Had it truly been so long? How could ten years pass within what felt to be no more than a single heartbeat? It seemed as if just yesterday she had been a child, a 17-year-old girl trembling on the edge of adulthood.
In those timeless yesterdays, her future had seemed limitless and bright, once the teenage angsts were brushed aside. She was going to take computer programming into realms beyond Bill Gate's wildest dreams. She was going to make her millions before her 25th birthday, and retire by age 35.
She was going to see the world. She was going to marry a handsome man, and have three beautiful children. But, most of all, she was going to be surrounded by the love of her friends.
But yesterday had crumbled into dust within the space of a moment. In the seconds that it took for the Anointed One's henchmen to grab her, her future had ceased in its entirety.
So, now, ten years later, at age 27, she had none of the things she had so wanted at age 17. The irony of it all truly didn't surprise her. Life in the sun had been eclipsed into unlife in the dark. She did not have her handsome husband, or beautiful children. Bill Gate's would never tremble at her name, and she would never retire, since she never would be able to work.
And she was standing above the grave of her dearest, most beloved friend. A friend she had never had the opportunity to say good-bye too. "I'm sorry." She found herself whispering, all the same. "I never meant for you to be parted from him for so long."
Had their separation caused Buffy's death? Had Angel's departure from Buffy's life been the catalyst that cut Buffy's life so short? True, the Slayer had outlived all previous Slayer's, but why had it ended now? Why, just as Buffy was beginning to truly live her life?
"I tried to tell him to go back." She told Buffy's headstone. "I did need him, originally, but I told him years ago to come back to you. I should have made him, and for that, I am sorry."
Truly, the mental image of her making Angel do anything made her smile, but the smile never touched her eyes. Gently, she bent down and dropped three perfect white roses on Buffy's grave. "I missed you." She whispered softly, feeling the tears running down her cheeks. "I couldn't let you see me like this, but I did miss you."
Did these confessions matter now? Softly, pale fingers reached out to trace the etched name in the newly set stone. Buffy Summers, Hope in the Darkness. How very true. Would the new slayer rise to match or surpass Buffy in accomplishments? It was hard to say. The girl was terribly young. Scarcely 12 years old and handed over a virtual death-sentence.
The child deserved a chance to live, the chance Buffy hadn't been given. Buffy had been extremely fortunate. Unlike previous generations of Slayers, Buffy hadn't been alone. Her friend's had supported her, rallied around her, encouraged her, and made her feel like a normal girl.
Claire Wellesley deserved the same. "I'll make sure she get's it, Buffy." Willow Rosenberg promised. "She'll get every opportunity you had, and then the ones that you didn't. I'll do whatever it takes, because I know you would for her, too."
There was no response, but really, Willow hadn't expected one. In this town, and in this graveyard, silence wasn't peace. It was the calm before the storm. Willow couldn't begin to guess at the percentages of graves that lay empty. The resting-places of bodies that were not at rest, or who had been destroyed by the Slayer probably outnumbered the actual occupied graves two-to-one.
Giles would know, she mused, glancing around the darkened burial ground without fear. Some of the ornate markers were old, predating the earthquake that had rocked Sunnydale a century before. Others, like Buffy's, were painfully new.
Why people stayed in Sunnydale, and had their children here, escaped Willow's understanding. The death rate for this town was incredible. The birth rate wasn't nearly as high - unless you included vampiric births into the figure.
Willow's gaze drifted back to Buffy's grave. "Sorry." She murmured. "If you heard what I was thinking, you'd think it was tactless. It was." In her mind, she knew that in all likelihood, Buffy agreed with Willow on the absurdity of life in Sunnydale. The Slayer had spent so many nights fighting to keep people alive, painfully aware that she couldn't save them all.
"At least, you can sleep now." Willow murmured, stepping back from the grave slightly. Her flowers weren't the only ones adorning the fresh dirt. There were numerous bouquets from the people whose lives had crossed with Buffy's. Some even had tags in them. Enemies and allies both had sent in their statements of sorrow. "I wish you could see this." Willow snorted, sighting Snyder's floral donation.
"She will, ducks. Soon enough." The British voice made Willow jump mostly in surprise that she hadn't felt anyone approach. Turning with a fluid grace, Willow's eyes narrowed at the blond man approaching her. He was not human.
The stake that slid into her hand was well worn. It was the same stake she'd nearly used on herself, a decade before. "And you are?"
The man stopped a good four feet away from her, looking down at Buffy's grave quickly. The sorrow that slid easily across his features vanished before his eyes met Willow's. "Me? I'm Spike, but yer can call me Death." His face morphed swiftly. "Consider it a favor, pets. 'Cause something ugly is gonna be happening round about here tonight."
Willow rolled her eyes, easily sidestepping his attack. He fell face first on Buffy's grave, crushing flowers. "How kind." She murmured drily. "I'm touched, really."
Spike turned slickly, and snarled. "Look, ye bloody git. Ya can't go off an' do stuff like that. Be a good girl, and stand still." He stood, quickly looking down at the grave beneath his feet as if feeling for something. "Must get a move on. Night's not likely to last forever."
Willow smiled. "Oh, I wouldn't say that." She pointed at a spot behind Spike. "It'll be short for her, but terrifically long for me. It's your choice as to what it'll be for you."
Spike's game face fell. "Her?"
And the grave erupted with a newborn fledgling in Buffy's body snarling hungrily. The impact of the eruption tossed Spike into a heavy bowed maple tree.
"Aw, bloody hell." Spike rubbed at his knee, annoyed at the tear in the leather pants. "I jist got these, too." He frowned sternly at the young vampire. "Bad girl. I'm gonna have to do ya now."
The fledgling apparently didn't care. It was mesmerized by the apparent meal standing in front of her. "Willow." The voice sounded like a ferocious version of Buffy's, and the memories used to identify the meal was definitely Buffy's, but the spirit in the eyes was no part of the Slayer. "How nice to see you!"
"For dinner, she means." Spike advised candidly. "You should've taken my offer."
Sighing would have been pointless, but Willow considered it all the same. "Leave?" She asked Spike hopefully. Emotionally, it would be hard enough to stake Buffy, but she really hadn't intended to take on the legions of the undead tonight. She had limited her nocturnal activities for this night to slaying only the undead occupying Buffy's body.
Spike grinned, shaking his head. "No can do, pet."
"Fine." Willow lifted the stake tucked discretely in her hand for her audience's general viewing pleasure. It had the desired effect. Buffy lunged.
The biggest problem with the fact that Buffy had been remade as a vampire was that her incredible strength didn't disappear with her spirit. Vampires were unnaturally strong by nature, but a vampire's strength combined with a Slayer's was something to fear.
Unlike how she had taunted Spike, dodging aside, Willow had to face Buffy. Spike hadn't anticipated Willow, but Buffy had been a huntress beyond what Spike's predator instincts could imagine. The former Slayer would not fall easily.
Buffy's fingers lashed out, narrowly missing Willow's cheek. The redheaded girl pulled away with scant seconds, following through with her evasion by rounding behind the vampire and latching onto Buffy's long, dirty blond hair. A quick roll of her wrist, and she had that hair knotted securely in her fist. She pulled back hard, yanking Buffy's head backwards and exposing the pale throat. The faint black marks of Buffy's cause of death were still visible, testimony to the fledglings need for the first kill.
"I'm sorry." Willow murmured, ignoring the furious snarls and kicks of the fledgling. With a smooth motion, she jerked her wrist, but used her body to secure Buffy's. The crack was audible as she broke the fledgling's neck.
The body slid limply to the ground, the spine needing time to regenerate before the vampire could attack again. It was seconds Buffy didn't have. The stake slid smoothly into her undead heart.
"Brava!" Spike cheered, sitting upon a tombstone much like a spectator in the Roman forum. He catcalled and whistled as the Slayer's corpse slid to dust.
Willow was not amused. Her head whipped around, lips curling back from her lips as she hissed. "Shuddup."
Spike fell off his seat. "Bloody Hell!" The shock on his face was beautiful to behold. "You're a- a-- what are you?" He took in the slender, almost elegant canine's, and the unholy bright eyes.
Willow smiled. It was a chilling expression in her present condition. "To borrow phrase, you can call me Death."
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