DISCLAIMER: I don't own them.
AUTHOR'S NOTES (1): This is dark in places and involves major character death.
AUTHOR'S NOTES (2): Thoughts are in italics. Lyrics and translations are traditional.
AUTHOR'S NOTES (3):  The original R/NC-17 version is available on my website Yseult's Passion (http://yseultspassion.com).

Buffy cursed. Damn it, Snyder. It was her last thought as she slipped on the recently waxed floor. Her head caught the outside edge of an open classroom door and her vision blurred. That's when she saw the greyish green skin of the now-demon Mayor heading straight for her.

She opened her eyes. Maybe. Maybe my eyes are closed. She blinked. Nope, definitely open. So why's it so dark? And quiet? Oh, crap. I'm dead or… undead. She panicked. Her heart raced. She gulped large dusty breaths of air. Air. Hey. I can breathe. She took another breath. Great Slayer instincts here. Can't even figure out if I'm dead or alive. She sat up and felt a lump above her left ear. She couldn't feel any wetness, but her fingers found a long jagged crust of blood. I hope bald patches are in this year.

Buffy rolled onto her hands and knees and pushed herself into a standing position. She waited for the dizziness to disappear. It lessened, but it didn't go away. This is so not good. She rubbed her sticky hands on her pants. And what is that smell? She began to sway. Uh-oh. Going down? She leaned to her right and collided with a metallic surface that made a terrible echoing sound in her head. She was by the lockers. Geez. I'm never gonna get out of high school.

Using the lockers as a guide and crutch, Buffy limped down the corridor. She hurt everywhere. Somehow she reached a corner and stopped. Which way now? She didn't know where she was. Right? Left? She squinted in both directions. One hallway seemed lighter than the other. We'll take door number one.

A determined Slayer turned the corner, tripped over something, and sprawled on the floor. Great. Now I gotta get up again. She tried to stand and felt nauseous. Her hand brushed the something. It was soft and long; it felt like a sleeve on an arm. It stank of human blood. Please don't let this be someone I know. She tried to find a pulse. The body had no hands. She didn't want to find out if its head was gone too.

Buffy's hand slipped into a hole in the chest. Startled, she pulled her hand out and wiped it on the … jacket? Wait. The material felt familiar. She rubbed it between her fingers and leaned closer to smell it. Tweed. She froze. Giles? She couldn't breathe. It can't be Giles. He's supposed to be outside pushing the plunger thingy. She ran her hand along the jacket's lapel to the collar. The head was still attached. Gingerly, her fingers explored the face and wrapped around a pair of "Watcher glasses". Cordelia had christened the glasses during one of her Watcher fashion tirades. The glasses were purely functional, hopelessly dated, and totally Giles. Buffy cupped his face with her hand. It was so cold. She wrapped her arms around his body and laid her head on his chest. "Giles," she whispered, "how did this happen?"

Buffy's mind shut down as she sat with her Watcher. She couldn't grasp that he was gone. It wasn't like the last time with Merrick. Giles had been her parent and friend. He had stood beside her through the whole mess with Angel and Faith. He had loved her like a daughter. Now he was dead. Giles was dead. Giles was dead. At some point, her brain started to work again. She needed to get out of the building and find the others. Before she left Giles, she smoothed his hair and kissed his forehead. Then she carefully removed his glasses and slipped them in her pocket.

She crawled outside through a hole in a wall. She was in the school's courtyard where Graduation had been held earlier. The air was clear, but the sky was dark and a steady black drizzle fell. Buffy looked around. She had once seen a film about a volcano in the Philippines. She still remembered how barren the land had looked. Everything had been bathed in ash or was charred: the buildings, the vegetation, even the people. That's what she saw now - monochromatic devastation. Buffy wandered aimlessly. There were parts of students and teachers scattered like confetti. She looked back at the school. It was a gigantic fireball. Now what? Earlier, in the library, they had all agreed to meet at The Bronze if they survived. All except Angel, who's not even gonna tell me… Never mind. Not going there.

Buffy's head ached and her eyes burned. Her hands were torn and bloodied. She was thirsty, dirty, and tired. She couldn't decide what to do. Maybe she should look for Xander and Willow. The last time she'd seen Xander, he was leading the charge against the Mayor's minions. She hadn't even hugged Willow. She hoped Willow was with Oz. She didn't even want to think about her mother. Mom, why did you come back? Why couldn't you just've trusted me on this? Buffy took a deep breath. Her mom had been sitting with the other proud parents. When the Mayor ascended, the parents had fled towards the school and into a group of vampires.

Something moved to her left. Vampires or demons. Either way, she was in no condition to fight. Guess that means run and hide. She searched the ground for a makeshift stake in case her strategy backfired.

It took Buffy nearly two hours to reach The Bronze. Sunnydale looked like a war zone. Fire swept unchecked through offices, stores, and homes. Cars had been abandoned wherever their drivers were killed. Most of the roads were impassable; they were rippled with deep fissures and sinkholes. Buffy hadn't seen any emergency personnel – no firemen, no police, no ambulances. In fact, she hadn't seen anyone.

What had Anya said? Oh, right. Maybe three people made it out of that town. Glass crackled and broke under Buffy's feet as she approached The Bronze. Somewhere a car alarm screamed and gas pipes exploded. A fire blazed in front of the popular hangout. Four humans were huddled around it. Each of them had the same dazed and haunted look.

 "Hi," Buffy croaked as she approached the wary group. Everyone stared at her. A man silently offered her a cup of tepid brown liquid. She thanked him, and searched the faces in front of her. She didn't recognize any of these people. A woman gazed into the fire and began to sing.

I wish I were on yonder hill
Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill
And every tear would turn a mill
Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan

Siuil, siuil, siuil a ruin
Siuil go sochari agus siuil go ciuin
Siuil go doras agus ealaigh liom
Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan

Buffy recognized the tune. Angel had taken her to a coffeehouse on St. Patrick's Day. An Irish group was singing what Angel called "traditional music", whatever that was. Buffy had fidgeted with her drink, bored with the music, until Angel's hand had rested on her arm. "This is an old song," he'd whispered into her ear as he pulled her onto his lap and translated the words. "Go, go, go my love / Go quietly and peacefully / Go to the door and flee with me / And may you go safely my dear." For the rest of the evening, she had sat mesmerized by his voice and the incredibly poetic and tragic music of his homeland.

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain
I wish I had my heart again
And then methink I'd ne'er complain
Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan

She jerked awake when someone jostled her. She'd literally fallen asleep on her feet. Buffy looked around. She didn't know what time it was, but she knew no one else was coming. Not Willow or Xander or Oz or Cordelia, or, God help her, not even Wesley. Not Angel either. She was completely alone.

Think, Buffy, think. You need to get of town. You need food, water, weapons. She didn't have the strength to go home. Her mother wouldn't be there, and she just couldn't deal with that right now. Crawford Street was closer. She had left some weapons there yesterday. Was it only yesterday that she had stabbed Faith?

She looked at the other survivors. They looked at her. There was nothing to say, so she just left.