Spike came to in a loud crackle of lightning. Hurting all over (a no-brainer since Doc threw him off the tower), he struggled to rise. He knew what it meant (another no-brainer)—Buffy did not make it up there in time to stop Doc from starting the ritual. Dawn was bleeding—the blood had started flowing and the barriers between dimensions were coming down. The only way to stop the apocalypse now was to stop the blood flowing. To kill Dawn.

He cursed internally. It was all his fault. He had promised Buffy faithfully that he would protect Dawn. "Till the end of the world—even if that happens to be tonight" were his exact words. But he was not good enough. He had put himself between Doc and Dawn, but Doc was able to best him. Doc stabbed him deep with that big silver knife of his.

He would never forget the look on Dawn's face before he was thrown off the tower; never forget her anguished cry "Aahh! No!" like Buffy, she was counting on him to save her from Doc, from Glory, from the ritual. Unlike Buffy, or Giles, or Xander; Dawn had never felt any disgust for him, for what he was. Dawn had looked up to him with a sort of hero-worship (well, until she found out that he was in love with Buffy; but that was neither he nor there).

Buffy. Spike groaned internally. How could he face her now that he had failed her? Stupid question—he wouldn't have to; the ritual had started. The barriers were coming down; the apocalypse was at hand. Buffy was not going to het anyone kill Dawn—not even to save the world. It didn't matter that Dawn was the key and technically not her sister—to Buffy, Dawn was her sister. "She's more than that. She's me. The monks made her out of me. I hold her ... and I feel closer to her than ... It's not just the memories they built. It's physical. Dawn ... is a part of me." That was what Buffy said; that was why Spike had vowed to protect her. But now…

Then…the maelstrom stopped. The crackle of lightning stopped. The ritual had ended. The flow of blood stopped. Dawn had…Spike could not even bring himself to think it. To think what Buffy had to have done to avert the apocalypse. He knew that it would rend her to her very soul. What price would she have to pay for this?

Spike struggled to his feet, and limped over to where the Scooby gang had gathered. There was a solemn air about them: the English git, Giles was standing there like a stunned mullet; Xander was carrying Anya in his arms, she must have taken a hit during the maelstrom; Willow was supporting Tara, who was still weak after the ordeal she had been through. Then Spike saw it, what had totally grieved the others, and sunk to his knees, losing all strength.

Buffy was lying on a pile of rubble. He should have known she would find a way of ending the ritual without sacrificing Dawn. Should have realised…

Spike buried his head in his hands and sobbed, not caring who saw or what they thought. Heart rending sobs of pain and grief, a pain he had not felt since Dru sired him all those years ago. Not Buffy, she was still needed. Who will take her place now? Could anyone take her place?

There was still Dawn. Buffy had sacrificed her life to save that of her sister's. who was going to look after her now? He couldn't. well…he probably could, but he doubted that the Scooby gang would think it was appropriate. Giles would probably take her in now, or Willow and Tara. But there was one more thing he could do.

Late one night, Spike stood in front of a grave stone. He stood there in silence for a long while before speaking.

"I made you a promise, Buffy, and I intend to keep it. I haven't forgotten that you treated me like a man when I am a monster. I realise that this is partly my fault in that I wasn't able to protect Dawn and I will never be able to make up for that. But I promised you that I would protect Dawn until the end of the world. Well, since that hasn't happened yet, I guess I'm not off the hook."

Spike laughed. "I don't know what Giles and Xander will have to say to that, but I don't care! I made you a promise, and so help me I'm gonna keep it."

He stared at the headstone for a moment longer, reading the inscription, his mouth quirking when he got to the last line:

That she did, he thought, turning away. That she did.