood*." With that, he rips the spear from his own chest, spins it around, and flings it--right through the chest of one of the nearby slayers, who was battling one of the Mead golems. She give a choked cry and falls, crumpling to the ground as the life drains from her body. Michael whirls a hand around, then, and with a sickening series of cracks, another pair of slayers fall. He holds up a fist, now blazing with fire, as he looks for his next target.

There are days when even the strongest of willpower... isn't strong enough. Angelus' claims were easily dismissed when he had no evidence. But than evidence comes up, and it's like...some sort of twisted puppet. Or a robot built by a particularly twisted mind like Warren Mears. His senses do not detect any signs of life in that body...and because he can't smell any blood, it's not even a vampire. It's...something else. Something more horrifying first. Angel is bouyed by so many things in this fight against evil, from the Powers to Cordy to the fact there's a world that needs saving!

But in this moment, he knows a moment of despair, and Angelus actually nails him in the left arm as thoughtless instincts still take his torso out of the way...the wound bleeds, though less because he's a vampire. He can't even think of what to say to Tachi. That's NOT Buffy anymore. It's her body being used for perverted ends, and evidently some portion of her memory.

\*         \*         \*

With the help of the others, Micki climbs into the tub. She looks to the other witches around her, so much more experienced than her, so much readier for this than she feels like she'll ever be. She takes deep breaths, slowing her breathing, looking to Nessa, that kind woman who seems to have aged years in only the days she's known her. "Thank you," she quietly murmurs. "I promise, I'll do what needs to be done. I promise." And then she folds her arms over her chest and sinks down, bringing her chin closer to the surface of the water.

\*         \*         \*

Jason Christopher is thrown away from Michael, even without being available to the senses. He was still tangible and thus vulnerable to things like irresistable telekinetic waves of force. Of course flipping in mid-air Jason lands and lunges again. It's not that easy to keep a Lord of the Werewolves down. Having to pass directly by the android monstrosity attacking Merek, Jason lashes out with his claws. Still hidden from the senses, he means to rip it's head off and wing it at Michael's head with brutal force. He knows that they won't defeat him that way. But it is still satisfying to inflict harm on the shell, and distract it. So the real victory can be won where it really matters.

Outside the roars of the Great Beasts intermingle with machine gun fire and the otherwordly warbling roars of outsider abominations. A Meadroid's shattered torso explodes throuh a window, savaged by the teeth of something large, and violent. The ancient legends of the Earth battling their antithesis from the Outside.

Jacob is flung back, but this time he manages to dig his claws into the ground, tearing up tiles and utterly ruining a nice floor in the process. He'll apologize later, no doubt, if later comes, and digs in, fighting forward against the waves of force with all his might. To the alpha werewolf's credit, he gains ground against the crushing attack, inching back toward Michael--but it may not be enough. Jacob is strong and determined, but against power like this, there just isn't much he can do besides struggle, push ahead, and refuse to give up!

Merek looks as the golem comes to him, then he shifts back and also calls upon all his power back to him. He then charges his weapon with his magic while he chants, then speaks, trying his best to dodge the swings, "We will see about that," he tells them, then he fuses his spiritual magic with an elemental magic and also creates a holy flame which he uses to strike a resonance wave towards the foe as he shifts his stance also.

\*         \*         \*

The chant reaches its crescendo, and then Quentin raises his eyes and his hands to the air. Suddenly, there's something different about all of those men between them, in the circle of the three of them. Suddenly, it's all different...and so much better. Quentin stumbles a bit, then catches himself, wiping his mouth and catching his breath. Maybe...maybe now.

\*         \*         \*

Flung back yet again by Michael's power, Rey flips vertically over in the air, hands over heels, and throws in a pulse of magic to slam himself to the ground. His blade snaps out, slicing at the piece of Mead-bot that blasted in at them, and he keeps it up, in guard position, to give himself some protection against Michael's waves and waves of force. He hangs back, biding his time, and waits for any break or opening. Brute force is not a contest, clearly, that they can win, but maybe they can exploit an opening when it comes...

Blasted through the nearest wall, Darius lets out a shouted, "Bag of di--!" his words chomped off as his head buckles the Rowanwood walls and he sort of just flies away with the force of Michael's blast. Moments later the tall young man comes running back in, spear in hand, bites of masonry in his hair, shattered building dusted all over him, nails embedded in his jacket. He plucks them and actually uses them as projectiles as he comes back in at a measured pace. Not blurring with speed, not for lack of speed, but because he needs to make every step count and for the moment, distracting Michael is the goal. The magic at play here is the key, not the fight.

Throwing nails, he is soon exhausted of them and taking his spear, wades back into immediate battle with Michael. Trying to keep him from using his powers against the slayers.

"Angel! Focus!" Tachi shouts, completely ignoring the fake distorted Buffy that just showed up, her blades doing absolutely nothing but bouncing off his battle armor. And, Angelus made a mistake, by going on the offensive, giving Tachi an opening. There's a blur, but no one but Tachi and Angeluswould really know what happened, 10 slashes, one of Tachi's signature moves, light trailing from his blade. The slashes are designed to be basically unblockable because they come so fast. They're not meant to be too damaging, though the light can definitely make some deep cuts, but the movements are so fast that it's almost impossible for Angelus to block more than a couple of them, especially considering he made the mistake of switching to offensive fighting and giving Tachi the opening he needed to pull the move off. There's no way Angelus is getting out of this unharmed, though one of this undead twisted thing's blades does manage to catch him through a small gap in his armor, causing him to wince and dodge. He needs to keep Angelus from killing Angel, but this thing isn't going to be ignorable, not completely, anyway. So, he starts doing battle with them both, his bottom half fighting with Buffy in some well placed martial arts moves, his upper half continuing to fight Angelus.

As Derek flies back with the telekinetic wave, he shifts into his direwolf form, affording him far greater agility and sturdiness as he hits the wall and crashes right through it. He'll be a moment, but at least there'll be less healing to do when he gets to his feet again.

But Lance is ready, and despite anything hurled at him, he's going to let everything go. Even if he has to walk with his skin flayed off, he'll do it. He has the resolve. His eyes are so black that no light at all reflects off them. "I will be *damned*," he rumbles, voice deep and raspy, "if I let you keep fucking with *my* turf. You're not a demon."

And both of the figures' auras flare around them. It becomes like a storm, a fury around both of them, colliding between them. Winds start whipping like a cyclone, and these two are at the core of it. Telekinesis clashes against telekinesis, mental and spiritual power crashing like waves on rocks in a hurricane, and the room itself begins to show the wear of the furious battle as Michael and Lance glare into each other's eyes.

The unimaginable happens, in one instant. Lance grimaces, frowns, and shouts, throwing himself at Michael at last, reaching out and ripping one of the man's arms off, and then the storm is over and Lance is gone. Gone like a summer cloud.

\*         \*         \*

In the library, the ritual activates. As Stiles feels the power flood him, he becomes aware of what's happening in the next room, and it's not like any metaphor he's ever heard. It's not like a knife in his heart, it's not like he's been plunged into ice. It's more like every part of him has been torn completely out, had big pieces chewed off, and then stuffed roughly back inside him. *Lance.* It should be impossible. Nothing should be able to do that. But it happened. And Stiles would be distracted, would break his concentration, might even make the ritual fail--but in that exact moment, guided by Quentin's skill, the ritual is completed, and Stiles never has the chance to accidentally break it. He opens his mouth to scream in anguish, in protest, but then--then it's quite different. It's like nothing he could have possibly expected, and the power just *floods* him. Bathed suddenly in white light, Stiles flings back his head to stare up at the magic unfolding before them. Dazzled and swept up in the moment, what comes out instead is a breathless exclamation of absolute wonder.

"Oh. My. Fucking. Maker."

\*         \*         \*

Unfortunately, Oz isn't able to prevent himself from being smashed through a wall, much as he tries to bounce off it with his paws. ANd being smashed so hard through it caues a mini collapse. Oz somehow manages to free himself from the rubble but he doesn't look in good shape. He certainly seems to be bleeding, cut up in places, and although the healing can fix that it takes energy, and getting hit so hard knocked the wind out of him. He tries to fight against the forces, but if they work fast enough they just might be able to take him own before he can fully recover, if they're smart about it, something he desperately hopes they're not.

Michael stops and staggers over to collect his arm and stick it back on. The fibers of muscle weave almost instantly, and he clenches a fist with his now-reattached limb.

With everything else going down around them, it can't be avoided. If she's going to act, it has to be now. Suddenly, no other than Madison Montgomery steps into the room and walks right up to Michael, brandishing a shotgun and flanked by Coco St. Pierre Vanderbilt, with Queenie only a couple of steps behind.

"Surprise, bitch!" Madison shouts at the invader, cocking the shotgun. "Bet you thought you'd seen the last of me." And with that, she fires and blows his flagging face right off.

But it doesn't last, and it's immediately healing back. That's when Coco hurries along in stiletto heels, lifts a can of Aqua Net, flicks her metal lighter, and bathes the would-be Outsider Antichrist in fire. Not magical fire, not anything esoteric or mystical, but the cheapest hair spray you can get that gives a good quality hold and will make everything go up in flames at the faintest spark.

She did *not* get it from Mr. Gallant's beauty box. He would deny it into the next world.

(She totally stole it from Gallant.)

"Suck on this, you limp-haired, limp-dicked asshole!" Coco shouts, with Queenie giving her a look as if to say "damn" with not a word at all.

But then everything goes horribly wrong, and Michael gestures, with Coco gurgling and floating into the air. Madison raises a hand...and there's a tremor. An honest-to-gods tremor, seismic level, sending some furniture clattering to the ground and some delicates shattering. But then Madison starts bleeding from the ears, and Queenie has to act at once, and act fast, picking up the discarded can of hair spray, the lighter, and directing them right at herself as she looks at Michael.

That buys them a few more seconds, and saves Coco and Madison's lives, as Queenie shoves the other two back towards where they came. "Get your skinny white asses out of here before he blows you to kingdom come!"

"Kingdom come already came, stupid." Madison retorts, but her heart just isn't in it. It's hard to be shady when you're leaning on a girl with all you have.

But putting physical distance isn't enough. Michael, as the flames flicker out on him, lifts a hand stiffly, corpselike, and flings the three at the wall, stunning all of them. He draws closer, step by step.

> Last night, Cordelia Goode sat at the fireplace, in the warmly-decorated drawing room, with Myrtle playing her theremin softly nearby. Bubbles sat with a glass of cognac nearby, in an upholstered chair. Most of the other witches sat in the room, the lights low, the flickering flames of the fire dancing and casting lights onto the walls around them. A unique moment of calm.
>
>
> "We all know what's coming," Cordelia spoke in low, soothing tones, looking around at all of her students and friends and acquaintances, even some near-strangers and new arrivals. "There may be...losses. We've already suffered so much. But we have to expect that. We have to give everything we've got, because if we can do this -- if we can manage this -- it won't matter." She gave an encouraging smile to them, hoping that they wouldn't see the uncertainty in her heart. Because she had lost so much already. "There is hope for the future, if we can change the past. And we can. We have to do everything in our power to make that happen, because we *have* the power. We are witches. We are empowered. We *are* the future. We carry hope. We are magic in the world."
>
>
> Nessa smiled a little, tiredly, from her chair, covered in a quilt and half-curled with a pillow.
>
>
> "I will always be proud of you. All of you." Cordelia turned her eyes on all of them, looking to each of them, speaking with such feeling behind her words. Genuine heart. Genuine warmth. Real love.
>
>
>

And now, with Michael charred and blackened but starting to pull himself together, with him advancing on the three young witches, Cordelia is suddenly there behind him. Queenie is the first to pick herself up, to start to muster a defense. "Motherf--"

"Queenie, get them out of here. Get to safety!" Delia shouts.

Michael turns to face her, his own features growing over with skin again, a superior sneer on his face.

"I know what you're after," Cordelia Goode speaks, drawing forth an athame -- a ritual dagger.

"Are you really going to try to stop me with that thing?" Michael laughs a throaty laugh, a wet laugh filled with the roughness of mucus and blood. "You're going to die."

Queenie all but throws Coco and Madison out of the room, scrambling after them. "Cordelia! Come on!"

"I'm not going to let you hurt anybody else," Cordelia replies to the figure before her. "And I'm not going to let you hurt yourself anymore either."

Michael frowns, confused. "You can't hope to match my power. I am *unstoppable*."

Cordelia throws her head back and looks him in the eyes. "Shachath, te invocamus et imploramus."

"NO!!" Michael starts to lunge, but without even so much as a movement, Cordelia slaps him across the room, to make a divot in the floor with his impact.

"Satan may have one son, but witches are infinite." She lifts the athame. "I am Cordelia Goode. I am the daughter of Fiona Goode. The daughter of Myrtle Snow. And the child of magic." And with that, she plunges the knife into her chest and bursts into flames.

It's over in an instant. What was once Cordelia Goode, the Supreme, is a memory, a shadow on the floor.

And Michael seethes with fury as he pushes to his feet again. "NO! NO NO NO NO NO!!!"

The last thought to go through Cordelia's mind, one last smile flickering onto her face as the flames rise, is: "You look like Myrtle."

As it happens a crown made of dulled beaten iron appears along Darius' forehead, some ephemeral after-image of some future self to resonate with the cloak of silver that hangs from his shoulders. His eyes now glowing a spectral white he looks upon the battlefield no longer Darius, son of war. He is Darius. His own being. Whole, not just an egg waiting to be hatched. Tapping into his own spark, or rather his spark taps into him and he becomes the best version of himself. It's just there. Visible in him.

In his hand the crudely carved etchings in his spear crystalize, growing razor sharp, transforming the weapon from crude stop-sign hammered into spear-shape into a weapon of the gods. Cut like the edges of diamonds, not off by a micron. The metal of the spear changes as well, growing longer by two hands, the blade more finely crafted than Damascus steel, more polished than a Muramasa, it is Dwarven steel-and it sings with purpose. The slaying of his enemy.

All around him, those fallen warriors still lingering on this side of the Gate begin to rise. First as spectres that crawl from their own bodies but then their bodies snap to attention, catching up with their fallen forms and people just sort of rise from the brink. *Empowered* as they are dragged from the reach of the Gate, and thrown back into the battle.

As it turns out, Angelus doesn't have to ignore Tachi's attack. Buffy--or, at least, the thing that was Buffy--may had been rebuffed momentarily by his armor, but she's wielding curved weapons for more reasons than just intimidation. The blades hook around Tachi's arm, and the Unslayer hauls him bodily back away from Angelus, her strength undiminished by being undead. She flings him casually aside, charging right toward Angel, blades flashing, as she intends to slide right up behind him and wrap the blades around his neck, to shear his head right off if she can...

But then Darius happens.

Flung back by the sudden wave of divine force, the UnBuffy is knocked clean through the wall, out of view.

Angelus snarls, trying to pres his attack against Angel, but he's off balance. The magics erupting around them are nothing he was prepared for, and he's not even really sure what exactly they even *are*. What was that damn white light from the other room? He slashes at Angel, outraged but still dangerously skilled, though he's unable to fully correct for the moment, and he leaves himself open--just open enough.

From the opposite side of the room, the doors to the library burst open, and the boys are back--the schoolboys and frat boys, that is, who come charging into the room bearing axes, swords, and all manner of other melee weapons. And they're just humming with power, for in that moment, when the ritual Quentin was leading Stiles and River through completed, something changed. The other witches had done much of the preparation, had helped set the whole thing up--and now every one of those boys was, in effect, a Slayer. They flood into the room, tearing into Mead golems and coming to the aid of the heroes.

But that is not the end to the miracles. For, then, a petite blond form bursts through a hole in the wall, wielding two sickles that look no less dangerous now than they did a moment ago. The difference? She's suddenly looking considerably healthier--alive and well, even, and behind her? Behind her follow at least a dozen slayers, of the feminine sort. Faith is there, and others, all restored to life by an act of pure, defiant divine will. But it's the blonde who speaks, now in the warm, bright tone that he knows so well.

"Hi, honey, I'm home! Wanna hand?" And then she's leaping into a spinning kick, her foot snapping around to knock Angelus just that much more off balance, right toward Angel, exposing that opening from before, but many times worse. And the slayers flood the room.

It would seem that the tide has turned, save for one thing--the Mead golems have massed against the house, and they've given up on doors. In a seemingly endless tide, they're just tearing their way in, ripping down walls and smashing through stone, as they charge into the room to aid their master and, if they can, throw down and destroy his enemies.

\*         \*         \*

Meanwhile, in the ritual room, Nessa and Myrtle have lowered Micki into the tub of water, which has gone fully, inky black at this point. Around them, the Charmed Ones stand in a triad, their hands joined. Then, all five of the witches no submerged in the water begin to chant, over and over, "*Balneum infinitum. Dona salui conductus. Balneum infinitum. Dona salui conductus. Balneum infinitum. Dona salui conductus. Balneum infinitum. Dona salui conductus.* The magics swell, but there is no immediate, obvious effect, otherwise, as the fourth major ritual of the day nears completion..."

\*         \*         \*

Back in the great hall, the tide has turned--but it may yet turn again. If the heroes do not act swiftly, then the golems will reach the ritual room, and then all truly will be lost.

Well. If the hero was down before, he's not down now, because the people Angel relies on most are there with him now. And his heart just feels whole again.

And suddenly he's on his alterego, and there's more rainbows coming out of that sword then there are at a unicorn party. The sword cuts over and over again, bites every which way. Inspired now, he's just moving a little bit faster, hitting a little bit harder...yes, all things are equal physically, but when it comes to motivation...it's clear who's got more of that at the moment.

Eventually, he goes for his kill shot...a hard parry designed to fling Angelus's sword out wide, and then behead him.

Even the most courageous hero sometimes needs a hand...and sometimes all it takes to lend enough of a hand is a smile. This is that moment.

\*         \*         \*

All the power hits Micki like a train. Suddenly all of her body is brimming over with power. Suddenly she knows how to use the power, and so much more. She feels like she could do anything, like she could *be* anything, but she reminds herself of what she was taught by the witches that know. Somehow she knows, too, that there is no longer a Supreme other than her. But there is no time for mourning or tears, as she sinks down into the water, her red hair contrasting the black water and finally disappearing into it...deep down, beyond the bounds of the tub, beyond the bounds of even Rowanwood, and then she is gone in time.

Tempus Infinituum.

\*         \*         \*

Jason Christopher has had enough. He is well aware that this battle can not be won through physical might. None the less he has had enough of this. His body shuddered as he reached inside for the monster within him. Moving between the fallen Oz and Michael, Jason Christopher of the House of Lupus. Lord of the Mother Fucking Werewolves. *Has. Had. Enough.* His body ripples and grows as he becomes apparent to the senses once more, taking the form of The Beast. With a blood curdling scream of rage he lunges, scythe like claws seeking to tear Michael into meaty shreds. True, he couldn't kill him. But Michael WOULD suffer him, and spend time healing for the experience.

But he would suffer more still, as outside the howls of many wolves sound. Meadroids smashing through the walls and suddenly and violently ripped away, and in their place, massive horse sized wolves smash into the room joining the melee. Darius has called many back from the very brink this day. The Quileute Wolf pack lunges to rip apart the agents of the Outside once more.

Jason Christopher phases to his beast form.

Jacob Black lets out a piercing howl.

The answering howl escapes Jacob's throat before he even knows what he's doing. And then he's dodging around his mate, not getting in his way but very clearly at Jason's side, as he cuts and tears at Michael from the sides, from behind, from any little angle he can. Jacob isn't going for glory, nor for the big, powerful strike. Wolves hunt in packs. Sometimes, that means going for the throat. Sometimes, it means you worry the enemy while others makes the bigger, bolder moves. And that suits Jacob fine right now. Right now, he can feel his brothers' thoughts again, and he can smell the blood of his foe. It might be false confidence, might even be pure delusion, but that does not matter. That isn't the point. In Jacob's mind, this just stopped being a battle. Now, this is a hunt, and their prey is before them.

Merek looks back to some of the others while he steps back from the golems, then he notes that Quentin is around and swings his weapon to keep the foe off of him. He then draws his attention to all of the people hurt. He knows then what he was called to do, he realizes what he promised in the Black Lodge. To protect, he came from that. He then nods a bit while he places the sword's blade to the floor, and he begins to chant. He lifts up a hand while he speaks with the Enochian language. The Wizard uses all of his power, and people can feel it, a healing life force, born from all his power. He does his best, to try mending the wounds as he speaks, "YOU MUST FIGHT ON, YOU CAN DO IT, FOR HUMANITY, FOR FALLEN BROTHERS, CALL UPON ALL YOU HAVE... MICHAEL, this is what you stand against, all of these people!"

He then draws upon all of his life force, all of his power, everything he endured in that which also felt like millenia within the Lodge. He draws on all of that magic and lifts up his sword, unleashing a wave of spiritual and elemental energies that bathe his friends, his allies, the flame healing them, while he tries to empower them also, to offer them the prowess to take on the foe. He doesn't know all their stories, but he will make sure that they are fulfilled. His true power is not to combat them, it is to heal, to create, to fulfill, to empower. All energies spent he stands there, sword in hand as he bows his head. His attire tattered from the flames of his magic. He doesn't move, he instead kneels, as though in a supplication to some higher power for those still there, and that is how he falls in battle, knelt, head bowed to the hilt of his sword in that position.

This has gone on long enough. Quentin knows golems. He knows how they operate, he knows their life force. He knows what gives them life and what powers them. And even if it costs him all he has...after everything that everyone else has done, he can do no less. This world may have had it, but he felt the ripple in time. He felt it working. Now, it's up to Micki. Everything hinges on her being able to accomplish her mission to another world, a happier, more innocent world, which seems strange to think of in such a way.

The life, the energy, all of that which Merek contributes to him, Quentin resolves not to let go to waste. He husbands his strength and resurges his resolve, directing all of his energy -- every last bit of it -- into his focus and his goal.

Quentin takes a deep breath, reaches out with his spirit to the soil, the earth itself, and extends his senses to that soil, the dirt, the very life force soaked into the golems all around them.

And he grabs the magic that gives them life, and pulls. Hard. No more abomination. No more travesty of living. The various bodies of Miriam Mead suddenly just stop. Whatever they were doing, it's done. They're done.

But it leaves the witch known as Quentin Troy a statue, standing steadfast where he had started.

So sudden, and he's gone. Just like that. Rey does not cry out at Quentin's passing. He does not scream, nor even murmur a denial, but in the widening of his eyes, the way his features go nearly as cold as the blizzard raging outside, is a grim resolve that beggars such petty things as anger, refusal, or even grief. Instead, Rey lifts his blade to his side, sweeping it up in front of him in a guard position, and begins to pronounce words. They aren't shouted, but they are spoken with Power, carrying through the room even through all the chaos of battle, the triumphs and tragedies unfolding around him. The first word tumbles from his lips, an invocation.

"Freya." He advances on Michael, muscles tightening in preapration. "Shakti." His footsteps ring on the floor as he moves, each step swift and deliberate. "Hathor, Rhiannon," he speaks the names, speaking them faster as he gains speed, gains power. "Rhea, Maat," and he raises his sword, which has begun to glow with a white-hot flame, curling around the blade and bathing him in its glow as he speaks the final name, invoking his own mother, "The Morrígan!" His eyes begin to burn with a red-gold fire as he repeats the invocation, now with a musical rhthym.

*Freya, Shakti, Hathor, Rhiannon,*

*Rhea, Maat, the Morrígan!*

And then the fire spreads, covering Rey's entire body, using the divine spark of his very soul to fuel it. At his invocation, the powers he's called upon grant his wish, and one more ritual, one more shining moment lights the day.

*High, raising up the Goddess*

*Oh, fill my soul*

The words would sound like a request for comfort, for healing, in any other context. Sung, as they were meant to be, they wound be uplifting, even beautiful. They would be a moment of worship and exultation, and indeed, they are. A final exultation.

*High, raising up the spirit*

*Oh, make me whole!*

Rey Devoss, Knight of Faërie, child of The Morrígan, gives himself wholly over to the divine power. His flesh becomes fuel. His bones become the bow, his blade the shaft. And his very heart becomes the flaming arrow, fired into the form of his foe, the hated enemy whose minions have cost Rey his nearest and dearest. It is a sacred rite, an ancient one, the divine choosing mortality for power.

So he goes, in the end, as a Fury.

Falling into a stance much like he has been assuming the whole while, just sharper, more precise, Darius leaps forward towards Michael like a bolt from the crossbow. He moves faster than seems possible and each of the initial blows, precisely aimed is measured to accompany all other attacks in that moment for maximum damage-either his own damage, or to steer Michael into the attacks of his comrades by forcing him to avoid the bite of the supernatural spear.

All around him a nimbus of silver haze surrounds the young godling. The air around Darius is alive with his power, and should he land a blow, each is accompanied by a reverberation of energy and conflicting power, all in combination with swift deflective motions of the root of his spear--deflecting attacks to either side by a sliver's width. His cloak billowing all stylishly behind him.

Thrusting his spear to the side, he seems to be using its nature to protect others nearby for as long as possible.

All semblance of the boy, distraught with his encounter in the Black Lodge, quipping and lost is there in that ghostly afterimage which accompanies and occasionally trails his every movement.

Undead Buffy isn't really able to casually fling Tachi asside, since he's just as strong, if not a little stronger than her, but when the real buffy reappears he can't help but breathe a little sigh of relief. Seeing that Angel has things under control now, well, it's time. All that's visible of Tachi are blurs and flashes of steel as he fights through whatever's left to get to Michael, but seeing as the wolves have that covered for now, he positions himself as backup, ready to strike if he can, ready to defend if he must, but he stays out of the others' way. Clearly, this is not his fight, he doesn't have any sort of godly or spiritual magic, or really much magic at all apart from his enchanted sword. He's just a swordsman. But what will that do against someone who can regenerate faster than he can cut, someone who can't be killed by any kind of physical attacks? Not much. So Tachi accepts his fate of not being useful right now, but he's still alert as he observes the battle. If he can become useful, he will.

When Derek returns, he climbs through the hole in the wall, a vast direwolf dense with muscle and lush fur. He bares his fangs and roars, the alpha roar vibrating with its formidable volume...and deeper, bolder, more resonant. The wolf's eyes are jet black, black like a well of india ink. The fangs are bared, and he starts at full gallop towards Michael, smashing through the defunct Mead golems and directing his great weight and momentum right at the figure of Michael -- because Larek is back.

Stiles staggers almost drunkenly to his feet, making it to the doorway just in time to watch all this unfold. Catching a sense of what's happening with Lance and Derek, he's flooded with relief. Larek--what he called the combination of Lance and Derek working together this way--means that Lance is, in some form at least, all right. And whatever happens next, whatever comes... Stiles has that relief to cling to. And for that, he's grateful.

Merek's healing brings Oz back and helps restore his energy, and he growls, charging right toward Michael similarly to Derek, throwing his whole body weight into the charge. Clearly, he's ready to end this.

Michael starts to move, and he's only putting himself in the center of the terrible impending impact. He looks around himself and screams, but there's not time for him to react more than that -- no time for him to manage a defense, to brush his foes away, to send out a telekinetic wave. His mind isn't moving as quickly as it was. His power is not what it was. And perhaps worst of all, he lost to time and to the unstoppable force embodied in Cordelia's spell.

His forces were decimated, stopped where they stood. His allies defeated or turned against him.

"It isn't easy, having an apocalypse," comes Myrtle's voice, from the doorway. "As far as you're concerned, we are *all* Supreme."

Angelus falls first after the Mead golems fall inert. His head separated from the body, Angelus' form just dissolves, strangely gently, into dust.

Michael spares a wild glare at Myrtle Snow, but he takes no heed and stands defiant before the onslaught, no matter how overwhelming it might be. But, no matter how defiant, nor how powerful he might be, he can't just shrug off the the kind power behind this onslaught. Multiple powerful werewolves, several of them alphas, one of them empowered by an ancient Old One of great power. Not one but two demigods, one empowered by the blessings of his mother and other goddesses, giving his last breath of life in an all-out attack, the other erupting into the full bloom of his own power for the first time, such that reality around him has shifted, calling the dead back to life. An army of slayers, now male as well as female, a vampire with a magic sword--in short, an utter whirlwind of absolute destruction.

He doesn't survive it. It's possible, just possible, that he might have been able to come back from it. Regeneration is, after all, something he's supremely capable of--but he never has the chance. For the moment, he's utterly obliterated. His army of golems is destroyed, and on the grounds... From the grounds the roars of the Great Beasts grow louder, as the enemy falters. The Mead golems have all fallen silent, and the abominations of the Outside grow weaker, becoming easy prey for the might of the beasts from Pangea. As the last of the Outsider-spawn are dispatched, the roars of the Great Beasts too fade slowly away.

The Outside is not defeated. It would take far more than even this for that. But it doesn't have to be, for this one shining moment of victory is all they need. The heroes have vanquished their foe, and though the world is torn and damaged beyond any easy fixing, there is one fact that changes it all.

*Tempus Infinituum*. The magic that unweaves time.

And so it does. As the last cries of gods and monsters fade, so does everything. All turns to pure, warm light, fading gently into oblivion.

\*         \*         \*

### Epilogue

January 1st, Morning; Present Day

Rowanwood

Everyone wakes up in bed on the morning (or evening, depending on their habits) of January 1st. They find themselves in the comfortable beds at Rowanwood, and for one ominous moment, one might almost fear hearing "The Heat of the Moment" by Asia or "I Got You Babe" by Sonny and Cher start to play on the radio--but there is no alarm clock radio in Rowanwood, and no such thing happens. The sun is shining outside (unless one has slept past dark), and they each find themselves in almost the exact situation as when they first woke up in Rowanwood--only this time, there is no food waiting for them on a tea tray, only a brief note:

> My dears,
>
>
> Thanks to your brave efforts, the worlds have been rejoined, and the dark
>
> future we were living in has not come to pass. Please stay and relax here
>
> for as long as you wish. I will keep rooms for you here, whenever you may
>
> want them. You will find breakfast in the Great Hall, and you will also
>
> find that the front gates now stand open. You may all return safely home,
>
> and you should find that the world, while changed, is not so very
>
> different than you remember.
>
>
> I am immensely thankful for all your help, and I hope we shall remain
>
> friends always.
>
>
> Gratefully,
>
>
> Nessa Du Valle
>
>
>