Disclaimer: I have no legal rights to 'The Vampire Slayer' series, as it is the recognizable brain-childe of Joss Whedon.
Author's Note: Upon request I will expand one of the five and lead Willow to a new way of life (will accept cross-over prompts with a continuation, should you wish). Warning: this fic is un-beta'd for viewing concusion. 500 words.
The first time was pretty obvious. Premature, underweight, and born with a cord around her neck. The doctor's hailed it a miracle, but those are truly far and few between on the Hellmouth.
The second time, like the first, took place inside a Hellmouth'd hospital. It was supposed to be simple, a spell to save a friend and a desperate stopgap measure to advert a new era of darkness. Like miracles, 'simple' hardly ever fit her life. When the Old One took possession of her body, it took her life as well. Angel didn't have only his soul now.
Then came the walking vision of what her life could have been, should the Slayer never win against the Master. A mirror image brought though the gateway between dimensions with an ornate choker and a dangling bobble dripping down pail flesh. Willow now carries her own mark, claimed as a childe's childe and an awkward recipient of master's blood forever burning her veins. When her skin remained warm, and her heart insistently beat once more, shards of a pretty jewel not of her world shattered. It would not be the last time her reflection was dark, but she would never again see her half-sire's childe.
The fourth time she died saw her clinging to a ceiling. It was her first taste of Evermore. Oh, how wonderful the feeling of earth moving. How it steadily twisted in the black. How warm and strong the connection to every living thing. She didn't want the pain though, no, can't have that. Take that back, but give her more. Ecstasy as her senses narrowed and filtered all but one until her brain fried and her body seized. Ether currents kept her body warm, pliable, and when she came back the world was bright (so very bright) and full of color human eyes were never meant to understand. It was wrong though (so very wrong) and she had no control.
Her next death has a dramatic flair, one befitting the warring-White-Hat she now was. The shrapnel that pierced her heart was messy, but the killing blow came from one of several bone blades. Nothing could be done though, and in the chaos, her body was tossed aside. One more casualty in an increasingly grim foreign apocalypse. When the day was won and after the injured were seen to, the dead were taken for last respects. They would have buried her a hero had she not been cruelty spat back into existence. This time the doctors crossed themselves and it was with hushed accusations she walked out into starlight. It made her smile though, a strange sight to be sure in her stolen purple scrubs and bare feet leaving a trail of brown weeds. Yes it made her smile. Cursed. It was, after all, a better fit.