Disclaimer: They belong to Whedon and Nightow. I worship. I grovel.
Author's note: Six months on this fic. And it's still not quite done. But when one romps through the Trigun and Buffy universes in an attempt to stay within canon while taking a hacksaw to the various sacred truths in said universes, one's left feeling a bit…overwhelmed.
Plus, "Seeing Red" aired last spring and boy, did *that* completely kill my muse for a good three months. Luckily, after revealing that she was an in-the-closet slasher and had an affinity for eighties pop partnered with romantic comedy, she finally got off her duff and started inspiring again. Go her. And gosh, it's fun writing about parts of my psyche in third person.
I suggest reading "Night" first. Not entirely necessary but there are certain events that take place here that are alluded to there. Besides, shameless plug! Huzzah! Either way, enjoy. I'm sure I'll have more ramblings to share with you when it's all over.
Time line: Roughly four months prior to the events in "Rem Saverem"
Rated PG-13 for violence and language.
TWILIGHT
PROLOGUE
The First faces the edge of the cliff, tense and wary even at rest. The barest hint of danger, of wickedness and the First will attack.
She walks towards her across the desert plain, feet shuffling against grit and dirt, letting the First know she approaches. She comes within a dozen feet and stops, takes a breath. A look back to where she came from, as though to confirm her presence here. Sand as far as the eye can see and on the far horizon, dusty mountains without snow. Two suns hang low in the sky above her. That should be wrong but she cannot shake the feeling that it was always thus.
She thinks, There are no flowers here.
The First turns, eyes black as night piercing her to her very soul.
what is it you wish daughter The First's lips do not move but she can hear the words all the same. She steps closer.
"It's time."
The First nods and crouches, scooping up wet clay in one browned roughened hand. yes it is are you ready
Sudden fear and she fights the urge to flee as the First moves towards her in a strange, loping gait. "No. Does it matter?"
no
The First takes clay on two fingers and begins painting the raven-haired woman's face, yellow, brittle nails leaving feathered scratches on her cheek. The First's touch is cool, yet it burns against her flesh. It is the most delicate of pleasures, the greatest of pains. It is life and death made one.
She wishes to scream, to escape, to deny but instead she leans further into the First's hand, eyes closed in ecstasy…
***
Within her cryopod, Rem muttered and shifted but did not wake. Yet even within that deep, unnatural sleep, she knew that nothing would ever be the same.
END PROLOGUE