"For there a fatal image grows
That a stormy night receives...."
The weather was beautiful. The sky was unclouded, unmarred on the clear autumn evening. A light breeze played through the branches of the trees, tugging loose a bright leaf here and there, sending it spiraling to the ground.
Rupert Giles stood at his back door, watching her. Even when practising, she fought with the preternatural grace of a Slayer. Lately, her fighting style had changed. She no longer fought with passion and fire, but with a cold, lethal skill, an icy hatred that chilled the Watcher.
"Buffy," he called, "don't you think you've done enough today?"
"No," came the flat reply. She continued to throw kicks and punches at the specially rigged mannequin set up in the backyard. Giles was grateful for the high fences that concealed the scene; it would have impossible to explain why a teenage girl was attacking a dummy as if it had destroyed her life, her future. He stepped back into the kitchen.
Her hair was bleached almost white with her hours in the sun, fighting, practising, honing her body and mind; her skin was smooth and dark. Her eyes.... He shivered.
"I think Buffy's having trouble adjusting, after all," Joyce Summers had confided in him during a worried telephone call. "Especially after...." Her voice had trailed off, stopping short before saying the name.
"Yes," he echoed, "especially after." He knew he hadn't been able to reassure Joyce, any more than he had been able to reassure Buffy.
The Rosenbergs had moved to Orange County. Buffy had not gone to say goodbye, when Giles and Xander had gone. It had been an awkward situation, inexpressibly painful, but Xander had seemed more at peace, somehow. Giles' heavy burden of guilt had not lessened at all; but he was relieved to see that Xander might make it through. But Buffy....
Three months. "Time heals all wounds," people said. But time can't work miracles, Giles knew, and some wounds are there forever.
"I'm outta here," Buffy announced, sticking her head through the door. "Later, Giles."
"It's almost dark," he said.
"I kinda noticed that when it was getting hard to see." *Lame, Summers.*
"Why don't you let me drive you home?"
"No, I'm-- I need the exercise. Thanks." She waved as she left.
* * *
"Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile
Lift up before us, when we pass...."
"Mom, I'm home,"she called.
"Hello, sweetie. Dinner's about ready."
"Okay-- I'll be right there." Buffy bounded up the stairs, showered, changed, and was down again in twenty minutes. She did everything quickly, now. When she was active, she had less time to think, she found.
Dinner was fairly placid. Joyce kept the conversation light, telling Buffy that Xander had called, "He said to remind you to meet him to study at the library tomorrow after class," that the gallery was going to put on an exhibition of local students' work, that "Cordelia called, too-- such a nice girl."
"Yeah, she's great," Buffy said sincerely. Cordelia *had* changed. They all had.
"Let's see-- oh-- you've got a package. I put it on your desk."
"Really? Thanks, Mom." Who could it-- Her breath caught. "Is it from overseas?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
"No, dear-- you're expecting something?" Joyce asked.
"No. Nothing," she said dully.
She helped clean up, then retreated upstairs again. The package sat on her desk. It was small, roughly the size of a soap dish. Buffy frowned; it had a Sunnydale postmark. *Who... Xander, maybe, trying to cheer me up?* She opened it.
A long, narrow, braided cord lay in it, neatly coiled, each end secured by a small golden cap. Buffy lifted it out. It was an odd colour-- a sort of reddish-brown, an oddly familiar shade--
--admit it, angel pushes your buttons
--you're having an expression
--it could be anyone. it could be me
--it could be me
She didn't scream . She hadn't thought she'd moved at all, but she found herself on the opposite side of the room, heart beating as if she'd just fought-- and lost-- a battle for her life. The slim braid of hair lay where she had dropped it. It took several long minutes before she managed to get herself under control. Something caught her eye as she moved warily back toward her desk: a small, pewter-coloured rectangle of paper lay in the bottom of the box. She picked it up, turned it over, and read:
"Your friend was so very, very sweet."
* * *
"For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold...."
One quick move, and he was dust. She was a good Slayer. If she hadn't been on vacation, could she have saved her friend? Would she have had to-- looking at the pile of ashes that had been a vampire seconds before, looking at the spare stake in her hand, she cut the thought off.
She moved away, hoping for a new target, but all the longfangs seemed to be taking a powder. In her head, it was Doctor Seuss from Hell. *Could you, would you, with a stake? Could you, would you her life take?* An image flashed in her mind:
--a red-haired girl, eyes burning with hunger, charging--
--a stake intercepting her rush--
--ashes to ashes to ashes to ashes--
The streets were empty; not surprising, as it was nearly two in the morning. Buffy didn't sleep much anymore. *Maybe with a cross of wood-- Would you, if you knew you should?* When she did sleep, it was the same old nightmares. Not even ones that predicted trouble. Just nightmares. Guilt-inspired, she knew. Knowing it didn't help. Well, if she couldn't sleep, she could hunt.
She hesitated outside the Harris house. All the lights were out. She wondered if Xander was asleep. *The crossbow's an effective tool-- Even the Bronze, or school!* Probably. Maybe. They talked about the future, now. Not about the past. Never about the past.
So what if the vampires *hadn't* killed her? They'd done something worse. Willow was gone. Angel was gone. *Would you, could you, if you'd know? Does it matter? You're alone.*
Buffy moved on.
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