Chapter 9
Faith

Faith sat down on the floor and placed her hands so the palms rested on the sword and the fingertips on the sheath. Her mouth was dry, and she kept licking her lips, but she wouldn't be any other place but right there. She'd been afraid that Buffy would want to be the one doing the spell, since they were both Slayers, but to her surprise Buffy never even questioned the idea that this was Faith's responsibility.

"Hark, Slayer," she said. "Thy sister calleth thee... is there a reason I have to talk like this? She's not gonna understand English anyway, is she?"

"None of us are very experienced with witchcraft," Crowley said. "It's safer not to mess with the spell. Go on."

Faith shrugged and tried to remember the place where she had stopped. Her eyes caught The Immortal's, who was sitting at the edge of the bed with a cynical smile on his face. When he noticed her look, he winked.

"Uh," she said, unable to find the words she needed.

Buffy made a grimace at the Immortal, who raised his eyebrows and showed the whites of his fine dark eyes in mock innocence.

"Wait outside," Buffy hissed.

"Oh, no!" he protested. "Am I not allowed to witness this riveting journey into the world of magic? Is it because I am an unbeliever?"

"No, it's because you're a distraction, and you know it," said Buffy.

The Immortal got up and flashed Faith a last wide smile before he left. It wasn't an encouraging smile. It was a fucking patronizing smile that said he was gonna indulge the silly little humans in their silly little games. It still made her heart beat faster.

The view she got of his ass when he walked past her didn't help much either.

"Take your time," Buffy told her with surprising kindness. "Make sure you're ready, and then start from the top."

Faith took a deep breath, inhaling the smoke from the candles. She watched Robin, sunk deep into his armchair, and reminded herself that the ass on the line here wasn't the Immortals.

"Hark, Slayer," she said, wishing that someone could have put the Slayer texts into proper English. She rattled through the words, stumbling here and there, and all the while she thought, Come on, Signe, pick the fuck up!

She was way too tired for this. Her head was swimming, which made the candles swim in and out of focus, and she could hear herself stumbling over more and more words in the spell. She couldn't do anything about it, though. They were just words anyway. Signe wouldn't fail her – she'd get the answers she needed, find a way to save Hendrik.

She wiped the sweat away from her face. Those damned candles made it way too hot in there.

"Where did your thoughts travel just now?"

She lifted her head, shaking it slightly, and offered Hendrik a smile. "Nowhere. It's much too hot in here; I nearly fell asleep, that's all."

She let her gaze wander further, to the sword being formed. As she watched, the swordsmith cooled it off and handed it with a bow to the old woman waiting beside him.

"Is it done?" She was completely unable to hide her excitement, and the smile Embla gave her implied that to to an old lady like her, there was very little difference between a Slayer and a mere child.

"The sword is just about done," old Embla said. "The spell needs some more work. Come over here and spit on it."

She raised an eyebrow at that, but Embla nodded for her to come closer, and so she took a few steps forward. The sword was a fine piece of work, and it felt like sacrilege to spit on it, but she trusted Hendrik's soothsayer almost as much as she trusted the man himself, and she hesitated only for a moment before gathering saliva in her mouth and spitting it down on the half-cooled metal. The spit hissed briefly on the surface and then disappeared without a trace.

Embla lifted the sword high above her head and started speaking in a strange language, words so long and soft that they made the hair stand up on Signe's arms. She tried to pick up some of the meaning, but couldn't. It didn't matter. She felt the sword in her soul, the taste of metal, anticipating the blood.

It was only a minute or two before Embla stopped speaking and lowered the sword again. "Now I need a drop of your blood."

Signe obediently drew the dagger from her belt and pricked her finger, but as she held the bleeding finger over the sword, letting the blood fall down, she asked, "What's next? Will I have to piss on it?"

"This will be enough," Embla replied, her voice dry but her eyes full of mirth.

Once again, she lifted the sword above her head and told it things in that long-worded language. Signe rubbed her arms, trying to make the hair lie down. There was something off in the air that made it look like Embla's hair and eyes were glowing of gold and fire.

And then it was gone. Embla handed the sword over to Signe and gave her a brisk bow. "It is done."

Taking the sword from Embla's hands was an tremendous sensation. She imagined that holding one's child for the very first time might be like this. Not that she'd ever known that feeling, or - most likely - ever would. Unable to control herself, she raised the blade to her lips, closed her eyes, and kissed it softly.

"You do know that's your own power you're fondling, right?" Hendrik asked with more than a touch of amusement.

She opened her eyes. "I always did love my power."

Waving one of the workers closer, he said, "Well, then. Just in case you want a bit of change..."

The worker handed him a sheath made of wood and leather, and he held it out to her opening first, ready to use. After a moment's pause, she stuck her sword in it, marvelling at the ease with which it went in.

"It's beautiful," she said, and it truly was, with the decorations and runes covering the soft surface. She followed the runes with her finger. 'The carrier of this sword is protected by Hendrik, the light king.' The words made her smile. They were bound to infuriate the dark kings of the mountain – as he very well knew when he had them written. It was a challenge to the forces of darkness, and one she was more than willing to issue right along with him.

"It's more than beautiful," he replied. "It's there to save your life."

When she realized what he meant, it was a gift all in itself. "Your power?"

"No matter where I am," he said, laying his hand on hers, "I'll always keep you whole."

The gift was partly for himself, she knew. When she was off fighting and his duties prevented him from joining her, he worried about her. There had been a few close calls, when her wounds had been grave and she almost hadn't made it back on time. And that made her worried as well – she considered herself ready for whatever fate awaited her, but at this point in her life, the great feast of Valhall could not quite compare to Hendrikshus.

"Thank you," she said and put her cheek next to his, rubbing it slightly. His beard tickled her skin.

"Anything for the Slayer," he teased.

That was so typical of him, turning the situation into a joke when it was anything but. She grabbed at his hair and tugged to punish him.

When she drew back and let go, for the first time she saw a glimmer of silver in the long strands.

He was resting in the orchard when she stormed by, and if she'd had any sense at all, she would have moved quietly enough to let him sleep, but she was too busy to think.

"Trouble?" he called after her.

"Trolls in Freydala," she called back.

"I'm coming with you."

She turned on her heel, staring at him as he rose to his feet. "No, you're damned well not!"

"I've fought trolls before."

"Before being the key word." She didn't mention the lines on his face, his greying hair, or how long it had taken him to stand up. They both knew it.

Something gleamed in his eyes. "I'm not an old woman."

"But you're getting there," she said, deliberately cruel. "You have been exhausting yourself with healer work. No one can keep it up at the rate you're going, and I won't have your blood on my hands."

"Is that why you didn't come to me?"

"What do you..."

His hands were fast even if his feet were not, and before she could stop him, he had pulled up her shirt, revealing the bandages below.

"You're going out there injured," he said. "How can you not let me protect you?"

"You're dying," she hissed.

The words hung between them. She was the first to avert her eyes and speak again.

"I won't have your blood on my hands." Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

"You won't have to." He took her hands in his, and for a moment, despite the callouses and wrinkles, it's as if no time had passed at all since the first night they spent together. "I have found a spell of protection, and Embla has agreed to try it. It's a form of armour, and if it works right..." He smiled. "If it works right, it will bring me back to strength."

"You would use magic tricks to stay in battle?" she asked, unable to keep contempt out of her voice.

"Haven't I always?"

"A gift from the gods is not a trick!"

His eyes fell on the sword by her side, and she felt her cheeks flush. They had been using magic for years. She had been told that girls were lining up in the Watchers' halls. Lining up, and never put to use. Nearly half her life had passed since she was called. Two children of her loins had been put out to die. The Slayer's fate was to live in solitude.

She'd broken that fate when she met Hendrik, and now she was contributing to his death - the death of an old man, in a sickbed.

She raised her hand to his face and stroke his cheek. "Have that armour finished," she said softly, "and join me then."

"He's dying."

Signe stared at Embla, trying to force those words to make some sort of sense. Of course Hendrik was dying; he had been dying for years, and he had most certainly been dying two years ago when Signe went on her journey to find the burrow of grave-swine.

"Dying how?" she asked, dropping the hog's head on the ground.

"His body is burning up in fever. He will not last the night."

Signe's mouth went dry, and she could find no breath. "He's dying now? Today?"

"Today, yes."

"But the spells he put on himself... the armour..."

"His body was too weak already," Embla said, her cheeks flushing red. "We are purging him of the spells, but I fear it is too late."

Signe brushed past her into the king's quarters, where serfs were swarming around the sickbed. Amidst their short-cropped heads of hair, Signe found one that was gleaming bald, and she frowned at the discovery. A monk. They had given a monk entry to Hendrik's quarters at his time of need, and how could that be anything but an ill omen?

"What is he doing here?" she asked with disdain.

The monk raised his bald head and met her gaze. "I am saying prayers for this man's soul, before it is too late."

Signe ignored him and turned to Embla, who had followed her inside. "What is he doing here?"

"I have asked him to add his skill and the grace of his god to ours," Embla said. "It can't hurt."

"It can cloud his path on Rimfrost," Signe snapped, kneeling down by Hendrik's bed. By now, his face was not only that of an old man, but seemed to melt away from his bones entirely, flesh almost gone and the skin flapping loose from his cheeks. As she reached out to touch him, he lurched over, and a serf held out a bowl. Signe watched in horror as Hendrik spewed out something thick and grey.

"What has he been eating?"

"At this point nothing but water," Embla said. "That's the spell coming off."

Signe stared at the content of the bowls. The color was most definitely metallic. Like a sword... or a suit of armour. "The armour was on his inside?"

"Around his bones."

"Are you insane?"

Hendrik's forehead furrowed even further at the sound of Signe's shrieking, and he moved to and fro in the bed.

"It would have worked if he had been stronger. Now it is poisoning him."

Signe's eyes once again fell on the monk and the beaded amulet he was using to contact his god. So that was why Embla was so willing to look for assistance even in the worshippers of White Christ. Her own skills had run out. "You did this," she told Embla, forcing herself to keep her voice low for Hendrik's sake. "You're the one killing him."

"It was only a matter of time. You know that."

"It is always only a matter of time." Signe let her hand run over Hendrik's hair, once so thick and long, now a few strands of matted whiteness.

Hendrik's gaze rested on her for a few seconds, but he showed no sign of recognizing her, and soon his eyes rolled up so only the white was visible. She knew that Embla was right, that even without the deadly spells, Hendrik would soon have met the same fate. But soon wasn't now, wasn't like this. She wasn't ready for this!

"Is there nothing to be done?" she asked, heart filled with desperation.

"There is one thing."

Signe looked up, and seeing the truth in Embla's face she rose and grabbed the older woman's neck, pushing her against the sturdy logs of the wall. "You have a cure? You have a cure and you left him in agony?"

"It's not a cure... as such..." Embla gasped, half-choking. "You have to... cut off... his head."

"What?" Signe was so stunned by this suggestion that she lt go, and the old witch nearly stumbled to the floor, rubbing her neck as she continued speaking.

"When I ran out of spells, I consulted the gods, and they told me that you have to cut off his head with the sword he gave you."

Signe shook her head, bewildered by what she was told. The sword was intended to kill evil, had been specifically linked to her power for that reason, and now the gods wanted her to use it to murder the man she loved? It was repulsive, desecration, and furthermore, she did not see what good it would do? "And would that make him better?"

Embla shook her head, tears filling her eyes. "I don't know. That is all they told me."

"So they might just want him to have a quick death." Signe sat down, leaning her face in her hands. This was impossible. How could the gods ask such a thing and then not tell what would happen if she did their bidding? She didn't even have any way of knowing if it were the gods speaking, or if Embla had understood them correctly. Their cryptic messages were notorious, and she had been sent to battle uninformed more than once because of it.

Rising a little, she pulled out her sword from the sheath and looked at it. Such a simple thing, and such a difficult decision. She turned it over, reading her name on the hilt. 'Signe, Slayer of evil.'

Abruptly, she stood up and pushed the sword back into the sheath. "I can't do this," she said, leaving the room.

She stopped on the courtyard, taking deep breaths and trying to calm herself down. Slayer of evil - what a joke. She was supposed to protect the innocent, and now she was asked to take their healer away. Their king. Her lover.

A sound escaped her lips. In someone else she might have called it a whimper, but the Slayer did not whimper. She carried her duty with pride and courage.

"My lady?"

She shook her head at the monk, who had come up behind her. "Go back inside, little gnat. I'll have none of you."

"I thought you would have none of me in there?"

"Oh, what difference does it make?" she asked in anguish. "He will die either way."

"You might consider the effect on his immortal soul if you do the witch's bidding."

She pondered that. "He will die in his bed like an old man. I will have spilled his blood... but it's not a battle. His soul will journey to the land of shadows, and I will never see him again. All the good he did, and yet the feasts of Valhall will not welcome him."

"Is that truly what you believe?"

She closed her eyes and turned her face up to the sky, wishing for rain to fall and hide her burning tears.

"My lady?" he asked, his voice gentle. "Would you like me to say a prayer for you?"

"I'm not the one dying."

"No, but you're tired and in grief. Perhaps the White Christ can heal your heart."

She shook her head, her eyes still closed. "Say no prayer. I'm sick of gods and powers. Forget for a moment that you are a monk, and stay with me as one mere mortal with another."

"As you wish."

"What am I to do without him?" she asked the sky. "I will not return with the Watchers to the south. I will not. But this is no home if he's not here."

The monk said nothing, and yet that was a comfort in itself, having someone near who - right now, at least - had no claims on her.

She remained standing as she was, with the monk by her side, even as the time passed and the wind grew cooler.

At long last, footsteps walked up to her, and Embla's voice called, "Signe."

"Oh, all right!" she replied, finally opening her eyes. "I'll end his sufferings, desecrate my duty. Why shouldn't I?"

Embla's face was ashen. "It's too late. He is gone."

Signe's sword dropped from her hand and fell clattering to the ground.

The sword dropped from her hands and fell clattering to the floor. The noise jolted her so much her eyes flew open, and she was shocked to see Buffy and the others gathered around her.

"Faith?" Buffy asked. "Are you all right? What happened?"

Faith blinked slowly, trying to get used to herself again after being somebody else. "Could you... leave?" she asked. Looking up, she said to Crowley, "You too. I need to be alone with Robin."

Crowley got up without a word and patted her gently on the shoulder before leaving the room. Buffy stood up as well, but hesitated.

"Are you sure?"

"Get out! Please..."

Buffy stared at her, and then shrugged and mumbled, "All right."

When Buffy had left as well, Faith just sat there, staring at the candles that had almost burned down.

"Hey," Robin said, taking her hand. "Nothing to be done?"

"Oh yeah," she said with a breath of laughter. She forced herself to meet his eyes. "There's something to be done all right. I'm gonna have to..." She swallowed hard and tried to force herself to say it, but she couldn't. She wanted to fight the gods and refuse to go through with it, but she still had Signe's memories and knew what would happen if she did. "Do you trust me?"

"You know I do."

Well, that made him a god-damned idiot, but she needed that trust. "Okay, so close your eyes, and... and whatever I do, don't move."

He let go of her hand and closed his eyes. Fucking gullible piece of shit.

"I don't know if this'll work," she said, "but I tried not doing it and that didn't work."

"What?"

"Shh! No talking either."

He smiled a little. Damn him! He wouldn't be so happy if he knew what she was planning. She should tell him, it wasn't fair to do it like this - but how could she? 'I want to cut off your head - but it'll be all right in the end, you'll see!' She picked up the sword, weighing it in her hand, preparing for the blow.

"This could kill you," she blurted out.

He opened his eyes. She couldn't blame him, but she wished he hadn't. As much as he had changed, the look in those eyes was still the same. "Faith... have you ever known me for being afraid of taking risks? I'm tired of this; I want it to stop. Just tell me what it was you saw in that trance of yours, and then for God's sake, act on it!"

"I can't tell you," she said. "I'm sorry."

And then, despite the fact that he was talking and moving and his eyes were open, she raised her sword, and before he had a chance to parry she struck the blow, blood spurting from his neck.

Heat flared up from the sword, burning Faith's fingers, and she screamed in shock and pain, dropping it on the floor where it burst into flames. She watched it turning in something singed and twisted that had some vague resemblance to a sword, but an equal resemblance to a piece of rusty pipe or a rebar. The flames mixed with the blood on the ground to an orange-red blur before her tear-filled eyes. She sat down on the floor, eyes fixed on the fire, and rocked slowly back and forth with her hands cradled in her lap.

A hand touched her arm. "Are you hurt?"

She flinched and looked up, and oh God, there was Robin crouching down next to her, blood all over his shirt but his head right where it should be. She blinked a couple of times. He was still there, and he looked young again. Well, as young as he'd ever been, anyway. She gasped for breath and then started bawling like a little kid.

"Hey. Hey, hey, hey hey..." He sat down on the floor. "It's okay now."

When he tried to take her hands in his, she drew back. "Don't..."

"It's gone," he said, turning her hands over and running his thumb lightly on the edge of one bright red burn. "Nothing I can do now."

"Good!" Faith said, grimacing a little as his touch made her injury smart more. Yeah, no healing touch left, that was for sure.

The flames flickered and died out, leaving only a line of blackened ashes. Stretching her head, Faith could see a similar line near the burned-out candles. The sheath.

Robin followed her gaze. "They're gone too," he said, stating the obvious with a sense of wonder in his voice. "You did it. You broke the curse."

"Only took me a thousand years."

"What?"

She shook her head, trying to clear it from the memories and feelings of an old dead Slayer. "Sorry. Still caught up in the spell, I guess."

"Well, we should see to your hands," he said. "And, uh, my clothes. Can you stand?"

She nodded and did so. His clothes really did look a mess; she doubted they'd ever be clean again. The floor was just as bad, with both blood, pools of half-dried candle grease, and those piles of ashes - ashes she was determined not to touch with a twenty-foot pole, thank you very much.

"I'm sorry about your shirt," she said.

"You could have told me what you were about to do," he deadpanned, "and I would have taken it off."

She scoffed. "Like you would have let me if you'd known."

"I'd let you do a lot of things."

She sneaked a hand under his sticky shirt, ignoring the pain. "Oh yeah? Anything fun?"

"No, because we have vampires to kill."

"I wasn't talking about that kind of fun," she complained and met his laughing eyes.

That was a mistake. It struck her then with full force what had happened and what had nearly happened, and she pulled away from him.

"Vamps it is, then," she said.