Summary: Humanity has fought a secret war against the forces of darkness since the beginning of time. A Council of men (and then women) vowed to watch over and protect the Earth for as long as demonkind existed alongside humanity. Much has changed and yet so little has; Earth has advanced so rapidly within the last few thousand years that it is now almost unrecognizable but there is still much to learn, for the people of Earth are still so young in comparison to the other races (or so it is believed). Medicine and Science are the new religion—but bigotry, prejudice and fear of the unknown still remain in the hearts of men.
"Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired, signifies in the final sense a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed."
-Dwight D. Eisenhower
War and Peace
-happy endings don't come easy
Chapter Summary: Happy endings were never meant to be a part of their destiny, but they refused to let Fate determine their every choice; they chose to carve out their own happiness and though the cost was great—blood and pan and the end of the world—never would they regret a moment of the time they were given with their loved ones. They were Champions and Warriors and Guardians, and they knew the War would go on, far, far into the future and that Humanity would only ever be able to move on in bits and pieces—never time enough to truly progress beyond conflict and pettiness, so long as the Darkness had such a stranglehold—and so they rebelled. They would not resign their successors to an endless and futile War. They would rise from the ashes of the Final Battle to come or they would be cast unto Hell for all of time...but this time, the choice was theirs—and that was worth all the sacrifice in the world.
After the Fall of Sunnydale (or Sunnyhell, as the residents-in-the-know lovingly referred to it as), change was a storm that swept through the world—felt and heard only by those with the talent—natural or learned, the knowledge of the mystical, or the courage to face it—and left its mark for generations to come.
With the Awakening of potentials across the world and the defeat of the First (hopefully forever but their common sense told them It was just waiting for the next Apocalypse to come along and try again), the scales had been tipped firmly toward the side of Good. No one was sure how long the peace would last, but everyone—the three original Scoobies and their mentor, and the newly-Awakened Slayers who had fought with them in the Mouth of Hell—all agreed that they'd earned a nice, long rest. The only question was whether they'd be allowed even that; Fate's never been particularly kind to them in all these years…why start now?
But they had hope and with that hope, believed in the future that they had forged with the blood and tears of their Fallen—to not even try was to dishonor the sacrifices that were made and all the lives that were lost in their name.
"Buffy? What do we do now?"
"…anything."
It wasn't until they'd had some time to finally relax after the year-long siege (for the Potentials who had been hunted down by the Bringers), used the chance to have some long and painful heart-to-heart (for the Scoobies) and could take a good look at their resources (Giles), that they realized that the world they had set out to protect was not the same as the one they had returned to.
Demons were suddenly very hard to find and the ones that they did find were all weak and easily dealt with. Or were the kinds of demons who had always gotten along well with humans, even to the point of mating with them or had never interfered in human affairs, having no interest in them.
And the magic…by the Gods, the magic…
If it wasn't long-dormant sites of magic (like Stonehenge and Fairy Rings) becoming active again, one's own magic was fluctuating wildly, as if it did not recognize the wielder—which was particularly aggravating to many people, as it was their own magic (mostly) that fought against them. Even Willow, one of the most powerful witches they knew, was having trouble with simple cosmetic spells!
"Xander, look out!"
"Aaaaahh, hot! Willow! How many times do I have to tell you that the Xan-man and magic are un-mixy things?"
"Sorry, sorry!"
"Gah! Is that a tail? Willow, did you give me a tail?"
"Someone get that fire out! Dawn, do something about that moving blue…thing. Xander! You just stay there."
When Giles reached out to the greater Magical Community, it was to find that everyone—whether they practiced "Light" or "Dark" magic, whether they worshipped "Chaos" or "Love", human or demon—were having the same kind of trouble.
But it wasn't until he'd gotten in contact with the Oracles and Seers, Soothsayers and Fortune Tellers—anyone who were connected to the Old Gods or the Powers that Be—that Giles understood what was going on; with the Awakening and the First's defeat, Good had won, yes, but already the forces of Darkness were massing for the next big battle to balance the scales once again, as Fate decreed.
And the first step was in crippling everyone for the time being, to let both sides of the Eternal War rest, to ready themselves for the next round. Then they would fight, and this time, Darkness would win, for Good had gained too big an advantage. And the War would continue with both sides, once again neither winning nor losing for long, but struggling—always struggling—for dominance.
"The fuck, G-Man! They're screwing us over after we SAVED THE FUCKING WORLD?"
"ANOTHER BATTLE, ANOTHER ONE? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I WAS GOING TO MILAN, TO PARIS AND NOW, NOW? I— "
"Now, now, Faith—you too, Buffy—and—everyone else—let's all just calm down and—"
"CALM DOWN? CALM DOWN? I WON'T CALM THE FUCK DOWN TILL I HAVE MY HANDS WRAPPED AROUND THEIR NECKS!"
"Get in line, sister; you're not the only one who wants a little one-on-one with the PTB."
"Yeah, Buffy, they screwed us all over."
As can be expected, no one was very happy about this revelation. But this time, however, this time—they weren't willing to let the Power That Be control their fates anymore. So when the Council— Buffy, Faith, Willow, Xander, and Giles—convened and consulted with the rest of their group, and everyone agreed that something had to be done…well, there weren't that as much protest against the idea of contacting the other side and seeing if they were interested in doing something about it, too, at the least. It was a surprise to all when the answer was a resounding, "YES!"
It seems Evil didn't much care for this endless war either.
Or at least, the ones who were doing the actual fighting and dying, anyway. None of the Senior Partners were down here on Earth fighting against the forces of Good, were they? Oh sure, they sent troops and instructed, but they never got blood on their hands…unless it was to personally take the life of someone so spectacularly incompetent or betrayed them so deeply that they made a point to get involved themselves. But otherwise? They were left to fend for themselves and if they happened to fall by the hand of the Slayer, so be it.
They were moved around like pawns by the Higher (and Lower) Powers—and the bitter fact was that they were pawns, they just didn't like admitting it because that was too much like actually giving permission to being used as cannon fodder—and they were tired of paying the price for the War their Masters were waging.
So after weeks of tentative back-and-forth, questioning each other's motives and testing whether they were serious or not, communicating through messengers, they finally decided to meet.
There was some friction but they got through it—and just in time—because the very moment they stepped into that Circle and put that barrier up, the Powers That Be and the Senior Partners found them, and they were not happy with what their Champions (and Successor, in the case of Eve) were doing.
No, they weren't happy at all.
After the ceremony was done, they went their separate ways—but not before the written agreement was cut in half and each piece given to both sides—and they readied themselves for the task ahead. Facilities had to be moved or handed over to their chosen successors; resources, especially financial resources, had to be signed away; and people had to be told.
That was probably the hardest part of it all because, despite the agreement between them and the promises carved onto their very bones, if the people they needed, their allies, opposed it or refused to go along, then the whole thing was doomed to fail. More importantly, the magic they used would devour them whole—mind, body and soul—should the promise be left unfulfilled and it would be neither painless nor quick.
Giles and Angel went around to all the friendly demons they knew and told them what was going on, if they hadn't heard already, cementing alliances and brokering new ones, doing everything they could to get as many allies as possible before the deadline, and doing their best to get the Clan Elders to agree to join them in sleep.
More Clans joined them than they'd thought would, considering the bloody history between the Slayers and Demonkind but still far less than they would have liked. Still, they'd done their best and gained the alliance of twenty-two Clans, skilled warriors and knowledgeable scholars both, plus the responsibility of protecting twelve weaker but valuable Clans, nonetheless; for these Clans had long integrated into human society and had many half-breed children or descendants among their numbers already, and their cooperation would be necessary to ensure that their history and legacy would be remembered.
Soon enough, their story would become myth and the ones who succeed them may not be ready for War when the time comes if it is believed that their story is only a story, and not the testament of entire generations of people who had sacrificed themselves for "the greater good"; therefore, to make sure that they are ready, having long-lived members to pass on the knowledge would be a great asset.
There were more mundane tasks to take care of as well, such as writing or updating one's wills; turning in letters of resignation for those who had managed to obtain and maintain a day job; preparing one's family for their inevitable disappearance and making up some plausible story (if you had a family, that is—if not, well—no need then); and some acts of charity as their posthumous gift to the world. Most importantly, there were goodbyes to see to.
Buffy and Dawn visited their mother's grave—or what had once been her grave and now lay in the ruins of Sunnydale somewhere—and said goodbye. They stood on the edge of sunken town and tossed Joyce's favorite flowers into it. Neither was very religious for various reasons but their mother had been a faithful all her life, so they took the time to recite some of her favorite passages. They hoped that wherever she was, she would understand why they were doing this and the sacrifice they were about to make on behalf of humanity.
"…he will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain any more, for the former things have passed away..." *
When they bowed their head in honour of her memory, they thought they felt her lips upon their brow—as if she was kissing them goodbye—and though they may have simply imagined it in their remembered grief, still, that ghostly touch was all the assurance they needed.
Her love for them was eternal, as was her pride.
Xander and Andrew, too, visited the ruins to honour the dead and to grieve one last time before they would have to go their separate ways—one to be sealed within the Earth and the other to help lead the newfound Council—and conducted their own funeral rites, as they were unable to before.
They wished they had time for the complete ritual but with the way things were, they barely had time to spare for even these brief moments.
Andrew stepped forward and spoke with a strength he would not have found in himself just weeks ago, fists shaking so he clenched them and stared ahead into the bleak landscape, knowing that his grief would be reflected in the eyes of the man beside him.
He knew well how living could hurt so much more; to bear the guilt of living where others died, asking, "why me? What did I do to deserve to live?", wishing that he had died instead. He would always remember that he lived only because he was either found unworthy of even been killed, dismissed for being useless (though that was not entirely true) or despised for being a coward who could even kill his own best friend. So long as he lived, he would know of all the evil he had done and that he could never repay the people he had hurt or the damage he had caused, but he would do his best to live in honour of the memory for those who had died in his place. He could do that one thing at least, no matter how much easier it would be to return to his old ways and not care at all about the consequences of his actions...if he could not erase the mistakes of his past, he would do so much good that it would overshadow them...this was the promise he had made in the aftermath of that last bloody battle.
So he stood strong, unbending in the faces of the ghosts who haunted him always, and said the ritual words:
"Did you know it was time to fly?
I didn´t want to say Goodbye.
We all know this is not the End,
Farewell for now, my dear, dear, Friend." *
Xander answered dutifully, even as his heart tore itself in two all over again; all those violent and intense emotions he had experienced during and after the battle—knowing what he had lost and realizing that he still had so much more to lose—were too much and would have distracted him with the promise of vengeance, so he had locked them away until he had the time and space to deal with them on his own.
"Do not weep for me for I have not gone.
I am the wind that shakes the mighty Oak.
I am the gentle rain that falls upon your face.
I am the spring flower that pushes through the dark earth.
I am the chuckling laughter of the mountain stream.
Do not weep for me for I have not gone."
A low murmur reached his ears from somewhere behind him and he shuddered. He stared straight ahead and didn't dare look back, fearing that like always, when he looked back over his shoulder, thinking that he had felt her hand—only to realize that it was nothing but an illusion; an echo of her words or touch, called to form by the strength of his yearning and his memories alone—that he would collapse under the weight of his grief and never stand again. In those moments, he had always feared he would take his own life—had come close even—just to take the chance that he might meet her in the afterlife, wherever that may be, but he had a responsibility he could never turn his back on and which had always called him back.
To his girls, still reeling from the death of a lover [Spike], who had given her [Buffy] as much strength as he had taken from her or who was struggling to find the balance between power and humanity, knowing she [Willow] could practically do anything she wanted and that no one could stop her; to the newly-Awakened Slayers who needed him, coming of age on the battlefield, in a battle that would have taken down older and more experienced Slayers, needing him to remind them of all that they are: teenage girl, warrior, and most importantly, for all that they are more than human, that they are still just that—human.
Grief may be heard through his words—inevitable, of course—but so long as he did not falter, he would consider it a victory…no matter how much it did not feel like one.
"I am the memory that dwells in the heart of those that knew me.
I am the shadow that dances on the edge of your vision.
I am the wild goose that flies south at Autumn's call and I shall return at Summer rising.
I am the stag on the wild hill's way.
I am just around the corner.
Therefore, the wise weep not,
But rejoice at the transformation of my Being." *
As he spoke the ritual words, Xander remembered his beloved and the light that seemed to come from somewhere deep within her, as if there was still something supernatural about her, even as a normal human, albeit with magical powers but otherwise perfectly normal; he recalled the flash of a blade, the sound of fine metal clashing against the rough hide of a Turok-Han; and he would remember for all time, the moment Andrew had looked into his eyes and he found not only fear and shame—but grief—and he knew Anya was dead.
Andrew, too, remembered those last moments of battle—remembered the way he had fought as he never had before, not fearlessly but fearing and yet still swinging his sword, knowing he may die and knowing, also, that he wouldn't stand aside for the Turok-Hans to attack the Slayers' unprotected flank—and he remembered how his partner had fought like a wild thing, experienced and deadly as only a former demon could be, cutting off the head of one Ubervamp and gutting another; slash, slash, slash, her blade cut through flesh and armor easily under her skilled hand—and he remembered most clearly how he could only watch as she had stood there, flushed and triumphant at her kills, only to be cut straight in half, the surprise on her face, as if she hasn't realized, even in those last moments, that she was already dead.
Bitter memories and happy ones, funny moments and old arguments—everything and anything of those who had gone—were remembered and honored and laid to rest once and for all.
They spoke the final words together, voices echoing across the ruins:
"So mote it be!" *
Before they left, Andrew faced the ruins one last time.
"Anyanka, Patron Demon of Scorned Women, Bride and Beloved of Alexander, Protector of Man; I offer my thanks and owe my life to you, you fought for the man you loved and the people he loved, more importantly, you chose to fight with us in the mouth of hell, when you could have fled or left us to our fate—but you did not, you fought and you won, Anyanka, you won; for giving me this second chance at life, I promise in your name and in your memory, and in the name and memory of all the others who fought with us, of those I hurt and abused—I promise to live a life of Good, to stand against Evil and to pass on the wisdom and courage you all have taught me; know that so long as I live and beyond it, if I have any say, that your legacy will be eternal and the War will be won—I will make sure of it."
With those words, he sliced open his hand with a ritual knife and let his blood flow into the ground. He summoned what magic he carried within himself—nowhere near as powerful as Willow or as skilled as Giles, but enough, enough for this, at least—and let it bind his words. He watched, satisfied, as his blood was absorbed into the hallowed ground. It was done.
Should he break his promise, he would forfeit his magic and his soul to an eternity in some Hell dimension or another. He walked back to Xander, who had waited when he had turned back to the ruins and had heard every word, he was sure, and was comforted to find neither scorn nor pity in his eyes, just a painful understanding.
With brittle smiles and heavy thoughts, they left the town that was once both home and battlefield, and was contented to face the task ahead.
Giles waited in the lobby of Angel's hotel and took it upon himself to have a drink of vintage wine. He'd been saving it for an especially trying day or a particularly celebratory moment, but thought the occasion warranted breaking open the seal of one of his most expensive beverages. He took a sip and let out a grateful sigh.
'That really hit the spot.'
Soon enough, however, dark thoughts of what lay ahead made him as brooding as Angel could be on his worst days. He didn't know why he was surprised at how far his children would go to protect the world—and the people they loved—when that's what they'd been doing ever since they could truly be called children.
He thought of Xander, who had come into this dark world with the blood—figuratively speaking, since he was a vampire at the time—of his closest friend on his hands, still grieving and determined to fight the darkness that had taken from him. He thought of Willow and how she had abused her magical powers and almost destroyed the world in her grief, stripping from her any innocence that may have survived her encounters with demons. And he thought of Buffy—and of Faith—both having suffered tremendously as Slayers, neither having asked for this destiny and yet being chosen regardless, the cost a heavy toll that would not cease asking for a price till they were dead at last.
He knew Andrew would stay behind, along with Kennedy—who had protested vehemently and demanded—begged—for Willow to let her come with her and had locked herself in her room, refusing to speak to anyone when she had been denied—and wondered who else would stay and who would go. He wondered, especially, which of them, Buffy or Faith, would be the one to enter into the enchanted sleep, one day to wake up and fight again, and the other to stay behind and rebuild the Council from its foundations, laying the groundwork for the War to come, thousands of years from now.
He knew his place was here on the mortal plain, to help whoever chose to stay, rebuild and teach the newly-awakened Slayers; not to mention, gather what Watchers he could find and train new ones, and make sure they knew how things were now—that the Slayer was no one's tool; and he reminded himself that he would have to make the addition of demonic beings into the organization with as few incidents as possible.
He didn't know how the future would unravel, either in the next few years or in the next thousand, but he hoped that their sacrifice would be worth it; he wanted to die knowing that humanity had a chance, at least, to stand a siege, if not win this bloody War. He could only dream of how far humanity would progress—or regress—and could only pray to the Old Gods that still watched over this world, that one day, this world would know lasting peace, as foolish and unrealistic as a wish it was to have.
When the time finally came, it was with heavy hearts and tearful goodbyes for many of them. Some looked angry at the world—at their leaders, who had made the deal—at everything, knowing they could do nothing. Others were openly weeping, begging them not to go, asking, "How can we fight without you?" And still others were impassive, already at peace with the decision, if not simply resigned to the fates of the ones who stood before them.
To the south, in the nation of Brazil, in the Serra Do Piaui Mountains, a powerful witch was laid to rest: the Red Witch, rumoured to be a demigod (though she wasn't really, but she was damn close by virtue of her power and her connection to the Earth alone) and the right hand of the Golden Slayer, herself.
They watched as dirt and rocks were scooped out by an invisible, giant hand and laid aside, as a cave was dug right in front of their very eyes. Several members of the Devon Coven stood ready to inscribe the cave walls and the entrance with ancient blood magics that would keep a witch as powerful as Willow asleep. Soon enough, they were all marching inside and gathered around the coffin—for no matter what they told themselves, it looked like nothing but a place for the dead to rest and what was this, if not simply an alternative to death?
Willow was dressed, not in any kind of dress or ceremonial robes, but in practical clothes; she wore jeans with a belt filled with potions strapped around her waist and a long-sleeved shirt, around her head was a silver band with a glittering, multi-faceted jewel hanging from it. She wasted no time with tears or regrets, she simply checked to make sure that the requested texts were contained in the drawers beneath, that the magic was holding steady and slipped in, laying down to sleep. A glass cover lay against the wall, waiting to be used.
Xander would have used this opportunity to say a few words but he had already said what he needed to say, not to mention the others standing beside him, and anyways, it seemed that someone else had the same idea.
Kennedy, who had accompanied them but so far had said nothing or moved from her place in the far back, now stepped forward. They all stepped aside to let her pass and soon enough, she stood by her lover's prone form and leaned down to stare into her eyes intently.
"You're wrong," she said, making sure to keep her voice quiet. "I should be going with you. I should. Didn't you promise me that you would never leave me? Was that a lie, Willow? Was our love a lie?" When Willow made to reply, Kennedy cut her off. "No, don't answer that. I don't want to know. I'd rather believe in the memories you've left me than your stupid excuses—because I know the truth and the truth is, that you just can't believe that I could ever really love you forever. You don't think I'm capable of a long-term relationship."
This time, Willow was able to speak a few words before she was cut off again.
"That's not true—"
"Well, guess what? Now you won't even get the chance to find out."
Willow stared up into eyes that burned with a passion she didn't know Kennedy was capable of. So many things about each other they didn't know, hadn't had time to find out—and now they never would—their time had passed and she had a duty she could never turn her back on.
Kennedy leaned even closer, until only a breath separated them and she was tempted to kiss her, but resisted, knowing that this was her only chance to tell Willow—everything; her desperate love, her feelings of betrayal and hopelessness, her promise—and spoke the last words the woman she so loved would ever hear for a long, long time.
'Let her remember this,' she thought, 'even if she will forget everything else as time passes. Let her remember my words for all of eternity.' She didn't acknowledge the tears that fell or the wounded sounds she made, as she let herself caress the face of the one before her, committing all she could to memory. 'Never let me forget this—forget her,' she prayed. 'Never!'
And she said, "But know this: whatever it really was between us, whatever you want to call it—I loved you and I will never love anybody else. Ever. I will love you and you only, and I will die having loved only you."
With that, she stepped back and allowed them to place the glass over her beloved and stood trembling as they chanted and weaved their magics. Slowly, so slowly, Willow's eyes began to close and her body began to still. In her eyes, there was a question: "Why...?" they asked of her, "Why wait 'till now to confess? To promise?" She waited until those eyes had closed and the chanting had died down to answer her, kneeling down by her lover and placed her hands on the glass that would keep them apart forever because—for as long as she lived, she would never know her touch ever again.
No longer caring who heard her, as the only one she truly cared about was beyond her reach, she answered her unspoken question.
"This is the price to pay for leaving me behind. Remember that when I'm long gone and all that's left of me to find are bones—no, not even that, after three thousand years—remember that I have loved you, always and forever."
And in that dark cave, kneeling down in the dirt by her lover, facing a future without her, she cried and cried 'till blood ran down her face and they had to drag her away, for she was too weak with grief to move—and refused to move, still struggling—reaching her arms out to the woman she loved and whose sweet voice she would never hear again.
To the east, in the nation of England, on the Isle of Man, a promising apprentice, a proven warrior was laid to rest: Watcher of the Dark Slayer, herself, Rogue Vampire Hunter, and said to have fought alongside the Vampire With A Soul for some time.
Deep inland, high on a mountaintop, within a dense forest, again the ceremony took place: the members of the Devon Coven and currently the Head Watcher, Rupert Giles, himself, wove their magics together to enchant the man that lay before them on a bed of furs and silks, courtesy of Cordelia Chase, who refused to allow even destiny to interfere with comfort.
Surrounding Wesley were his friends and colleagues: Angel, the vampire who took him in, even when he was more bravado than skill; Gunn, the man who patiently taught him how to fight, despite his disdain for his "snobby little ass" and eventually became friends with; Fred, who was as beautiful as she was intelligent and were he not chosen for this task, perhaps something would have come from his fledgling attraction to her; and Cordelia, the woman he had once thought to love—lust, really, he was such a child then, though he's not much older now, is he?—and who he now respected as much as he feared for her sharp words and eyes.
All of them had come to see him off, though they had all privately and individually said their goodbyes already, as they had promised they would and he was glad for it. He didn't want to admit it, but he felt infinitely better that they were here. He wouldn't mind that they were the last people he would see, in fact, he would welcome it. They had seen him at his worst and had endured his admittedly most prattish moments better than he would have, had he been in their place and they had shown him affection and care he had never known, not with his family—but they were his family now, weren't they?
The faces looking down at him were grieving but proud.
"Wesley." His eyes flicked toward Angel. "I'm…not good at this kind of stuff, but I want you to know that you aren't useless. The Council was a fool to dismiss you like that—not that they can say much of anything with the way they went and blew up, but—anyway, I just wanted to say that you were, are, a good friend and fighter." He laid his hand on Wesley's shoulder and gave a quick but heartfelt squeeze. "Without your knowledge and skills, I may not have survived some of the things I did. So, thank you, Wesley. Thank you."
"Fang-face is right, English."
'Ah, Gunn, how I will miss your delightful nicknames,' Wesley thought. 'Especially how they make Angel so furious, so quickly, with so little effort.'
"You got skills, I won't lie. Could've done a bit better with that Kalda-whatever the last week, but you got through it—you survived—and that's all anyone can ask for, you know? So, um, man, do I really have to say this? I've already told you but—ok, screw it, man—you, you are so badass. And if you tell anyone I said that, I'll make mince meat out of you, alright?"
"…yes," Wesley said, barely able to get the words out with the weight of the spell pressing down on his mind and throat, already his vision was dimming, sounds quieting. Soon, he wouldn't be able to speak at all or see.
"Wesley." He had just enough energy to turn his head toward the fierce and proud woman who had never let him give in, no matter what, ruthlessly using all the tools at her disposal to coerce him to fight, always. "When you wake up, visit our graves and tell us what it's like." For a second there is something heavy in her gaze, but then he was looking into the same imperious eyes as always. "Only the good parts, of course, I don't want to hear about any new diseases or anything like that—but if they've come up with some way to make heels any more comfortable, be sure to let me know, alright? Fashion is important, remember that."
She didn't even wait for him to answer before she waved Fred forward with a lazy wave of her hand.
Fred squeaked and scuffled forward, wringing her hands together and for the longest time—so long, he thought he would go to his enchanted sleep with the sound of her voice in his ears—she just babbled about anything and everything, but then she paused and pressed her hand against the furs by his head and said, in a quiet, commanding voice that sounded nothing like her: "Sleep well and be ready for the Final Battle to come. I will be waiting."
For a moment, in the light of the moon, her eyes seemed to turn a milk-pale color—and were those shades of blue in her skin?
But no, that could not be and if there was anything afoot—he caught the sharp exchange of glances between the other three—it was no longer his problem anymore, wouldn't be for a long, long time. And suddenly, he simply couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. His breathing slowed, the sound of his heartbeat echoed loudly within his mind and drowned out all noise, but somehow he still heard her last words.
"I will wait for you…"
To the north, in the nation of America, in the city of Cleveland, a much-loved warrior was laid to rest: the One Who Sees, the White Knight, and many other titles besides, rumored to have the power to destroy prophecies by his simple existence; said to be the only one capable of standing in the way of the Red Witch, should she ever lose control—and had once before, when she raised the Temple of Acathla; he is the Heart of the Council and it is whispered that even the spirit of the First Slayer had approved of him.
In a hidden cavern deep beneath Lake Erie, close to the entrance to the Hellmouth, and guarded by even more protections than the other two had over their resting places—no one wanted Willow to lose control, not again, not with the power she wielded and the cruelty she was capable of—and everyone knew that's exactly what would happen if Xander ever seriously gets hurt or isn't there to greet her in the future because of crappy protection spells—Xander waited.
Angel and his friends, except for Cordelia, had already left for Los Angeles—evil waits for no man, or vampire, in this case. The other Watchers, who had turned up for Wesley, out of respect for his father and his family, had also left. Now, only the Slayers who had fought in Sunnydale against the First, Buffy, Dawn, Faith, Cordelia, Andrew and Giles were left.
The Slayers were allowed to go first and they spent a few minutes talking with the young man, nodding respectfully toward him and making sure to let him know they appreciated his leadership and expertise, and it turns out that some of them had gotten close enough to him to consider him the big brother they've never had. To them, they were losing a good captain and friend. He had understood their burden as a Slayer and neither made light of it or allowed them to forget their humanity. To him, they were never just weapons of war… and for that, they would always be grateful to him.
Andrew and Cordelia both stood close by him, for once neither having anything to say. Faith had given him one big, messy kiss that still made him tingle—a bit embarrassing because he was surrounded by teenage girls (jailbait, hello!) and his friends (eww…he so did not want to think about Buffy and Spike doing the nasty)—and when he had asked why, she only said, "something to look forward to" and that was that. So, um. Yeah.
Giles was wiping his glasses with a little bit more power than necessary, muttering "good lord" every other second. And Buffy….just stood there looking at him, sad and weary, but with no tears or confessions to make, just a steadfastness that he really appreciated in light of the circumstances.
He didn't know if he could take any tears right now.
Luckily, the people around him had been fighting against the forces of darkness for a long time and he had fought with them all, except for the Devon Coven, and they knew better than to waste precious time with tears or screams that wouldn't do a thing to help anyone. They were quiet as he lay down on a mattress placed on a dais; he was pleasantly surprised by the Scooby-Doo sheets, the collection of comic books and action figures he had kept and thought he had hidden very well, if he said so himself—but of course, his hide-and-seek skills were no match for a Slayer, or two, or dozen—and the handmade quilt he recognized immediately as one that they had been working on for the past month in secretive huddles and whispers.
When he turned to look at them in question, his only answer was a blush (Dawn and Buffy, and it was in moments like these that they really resembled the sisters they were (weren't)), a defensive snarl (Faith—yup, just as growly and scary but pretty as ever—and man, did he have no survival instincts, like, ever?), a raised brow (G-man, always with the stiff upper lip, 'eh?), a haughty sniff (Cordelia) and…Andrew bursting into tears?
Right. Okay, yeah, maybe not everyone was ok with this—not that anyone really was—but they were more or less resigned to it and determined to move on, but he should have known that Andrew, regardless of his admittedly very cool and serious vow that he'd made in the memory of those who'd died, wouldn't be as ok with it as everyone else. Giles sighed the sigh of the long-suffering and tentatively pat Andrew on the back—and was alternatively baffled and horrified, by the look on his face, when Andrew suddenly turned into an octopus and wrapped himself around him, ruining the very nice shirt he was wearing with his tears and snot.
The others snickered as he tried to pry Andrew off of him to no avail—he wasn't moving—and Giles resigned himself to being stuck to the…thing…in his arms and decided to pretend he wasn't there. Nope, no Andrew clinging to him like some infernal parasite. He grimaced as he felt the wetness reach his bare skin and reminded himself to take a hot, thorough shower when he got back. No telling what kind of things Andrew was infected with in all his horribly enthusiastic obsession with the occult and those damn comic books of his, and deftly ignoring the fact that Xander was just as obsessed about his own comics.
But he was the only exception—Xander was one of his children, after all—and that afford him certain privileges that others were not entitled to.
Xander was glad that his last moments would be of them happy and alive, as he felt the Devon Coven's magic finally come into effect and pull at his consciousness and vowed that no matter what the future was like—whether humanity destroyed itself or fulfilled its potential—that he would do his best to protect the innocent and the world that they had sacrificed so much for. He would fight and he would win because no other end was acceptable. But damn, he really was gonna miss everybody.
To the south, once again, in the nation of Australia, in the Great Dividing Range, a fierce and deadly huntress was laid to rest: commonly known and feared as the Dark Slayer, it is said that she is one of the only few Slayers to kill another human and survive the experience—both the psychological effects of killing a human and of being hunted by the Council, itself, Wesley's Own and sister-Queen to Buffy Summers, the Golden Slayer.
Australia was a harsh land, mostly desert with the population heavily concentrated along the coast and little pockets of civilization elsewhere. There was beauty in its harshness and danger underlined every path, and it was a land that was known for its strong earth magic and the lesser-known, but just as potentially apocalypse-inducing dimensional portals that flickered into existence and disappeared just as randomly nationwide. Some say that it is only because of the powerful earth magic concentrated there and the aboriginal people who could skillfully wield it, guarding those portals for generations, that the land still stood and was particularly welcoming to friendly demonic races—and could fight off the non-friendly ones that occasionally came through the portals from hell dimensions or passed through without following local custom.
It was also one of the few places where the Slayers had always been particularly "willful" and "disobedient", according to record—what little they had recovered from the explosion that destroyed the headquarters in London; most of the chosen ones having grown up in the deserts and surviving thus or were raised by independent women who suffered no fools and certainly no condescending Englishmen—the gang had wondered over the fact that it was always one or the other, no exception—and laughed about what the Watchers (and the Old Council) must have dealt with.
It was a funny thought and much appreciated during times of great stress, especially during Apocalypse Season.
And it was the perfect place for a Slayer who would follow no Watcher or even another Slayer unless she wanted to—fuck the demons and the innocent. It was also another way to atone: personally for Faith, it was the perfect way to sentence someone like her to be safely locked away, for no human prison would hold her if she really wanted to get out and she proved that when she escaped to help them fight the First.
She still felt that she had more "good deeds" to carry out before she could even hope to make-up, if ever, for what she had done. And it didn't matter, really, if she could never truly atone for killing another human being—it only mattered that she was trying and that she knew what she was trying to do. They could hate her or fear her, but as long as they tolerated her presence and let her do what she needed to do, she would be fine.
It didn't matter that she may have once wanted to be their friend, that she had thought, when she had found Buffy, that there was finally someone else who understood what it was like—but no, Buffy Summers was a "good girl"—and she'd never known life like Faith had. Never.
She got hurt, she was betrayed but she never had to live on the streets, begging or selling herself for food, being beaten by her own mother and used by men. Buffy had never known that kind of pain and Faith was surprised to realize that she actually wanted to keep it that way, she wanted…to protect her, as stupid as that sounded. Her, protecting a Slayer? She was a Slayer, herself, and knew what she was capable of. Buffy didn't need to be protected like that.
But she did need guarding from other kind of predators, besides demons—human ones that weren't so easily recognized—and Faith was glad, deep inside, that G-man would be there to protect her from men like that. She'd seen it in his eyes, the knowledge of the ugly side of people, and knew he'd scare off the other predators before they'd even come close, if they even could, with the things she saw in him and recognized in herself.
Faith took a look around as the witches cast their circle and said their words, knowing she didn't need to watch for mistakes or anything like that. This was the fourth time and they had it down by now. She smirked; knew she'd be last, always was. She felt a bit of resentment but—whatever. Wasn't that how the story always goes?
"Faith."
She turned to look into bright green eyes.
"I'd…say something poetic or something, but I know you don't care about those kinds of things, so I won't bother. But I want you to know—you need to know that you aren't a throw-away Slayer, nothing like that; you were chosen and chose this because you're stronger than I am. The others can say what they want but we both know who'd be more capable in a War like this. You've been through too much to break now—" Buffy's lips curled, old and bitter memories lurking behind her words and Faith felt an answering darkness stir within her. "Or maybe I should say, you've been broken too many times to let another shot take you down for long?"
She could say something, something sharp and bloody and mean but knew the other Slayer was only speaking the truth and being completely honest—no pathetic attempt to keep quiet for her "feelings"—so she kept her mouth shut and listened for once.
"You…can handle the darkness in a way that would consume me, where, if our positions were reversed, you'd consume it. I would break—you won't. Angel taught you well, didn't he? And maybe you'll even get to fight together one day," she laughed quietly, without any happiness in her voice. "Or you'll find somebody. Who knows? But this is it, you're the one and anyone who says otherwise just doesn't know what you're capable of."
It goes unsaid that Buffy knows better than anyone what Faith is capable of.
"I'd wish you luck, but wishes are dangerous—and someone may be listening—not to mention, wishes won't do a thing for anyone, will it?"
Faith snorted; wishes were just wishes—unless they weren't—and then they were nothing more than a waste of breath.
"And I thought you should know that the Scythe will be resting with you, unless there's an emergency or an Apocalypse that won't be stopped by anything else."
She couldn't help the disbelief that marked her face or the suspicion that narrowed her eyes. Why? Why was she—
"The Scythe belongs to the Slayer with the most strength and experience. It's also pretty powerful and even Slayers aren't weak to temptation…" Faith could see where this was going now. "It's going to stay with you for its and the Slayers' own protection, guarded by the spells in this place. Plus, you're the only other one besides me that was chosen the traditional way and Giles told me—" Here, she stepped closer. "That in a couple of generations, that the number of Slayers will probably go down somehow, he didn't specify, and we talked it over and decided that the Scythe should stay with someone who knows its power—and the price that comes with it…and in a place that'd be almost inaccessible to anyone looking to steal it."
She couldn't help the sting of bitterness that crept into her eyes but she didn't say a thing against and just nodded, agreeing with the logic behind it; it was practical and smart. Only an idiot or someone pretty powerful would try, if they even knew where to look in the first place.
"Here."
Buffy held out a bracelet to her. It was made of leather and strung with beads of different colors. There was something written on it in gold ink that she couldn't read, no matter how she tilted her head and it was held together by a metal clasp.
"What is it?"
"Everyone who's going to La-la land is wearing one. It's a charm bracelet that'll let you know if someone else has woken up before you or is close to. Willow told me that the scribble would say which it was and that only the wearer—which its bonded to—would be able to see what it says. It can't be taken off once you put it on, unless you go to Willow or she tells you how.
"It'll also protect you from whatever disease, pollutant or toxin the future may have. Which means that even if you drink yucky, nuclear-infested waters, that you won't die—and your Slayer metabolism will help, she says—though it won't taste very nice. Oh, and before I forget, since you'll be out of it when you first wake up, the bracelet will put out a weak barrier against any organic or inorganic thing from getting through. Not to mention send a beacon to the nearest Council rep."
She raised her brow in pleasant surprise.
Huh. Looks like Red wasn't taking any chances. She's finally getting the hand of seeing the bad in people. She took the bracelet and saw it in a very different light now. She ran her fingers over it. This would certainly come in handy. With a snap, secured it on her wrist and watched as it sunk beneath her skin—no pain, whatsoever—and left only the outline of it, as a faintly ritualistic-looking tattoo.
"Oops, forgot about that."
Faith rolled her eyes at the Summers' rare "blond moment" and shrugged.
It wasn't important.
No more time was wasted on talking as she got comfortable on the stone slab, piles of fur and dozens of pillows making it more comfortable and a lot warmer than she thought it would be, considering how high up the mountain they were, at the very top. She had expected that the sleep would keep her from feeling the cold but she had realized as she stepped past a line drawn into the dirt ground, that the barrier or whatever was gonna protect her as she lay vulnerable, kept out the cold as well as intruders. Huh.
Neat.
There was even a little makeshift altar right in front of her resting place, a bowl of sparkling—literally sparkling—water; a tiny vial containing what looked like a tornado, the force inside enough to make it tremble every now and then; another bowl, this one filled with blue fire; and finally, a bunch of sticks tied together with twine in the shape of a pentagon. They were placed at the four corners with a candle in between then, but what really caught her eye was the thing behind her bed: three long blades set on a stand, the sharp ends gleaming in the afternoon sunlight and fairly calling for her to test them out. The Scythe was placed in the middle between a halberd and a spear, and now that she was closer, right underneath them almost, as she lay down, she could see a bow and a set of arrows, hidden in the shadows between the stand and her bed.
If ever she couldn't reach the blades, she could roll out of bed and have the bow in hand in seconds—seconds that might save her life.
She stared straight up into the blue, blue sky, watching as a vulture—a scavenger, just like her, huh?—lazily flew in circles above her as the chanting started. The smell of incense was almost overwhelming but the musk coming off the furs was stronger. In fact, it was like there was a wolf right next to her, growling long and low in its throat. She snuggled her head against the warm weight by her head and—wait. She blinked. Warm? Yes, the barrier kept the winds out but there wasn't—
It was too far into the spell for her to move easily, but she was able to turn her head up and to the right just enough to see—
A wolf. By her head. Growling at her. But not…eating her? Huh. Either this was some side-effect of the spell, she was hallucinating (or dreaming) or the ghost of a dead wolf was laying beside her, staring into her eyes. She decided that it wasn't like she could do anything if it was the third option; if it was the second, she was screwed anyways; and the first, well…Summers wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed to begin with and all the knocks to the head must have done something to her, and she could have just forgotten to tell her about it.
"…may Hecate cast her light upon you, may she bless your dreams and the thousand years pass swiftly and without pain…"
If she had the energy, she would have said something about praying to gods that won't answer back but she didn't have the energy, so she just lay there, listening to them go on and on about Hecate-this and Hecate-that. The spell would work, of course, but she thought it was due the witches own power and not because some god "blessed" them. Own your power, yo!
The sound of the chanting faded and the wolf's growling—and when did it became comforting rather than threatening?—began to lull her to sleep. She thought she heard the wolf howl and an answering call in the distance, as the spell wrapped around her invitingly, dreams of the best kind just hovering out of reach. 'Stupid spell,' she thought. 'Why do I have to be knocked out to have the good stuff?' But she let the spell take a hold of her and carry her away. The last thing she remembered seeing was the bright eyes of a wolf before the darkness surrounded her and dragged her down into nothingness.
Four warriors—protectors of humanity and chosen ones—were laid to rest with all the ceremony and solemnity that the occasion called for, as those who willingly entered into an enchanted sleep that would last thousands of years and wake to a world so far removed from their own as to be unrecognizable, perhaps even inhospitable, and be left to lead the War against the Forces of Darkness for the last time. And this time, losing would mean the ultimate failure: resigning the Earth to an eternity of Hell as a Demon's playground, where they could walk freely and without consequence once again, enslaving Humanity for their own ends. The innocent would be hunted. The righteous would fall. And all "good" would be bled out of the world until only the Darkness remained, the only thing anyone would ever know for all of eternity.
AN: so now you know how it went down on a personal level and I'm considering doing the next chapter as a parallel to this one, except in evil's p.o.v. but I really wanna get to the future already, so I probably won't (though I may write it anyway and post it as a one-shot under this 'verse). If anyone can give me the exact star date for the time Jim Kirk becomes captain of the Enterprise, that's be awesome, otherwise, I'm just gonna leave the year out (or make it up) and stick to the month and day only. So take that as a warning.
Anyway, I just really want to know what you all think about this chapter. Was the length long enough? Was the pace quick, but not too quick? Was the characterization decent (and please take into account things like maturity and getting into near-death incidents on a daily basis for these people)?
Oh, and if anyone knows the true name of the temple that Darth-Willow called when Tara died and Buffy as shot, that'd be awesomw! Pretty sure it was the temple of Expressa or something like that...
Here are the sources for the quotes used in this chapter:
"…he will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain any more, for the former things have passed away..." *
(Revelation 21:4) Bible, and please don't ask me which version, I have no idea
"Did you know it was time to fly? I didn´t want to say Goodbye. We all know this is not the End…"
This is from a site about Wiccan (under the umbrella of Neo-Pagan religions/ traditions) funeral rites, in particular for burial. I'd add the link but is a bitch about urls that aren't part of the site, so...
Note: I have no idea what tradition or coven this particular set of funeral rites are from, so please keep that in mind. For the uninformed or misinformed, Wiccan and Neo-Pagan traditions may share certain aspects (or none at all) but all are distinct from each other and should not be generalized—at all.
"So mote it be!" *
As far as I know, is a phrase used in prayer and/or ritual to invoke the god/dess to bless you in your life/magic