Oh, God it hurt.
Emotionally. Physically; cause, Oh God, how the pain rocked her body. How it spasmed her, coarsing strong and heated; the currents of manipulated energy that burned every vein she rightfully owned. It was hers, this limp body that she'd no control for. This limp body that was swelling under pressure, faltering after such a strong surge.
And even after all that physical pain; the zillions of pinpoints jabbing thoughtlessly, the suffacating crackling, there was another pain.
It was the pain of her friends. Xander and Willow and Giles. And yes, Spike.
Poor, sweet, love struck Spike. The poor poet was gone, possesed by a demon. But feeling that pain in that one second where she distinguished it from the others, she felt the swelling of something else. Love, maybe? Maybe she'd known it all along. She'd felt it under that gaze, in those words, in his stupid, sometimes thoughtless actions.
Poor, sweet William. Those hot - no, cold tears, the heavy sobs. The blood and the sweat and the death that this place was coated in never touched the level of his grief. He was far above them. He was above even Xanders' grief - the only other man who'd fallen and never left.
That poor puppy dog with the creased ears as she'd thought of him all throughout high school when he'd followed her, amired her, placed her on a pedestal; he was gone, and this was a man, holding his own woman in his arms, that grieved.
He was finally grown up. Finally loved, been loved, and witnessed death. Death of a friend. And he cried; fat, heavy, but manly tears. He didn't sob - no, he'd stay erect. He'd watch them when she was gone. Watch Dawn.
And there, yes, from some floating ether she could see her body - the pain, so far, was passed. And she saw the crumbling tower. Saw the skinny, bleeding brunette. The poor girl. Orphaned, wasn't she? Even when Joyce had died, they'd both had each other. Now, Buffy was dead. Her mother was dead. Their father- well, not very fatherly, really. Dawnie. Dawn. This green eyed, brown haired little girl Buffy had grown up with. Had held when her Mom had brought her home. Had cradled her,said she would protect her.
But that didn't really happen, did it? Just another fake memory shoved into her head my some Monk playing God with her life.
As if everyone already didn't.
Like the Council. There'd be a bit of commotion. They'll be searching for the next Chosen one. And what will they find? Some pimple-faced girl who didn't know the sharp end of a stake.
But hadn't she been that girl when Merrick had stopped her outside of Hemery High with talk of vampires and Watchers, Slayers and demons? Really, minus the pimples and add an air of poplarity, and she was just like the next. The Slayer before her had been called and Slain. She'd been called and slain. The next, too, would face the fate. To be called and slain. The never changing ways of a Slayer. A Slayer and Her Watcher, as it was, and would always be.
But perhaps the thumb of the Council was not wide as they thought; could not squash all they saw. They'd not crushed her, had they? Or Giles? That poor blundering fool. That sad old man who'd never really known a woman for himself. Duty had bound him, and he was a man of far distant times. Times that had passed as quickly as her life. A blurry, indistinctive life he'd led as the Councils fool. Their puppet. But he'd followed her, hadn't he, from under the callused thumb, the rotting flesh, the bile of the Council.
He'd follow her anywhere.
Anywhere but death.
Because Death was her gift...
The thought was a dead woman's words. A heavy, longing sigh. One that guided them to it.
To death.
To the cool ground to encompass them. To bury them in cool reprieve. Once death had passed, all was pale. All was, and all wasn't. It was like the silent murmers of a Witch's plea.
And what a wonderful one she'd be, Sweet Willow.
So inocent, young. Fresh and shiny, like a new car. She'd be so much better, so much stronger for all the hardship that was her life. Oh, Wills. Willows' life and the hardness that made it up had helped her through her calling to her death. Always there. Always smiling or frowning. Crying, laughing. Whatever the occasion, and oh, how'd she'd be for the better.
But to lay in the ground now that all pain had passed- and to be sure, it had, for no earthly ties bound her to emotions or pains. Memories would stay - they always do.
Real or not, how did it matter?
It was her life. Could she not live it? Could she not cherish it and hold it to a naked breast as she floated above in the ether, casting that faithfully watchful eye over friends and family? Over orphaned ones back home with no where to go? No Golden Godess to worship with loving words, no Icon to set upon her rightful pedestal, no Sister to watch after her, No Slayer to watch and protect, No Friend to comfort.
For they'd be comforted now.
They'd find solace and peace.
They'd move on.
For really, Death was her Gift.
Didn't they know that by now?
The End.