[A/N: Buffy and all such characters from the show do not belong to me, they are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and FOX. I just borrow them to suit my strange literary whims. Also, I'd like to thank cleargreen for all her invaluable help with the dialogue. YAM!]

"Still Restless"

"You think you know. What's to come, what you are . . . you really have no idea.

--Tara, "Restless"

She was dreaming again.

Buffy Summers, slayer, sister, and Employee of the Month at the Doublemeat Palace shifted restlessly under the thin cotton sheets of her bed. Glimmering moonlight fell through the window to play across a face clouded with confusion, touched with anxiety.

There's something I should be doing.

She was in the desert. The sunlight burned hot and bright across her face, and she raised a hand to shield her eyes, squinting. Buffy gazed across the desolate landscape, blue-green eyes narrowed to slits, picking out gnarled, stunted trees and expanses of glittering white sand. Bits of shadows, scraps of darkness clung to the trees, rested in the hollows of the dunes.

I wish she would hurry up. I -- I'm late for something . . .

There. A speck of shade moving across the desert waste, seeming to dance in the shimmering heat that seared the air as it escaped the sand.

I need to know.

And suddenly, Buffy was face to face with her. The first Slayer. Or, more accurately, a spirit guide in her form. Tatters of cloth clung to her dark skin, cracked white paint shaping her face into a something like a skull.

"Hi."

Silence.

"I know you're not much for the talking. And that's fine, I haven't been either, lately."

(The words are starting to tumble out now, falling from her lips in a stream, and she's reminded of a fairy tale her mother used to read her. The one about the girl whose words became diamonds, pearls and rubies whenever she said anything. But when her wicked sisters spoke, and their words became thorns, reptiles. She had always thought that either would make conversation difficult.)

"See, the thing is, I haven't been much for, well, anything lately. The last time I talked to you, I felt myself freezing-- ice of the "One girl in all the world" type choking love out of me. My ability to love.

And then, you told me death was my gift. And for one crystal-clear moment, it was.

But it couldn't have been enough. Because-- I'm still here. Still on this earth, in this world, where colors and lights are so harsh they can make you bleed and everything is flat. And heavy. Harder to bear with every day that passes.

And I need to know . . ."

An inarticulate pause. She summons her will, and lets the words fall from her lips again.

I don't know if they are diamonds or thorns anymore.

"What is my gift now? Where is my reason for living? These past few months I've been searching, but I haven't found any answers. I think I'm here in the desert with you because I need to know; I'm here because I have to go on with this life in a world that grew up while I was gone. And, I. . . I don't know how."

Very slowly, the spirit guide, clothed in the first Slayer, did something very unusual. She smiled.

Then she leaned closer to Buffy, and whispered in her ear, her voice low, melodious, and knowing.

"You already know what your Gift is. Like so many others in your world of harsh colors, blood, and struggle, you're afraid of it. During your time in Death, you have almost forgotten how.

Your Gift is Life, Buffy."

And with that revelation, the desert began to fade, melting away to wherever dreams, illusions and truth go once discovered. The last thing Buffy would remember was the spirit guide, still in the guise of the first Slayer, standing alone in the desert, the sky beyond her stained vibrant red as the broiling sun sank beneath the hills. And in the ensuing twilight, the first stars slowly, gently awakening.

It's all so beautiful.

She opened her eyes.