Summary: Faith Lehane was born in Boston to a drunken mother and absentee father, or so she had believed for 17 years. Then she was called as the Slayer and things took a turn for the worse when she accidentally killed the Deputy Mayor. The Watcher's Council learns of the death and tries to return her to England. She manages to escape and in so doing finds out that she had been adopted by the Lehanes and that her birth parents had given her up for adoption. Now she heads for San Francisco to reunite with them and along the way she will try to strive for the redemption she craves.
AU: Prologue set at the end of BTVS Season 3 Episode Consequences and Chapter 1 starts with Charmed Season 3 episode Wrestling with Demons. BTVS seasons have been set back about 3 years to align with Buffy and Faith's new date of birth (Dec. 1983 for Faith January 1984 for Buffy). Their new date of births are to coincide with Prue's new date of birth. I have Prue born in 1967 instead of 1970 as in canon that way Prue is sixteen instead of thirteen when she gives birth to Faith. When Dawn is introduced to the story in BTVS season 5 she will be Faith's sister instead of Buffy's. Also Tara who is not seen till the start of BTVS season 4 is Buffy's cousin and Tara is the daughter of Sabrina Spellman and the grandniece of Zelda and Hilda Spellman. Tara is also the twin sister of BTVS character Celia (seen in Killed by Death). Joyce is the older sister of Sabrina and Buffy is Sabrina's niece.
Pairing: Faith/Buffy, Prue/None, Piper/Leo, Phoebe/Canon and Paige/Canon
Disclaimer: Disney owns Buffy, CBS owns Charmed and Archie Comics owns Sabrina the Teenage Witch
Prologue
December 14, 1983 – Wednesday
Bay Area Hospital, San Francisco
Penny Halliwell stood steadfast at her granddaughter's side, clutching her hand tightly as Prue Halliwell unleashed a piercing scream that seemed to reverberate through the air. Each contraction intensified the ordeal, and Prue, her face streaked with tears, turned to her grandmother in a plea for respite.
"Grams, please, make it stop," she implored, her voice quivering with a mixture of agony and desperation.
A cascade of emotions swirled within the room, a blend of familial support and the profound struggle Prue was undergoing. Her grandmother's response carried a gentle weight, laden with understanding and a touch of regret. "I wish I could, Prue, but you said that you wanted to have a natural child birth," Grams consoled, her words both comforting and tinged with the harsh reality of the moment.
Amidst the tense atmosphere, the doctor's voice cut through, a beacon of guidance in the storm of sensations. "Hang in there, Prue. We're almost there. One final, strong push," the doctor encouraged, her words infused with encouragement and a glimmer of triumph.
With a grip that felt as though she could extract the very life force from her grandmother, Prue summoned every ounce of strength within her. The room seemed to hold its breath as her efforts reached a crescendo, and then, with a profound release, the world welcomed a new arrival.
"It's a girl," announced Doctor Karen Channing, her tone carrying the weight of this miraculous moment.
As the newborn was tenderly swathed in a cozy blanket, the nurses gently placed her into her mother's awaiting arms. Time seemed to stand still as a surge of emotions overwhelmed both Grams and Prue. Tears flowed freely, each droplet a testament to the depth of their shared experience and the profound bond that connected generations.
Amid the tears and amidst the palpable sense of awe, Prue's gaze settled upon her daughter. Her voice, a delicate mixture of exhaustion and wonder, held a newfound tenderness. "You look just like your daddy, my little one," she whispered, her words carrying a promise of love and protection for the journey that lay ahead.
"Ah, Prue, my dear," Grams mused, a warm chuckle escaping her lips as she cast an affectionate gaze upon the tiny bundle in Prue's arms. "She will be a heartbreaker, just like her mother."
"She will," Prue agreed. A bittersweet smile played upon her lips, a poignant understanding threading through her eyes. In the wake of her mother's departure six years earlier, Prue had shouldered the solemn responsibility of aiding her grandmother in nurturing her younger sisters. The weight of that duty had been an unwitting training ground, shaping her for the moment when she would bring her own daughter into the world.
With a tender look, Grams redirected her attention to the newborn, a spark of curiosity glinting in her eyes. "Now, Prue," she inquired, her tone a delicate blend of anticipation and grandmotherly pride, "what name have you chosen to grace this precious soul?"
The question hung in the air, inviting a reflective pause from Prue. As if contemplating the very essence of her daughter's being, she allowed a serene smile to grace her lips. "Patricia Andrea Tru…"
A gentle correction, imbued with a sense of tradition and legacy, flowed from Grams' lips. The bond between generations, a tapestry woven with familial history, pulsed softly in her words. "Halliwell, my dear. Women in our family keep our last names. It's been that way since I married your grandfather. Just as P names have always been…"
A nod of agreement, an acknowledgment of the ties that bound them to a shared history. Prue's heart swelled with both nostalgia and a newfound sense of purpose. "You're right, Grams," she affirmed, her voice a gentle murmur that held the weight of generations. "Patricia Andrea Halliwell."
A radiant smile bloomed on Prue's lips; her gaze tenderly fixed upon her daughter. "That said, Andy will still be listed as her father," she added, a quiet assurance threading through her words.
May 4, 1985 – Saturday
Halliwell Manor, San Francisco
Phoebe's heart swelled with joy as she held her infant niece, Patricia, in her arms. The little one's big, curious eyes seemed to absorb the world around her with wonder. "Okay, Patricia," Phoebe cooed, her voice gentle and melodic. "Are you ready for something fun? Aunt Phoebe is going to teach you a new today!"
Patricia gurgled and squirmed in response, her tiny hands reaching out to touch Phoebe's fingers.
Phoebe leaned in closer, her expression conspiratorial. "Now, listen carefully, sweetie. The word we're going to learn is 'wicked.' Can you say that? Wi-cked."
She enunciated the word slowly, her eyes locked onto Patricia's cherubic face. Patricia blinked, seemingly intrigued by the new sound.
"Wicked," Phoebe repeated, her tone filled with excitement. "It's like a secret code for when something is super cool, or kind of naughty in a fun way. Like when Aunt Phoebe sneaks an extra cookie before dinner – that's a little bit wicked!"
As if on cue, Phoebe produced a small, colorful toy and wiggled it playfully. "See this toy, Patricia? It's so colorful and fun. Can you say 'wicked'?"
Patricia stared at the toy with rapt attention, her tiny lips parting as if contemplating the sound.
Phoebe's heart raced with anticipation. "Come on, Patricia, you can do it. Say 'wicked' for Aunt Phoebe!"
Patricia babbled in response, her attempt at the word a sweet and endearing jumble of sounds that sent Phoebe into a fit of laughter.
"That's it, cutie!" Phoebe exclaimed, her laughter carrying a touch of pride. "You're getting there! Wicked!"
July 17, 1985 – Wednesday
Halliwell Manor
In the kitchen, fragrant with the promise of delightful creations, Piper stood at the worn counter. An apron adorned her, a badge of floury honor, as she embarked on a heartfelt journey to share the magic of cooking with Patricia. A tender smile graced her lips, a mixture of excitement and adoration.
"Okay, little Patricia," Piper's voice danced with affection, "today we're going to make something super yummy together!" Her words were like a comforting embrace, enveloping Patricia in a world of warmth and discovery. "First things first, we need to wash our hands." Gently guiding Patricia's tentative hands, Piper orchestrated a playful symphony of splashes, their giggles filling the air like joyful music.
Patricia's laughter danced like tiny bells, her hands waving like delicate petals kissed by morning dew. Her innocence illuminated the room, a beacon of pure delight.
Piper's nurturing touch dried Patricia's hands, a soothing transition from one step to the next. "Great job, Patricia! Now, let's put on your special chef's hat." With a touch of whimsy, Piper crowned Patricia with an infant-sized chef's hat, a tangible symbol of the culinary adventure they were about to undertake.
Carefully, Piper gathered the ingredients, each item thoughtfully placed within Patricia's grasp, a gentle invitation to explore. The kitchen was their canvas, the ingredients their palette, and Piper the patient guide to this artful journey.
"Today, we're making cookies!" Piper's voice shimmered with excitement, a promise of delightful flavors and unforgettable moments. "You're going to be a cookie-making pro, Patricia." The anticipation in her voice held a touch of pride, a glimpse of the future where Patricia would proudly wield a whisk and spatula.
As if presenting a treasure, Piper unveiled a generous mixing bowl and a trusty wooden spoon. Patricia's eyes widened in awe as they locked onto the utensils, her heart ready to partake in the enchanting ritual of creation.
"Here, sweetie, hold the spoon like this," Piper's voice was a tender lullaby, guiding Patricia's miniature hands with an unspoken promise of togetherness. The spoon became a bridge between them, a conduit for shared experiences. "Now, we'll start with the flour. Watch carefully." With a grace only a child could appreciate, Piper measured the flour and cascaded it into the bowl, a soft, billowing cloud that whispered of potential and possibility.
Patricia's gaze remained fixed, her innocence absorbing the sacred dance of ingredients becoming one. Her own hands mimicked Piper's, a delicate ballet of trust and imitation, the bonds of family etched in every motion.
"Good job, Patricia," Piper's voice was a hushed whisper, like a secret shared between kindred spirits. "You're a natural." Her words were a gentle affirmation, an acknowledgment of Patricia's innate connection to the culinary world. Piper's smile was a beacon of encouragement, a silent promise of unending support and love.
Guiding Patricia through the tapestry of flavors, Piper added sugar, butter, and chocolate chips to the bowl. Each ingredient carried a story, a memory waiting to be woven into the fabric of Patricia's own culinary journey.
"Now, we need to mix it all together," Piper's voice was a soothing caress, a melody of tenderness that floated in the air. "Can you help me stir, Patricia?" Their hands intertwined on the wooden spoon; their shared laughter painted the room with the hues of joy. The gentle clinking of metal against porcelain was a symphony of unity, a duet that sang of connection beyond words.
"See, Patricia, cooking is all about having fun and spending time together," Piper's words were a spell of enchantment, weaving a cocoon of memories around them. The dough surrendered to their dance, surrendering to their rhythm, a testament to the magic that unfolded when hearts aligned.
"Now, we just need to shape our cookie dough," Piper's hands moved with grace, transforming the dough into art. A piece was plucked, and Piper's fingers waltzed, demonstrating the delicate art of forming a perfect sphere. She passed the baton to Patricia, her heart brimming with pride.
Piper's smile was a sunbeam, radiating warmth as Patricia attempted to mimic her. The dough ball that resulted was a masterpiece of imperfection, a tribute to the beauty found in every nuance of life's journey.
Piper's laughter joined Patricia's, a harmonious chorus that celebrated uniqueness. "Perfect! Every cookie is unique, just like you." Her words were a mantra, a promise etched in the very fabric of Patricia's being.
The cookie dough was nestled onto a baking sheet, a canvas ready to bear witness to their culinary creation. The oven's embrace enveloped it, turning their efforts into something magical. "And now, we wait while our cookies bake," Piper's voice was a lullaby, soothing and reassuring as they embarked on the final leg of their adventure.
As they waited, Piper retrieved a picture book, a treasury of dreams painted in vivid colors. "Look, Patricia," Piper's finger danced across the pages, a guide to the endless possibilities that lay ahead. "These are all the yummy things we can cook together as you grow up. There's so much more we'll explore in the kitchen." Her voice was a bridge to the future, an invitation to a world where flavors and love intertwined, creating a tapestry that would forever bind their hearts.
Amid the gentle hum of anticipation, the oven's chime pierced the air, a triumphant fanfare heralding the culmination of their shared effort. Piper's careful hands, steady and reverent, retrieved the tray of cookies as if unveiling a long-lost treasure. "Our cookies are ready, Patricia!" Her voice was a symphony of delight, notes of satisfaction and pride harmonizing in perfect cadence. The sight of those golden-brown gems, each with a story to tell, ignited a blaze of joy in Piper's heart.
"Time to taste our delicious creation." With the tender touch of a mentor, Piper selected a cookie, its warmth radiating through her fingers like a promise fulfilled. A small piece was broken off, an offering extended to Patricia like a key to a hidden realm. The morsel dangled in the air, suspended between past and future, carrying with it the essence of their shared journey.
"Go ahead, sweetie," Piper's words were a soothing breeze, coaxing Patricia into a realm of flavors and sensations. "Take a bite!" Patricia's playfulness danced in her eyes, a ballet of innocence and wonder, as she embarked on this sensory expedition.
A nibble, delicate yet profound, connected Patricia with a world of tastes previously uncharted. Her eyes widened, twin stars twinkling in delight as the cookie's magic danced on her taste buds. A sigh of contentment whispered through the air, a whispered affirmation of the bond being woven between them.
"And that, my little chef," Piper's voice was a canvas painted with happiness, "is how we make cookies together." Her words were a bridge between generations, a testament to the timeless joy of culinary exploration. "Cooking is a wonderful way to create memories and share love." The room seemed to hold its breath, caught in the spell of Piper's sentiment. "One day, you'll be cooking up a storm just like me!"
As if summoned by the very magic they had woven, Grams materialized in the doorway, a loving observer of the scene that had unfolded. Her eyes crinkled with a knowing smile, a silent acknowledgement of the bonds forged in flour and laughter. "Piper!" Her voice was a gentle breeze, a chorus of approval as she walked toward them, the aura of generations intertwined in her presence.
"So how did she do?" Grams' words were an invitation to share, a bridge between the past and the present.
"She was the perfect little helper," Piper's response was laced with affection, a tribute to Patricia's role in their culinary symphony. Her gaze shifted between her grandmother and her niece, a radiant connection woven through time and love. The kitchen stood as a witness, a sanctuary where memories were etched and hearts were bound in an unbreakable tapestry.
December 14, 1985 - Saturday
Halliwell Manor
"Mrs. Halliwell," the man across from Grams began, his voice carrying an air of gravitas, "your great granddaughter is destined to fight…"
The words hung in the air like a weighty proclamation, each syllable a harbinger of something vast and unknown. But Grams wasn't one to be swayed by ominous insinuations. Her face, etched with a lifetime of wisdom and determination, remained unyielding.
"I don't care what notions you hold, sir," Grams declared with unwavering resolve, her voice laced with a protective fierceness that sent a chill down the spines of those who dared to question her family. "You will not lay a single hand on her. Now, if you'd be so kind as to vacate my home before I find myself compelled to involve the authorities."
The man exchanged a glance with his partner, the gravity of the situation settling over them like a shadow. As they retreated from the Manor, the weight of their unspoken intentions lingered in the air. Their expressions held a mix of caution and calculation, their minds already formulating alternate plans. There were ways to achieve their goals without a direct confrontation – they knew that all too well.
"We might have to resort to more forceful measures," Carl Callaghan mused, his voice heavy with concern, as they observed the grand Manor from a distance. The sense of urgency underscored every word he spoke.
His companion nodded in reluctant agreement, their shared understanding of the gravity of their mission forging an unspoken bond. "But before we proceed, it's best we report back to the Council," the other suggested, his tone reflective of the respect they held for the hierarchy that governed their actions.
"Agreed," Carl affirmed, a heavy sigh escaping him as the weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders once more.
Watcher's Council Headquarters, London England
"Their sure of these findings?" inquired Quentin Travers, the authoritative Head of the Watcher's Council, his brows furrowing as he received the latest report from one of his field operatives.
"I had it verified the moment it landed on my desk," responded his diligent personal assistant, her voice carrying a hint of earnestness. "Our team stationed in the United States has meticulously confirmed the discovery of another potential Slayer. Regrettably, standard approaches for extraction have proven ineffective."
Travers nodded, absorbing the information with a composed demeanor. "A challenging situation," he commented, his tone tinged with a measured blend of acknowledgment and anticipation. "Mr. Callaghan's report calls for immediate extraction of the girl, given the breakdown in negotiations. Is there reason for immediate concern?"
"There seems to be," the assistant replied, her voice maintaining a professional calmness. "The great grandmother's background has been identified – she's a witch. Moreover, her granddaughters are believed to be the individuals mentioned in the prophecies of the witch Melinda Warren from the year 1692 – the Charmed Ones. This, of course, implies…"
"Magic courses through her veins," Travers interjected, his gaze drawn to that specific section of the report. His mind seemed to churn with implications as he absorbed the weight of this revelation. "Well, that simply won't do. We cannot afford to have a potential Slayer tainted by their influence."
"But our field watchers are skilled in magic as well," the assistant countered, a note of curiosity underlining her words.
"True," Travers acknowledged, a trace of frustration clouding his features. He stood from his desk, his posture exuding a sense of resolve. "However, if this girl – who may become the next Vampire Slayer – also possesses knowledge of the Wiccan arts, then our control over her becomes untenable. A weapon serves no purpose if we cannot effectively wield it."
Halliwell Manor
Outside the formidable Manor, Callaghan's eyes were fixed on the unfolding scene. One by one, the warm lights that had bathed the house in a golden glow gradually dimmed and disappeared. The atmosphere was charged with a blend of anticipation and urgency as he exchanged glances with his companion, Thomas Lehane.
Callaghan's voice held a mixture of determination and caution, the gravity of the situation settling upon them like a heavy shroud. "We are going to need to cloak ourselves so the old woman doesn't see us and doesn't know that we took her great granddaughter till long after we're gone."
Lehane's response echoed Callaghan's solemnity, a resolute understanding threading through his words. "Once we secure the child within the safe house, we will need to cloak her so that any locator spells and scrying magic fail to work."
"Agreed," Callaghan assented with a decisive nod, his eyes never leaving the Manor. The moment hung heavy with purpose, the weight of their mission underscored by the necessity of precision and subtlety.
As the moon cast its silvery glow upon the scene, the two men cast a concealment spell upon themselves – a shroud of invisibility woven with magic and intention. The world around them seemed to bend, their presence hidden from view.
With practiced finesse, they unlocked the grand front door, the sound barely a whisper in the night. Swift and silent as shadows, they moved through the Manor, their steps guided by purpose. Ascending the stairs, their heartbeats seemed to echo in time with the gravity of their mission.
In the dimly lit nursery, their eyes fell upon the crib where the two-year-old lay sleeping, blissfully unaware of the fate that had come to claim her. The atmosphere held a hushed reverence as they carefully lifted her, each movement infused with a delicate blend of urgency and determination.
September 4, 1988 – Wednesday
Summers Residence, Los Angeles
Four-year-old Buffy Summers played in her room with her toys, a sense of unease washed over her, like a ripple in the fabric of reality.
Her small hands gripped a stuffed animal as her eyes unfocused, a distant look settling upon her cherubic face. In that moment, her surroundings seemed to blur, and a vision unfolded before her.
A young girl, not much older than Buffy herself, appeared before her mind's eye. The girl's face was etched with pain, her eyes pleading for help. Buffy felt a surge of emotions – fear, sadness, and an overwhelming desire to make it stop.
In her vision, Buffy witnessed scenes that made her tiny heart ache – harsh words, cruel actions, and a sense of vulnerability that resonated deep within her. She could almost feel the girl's pain as if it were her own, a visceral connection that transcended time and space.
Tears welled up in Buffy's eyes as the vision played out, and she clutched her stuffed animal tighter, as if seeking comfort and solace. The weight of it all settled upon her tiny shoulders, a mix of confusion and determination swirling within her young heart.
As the vision subsided, Buffy blinked, her focus returning to her room. She was left with a lingering sense of urgency, an instinctual understanding that she had witnessed something important. In her own innocent way, she knew that she had to do something – to make a difference, to protect the girl who had appeared in her vision.
Breathless and with a sense of urgency Buffy rushed into the living room where her mother sat, her heart pounding in her chest. Her wide eyes were filled with a mixture of concern and determination as she tugged at her mother's sleeve, her voice a rush of words.
"Mommy, Mommy!" Buffy exclaimed, her words tumbling out in a flurry. "I saw something, something bad! There was a girl, and she was hurt, and... and I think I saw the future!"
Joyce, taken aback by Buffy's sudden appearance and the urgency in her voice, quickly set aside her book and knelt down to Buffy's level, concern etched on her face. "Slow down, sweetheart. Take a deep breath and tell me what happened."
Buffy took a shuddering breath, her eyes still wide with the weight of what she had witnessed. "I had a vision, Mommy," she said, her voice quivering. "I saw a girl, she was sad and scared, and people were being mean to her. I think… I think something bad happened to her!"
Her mother's gaze softened, and Joyce gently cupped Buffy's cheek, her touch a comforting anchor in the storm of emotions. "Oh, Buffy," she murmured, her voice soothing. "You have a special gift, and it's okay to feel scared or worried. But remember, you're not alone. We'll figure this out together."
Buffy's eyes welled up with tears, a mixture of fear and relief washing over her. She clung to her mother, seeking solace in her embrace. "I want to help her, Mommy," she whispered, her voice tremulous. "I don't want her to be hurt."
Joyce held Buffy close, her arms a cocoon of love and understanding. "We'll do everything we can, sweetheart," she assured Buffy, her voice tender. "You're a strong and caring girl, and together, we'll make sure that this girl is safe."
As Buffy nestled into her mother's comforting embrace, a newfound sense of purpose welled up within her.
October 1, 1988 – Saturday
Spellman Home, Westbridge, Massachusetts
A rip in the fabric of reality tore open, unveiling a swirling vortex that seemed to tug at the very essence of existence. From within the tumultuous void emerged a sight that struck at the heart with a mixture of horror and sympathy. A tiny figure, a mere child of about four years, dressed in a peculiar attire that blended the innocence of babyhood with a jarring twist of darkness, was caught in the midst of a cruel ordeal.
Inexplicably, the air seemed to carry the anguished cries of the little girl, her voice a fragile echo of pain against the backdrop of the eerie portal. The sight was both mesmerizing and heart-wrenching. This was a child who should have been cherishing the innocence of her early years, yet she was subjected to the lashings of a cruel force, her form flinching with every merciless strike.
Joyce, her heart surging with a potent mix of compassion and determination, stepped forward without a second thought. The dire scene ignited a fierce protective instinct within her, as though a motherly bond had instantaneously formed between her and the tormented child. The voice that echoed from the portal was chilling, its tone dripping with malice and an aura of ominous authority.
"This girl is the Source's heir; she is being made stronger and the imperfections of the light are being removed. You will never save her," the voice intoned, its words laden with a sinister prophecy that sent a shiver down Joyce's spine. But in her eyes, there was a fierce resolve that refused to yield to the voice's proclamation.
As the voice's words reverberated in the air, Zelda, Joyce's paternal aunt, who had stood steadfast beside Joyce, found fear clawing at the edges of her courage. The resonance of the voice bore a weight that seemed to be eroding the very foundations of reality itself. And yet, with a surge of her own magical power, Zelda channeled her fear into a potent act of defiance.
Summoning her arcane abilities, Zelda's incantation resonated in harmony with the raw energies surrounding the portal. The turbulent rift shuddered under the strain of her magic, and in a display of sheer determination, the portal began to collapse upon itself. The vortex that had once gave way to Zelda's magic, as reality mended itself, stitching together the severed threads of existence.
January 16, 2001 – Tuesday
Sunnydale High School, Sunnydale
Giles gently tended to the wounds that marked Buffy's body, his touch careful and gentle, a reflection of his concern for the young Slayer's well-being. The aftermath of the confrontation at the docks had left its mark, both physically and emotionally, and as he worked, his thoughts lingered on the events that had transpired.
"Faith saved you?" Giles inquired, his voice carrying a mixture of astonishment and intrigue, his eyes meeting Buffy's. He had known the depths of Faith's struggles and the complexities of her relationship with Buffy, but the notion of Faith being the rescuer in this instance was unexpected.
Buffy's gaze held a mix of emotions, a blend of gratitude and something deeper, something that had shifted between her and Faith during their encounter. "Yes," she confirmed, her voice tinged with a hint of wonder. "She could have left me there to die, Giles, but she didn't."
"And the fact that she opted to come back…" Giles began, his voice trailing off as his excitement couldn't be contained. The prospect of Faith's return, her willingness to face the Council, was a monumental development.
Buffy's words cut through his excitement, her voice carrying a mixture of clarification and sentiment. "She didn't come back, Giles," she interjected gently, her eyes holding a knowing depth. "But she wanted me to give you this." With a sense of solemn purpose, Buffy extended an envelope toward Giles, a vessel containing a piece of Faith's truth.
Giles accepted the envelope, his hands steady but his curiosity piqued. Slowly, he opened it, his eyes scanning the words that Faith had penned. As he read, his expression transformed, a kaleidoscope of emotions playing across his features – surprise, understanding, and a glimmer of something akin to hope.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
Dear G-Man,
I hope this letter finds you well. I'm writing to let you know that I've taken a step I never thought I would – one towards finding my true origins and, hopefully, the path to redemption. When I swiped that truck the Watchers had arranged to take me to the airport, I discovered a folder hidden inside – a folder that held a world of revelations.
Inside were secrets about my past, about a life I never knew. I learned that I had been adopted by the Lehanes after the Council relocated me as a mere baby. My adopted father was once a Watcher – a fact that adds a layer of irony to this tangled web. It turns out my birth parents, for reasons I'm yet to understand, gave me up and left me at a San Francisco hospital. And so, I've set my sights on finding them.
In embarking on this journey, I hope to find closure, to mend the frayed edges of my past. With their guidance, perhaps I can finally put behind me the shadows that have clung to my footsteps. I've come to realize that the Council has likely buried my misdeeds, shrouding me in a cloak of secrecy. While that might mean I'm not actively pursued, I am acutely aware that, among my friends, especially with B, I have much to answer for – wrongs to acknowledge and make amends for.
Once I locate my birth parents, I yearn for the chance to pave a new road – one that aligns with the hopes you all held for me. It's a distant dream, yet one I cling to fiercely. At this point, my only lead is an original birth certificate, tucked away within that very folder. According to that piece of paper, my parents were Prue Halliwell and Andy Trudeau.
As I set out on this odyssey, one filled with uncertainty and emotion, I wanted to reach out and share my intentions with you. You've been a constant in my life, a guide through the chaos. This is my attempt to find the missing pieces of my identity and, perhaps, transform into the person you've seen glimpses of.
For now, this marks a goodbye, but not a farewell. The road ahead is unknown, but I'll carry your guidance and our shared journey with me.
Yours truly, Patricia 'Faith' Andrea Halliwell
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
Giles lowered the letter, his eyes carrying a mixture of contemplation and concern. "How did she appear when she left you?" he inquired, his tone a blend of curiosity and a hint of worry.
Buffy's gaze turned inward as she recalled the moment she had shared with Faith, a fleeting yet profound exchange. "I was with her as she wrote the letter," she began, her voice softening with a touch of emotion. Memories of Faith's determined expression and the weight of her words flickered through Buffy's mind. "There was a sincerity in her eyes, Giles, a genuine desire to seek redemption, to find her true family. She truly believes that this could be her chance to leave her past behind."
A heaviness settled upon her heart as she thought about Faith's journey ahead. Buffy's voice trembled with a mix of empathy and hope. "She told me about the birth certificate, about her parents being Prue Halliwell and Andy Trudeau," she continued, her words carrying a weight that seemed to echo through the room. "It's as if she's been given a glimpse of a future, she never thought possible. A chance at belonging, at being part of a family that cares for her."
Buffy's gaze met Giles', her eyes shimmering with a depth of emotion. "I believe her, Giles. I truly do. She needs this – a family that can provide the love and support she's been deprived of. Like the family I have, like the family we've all become."
US Route 101
Faith sat on the bus, her gaze fixed on the horizon as the sun began its ascent, painting the sky with streaks of fiery brilliance. The golden hues of dawn held a poignant beauty, a reflection of the hope that fluttered within her chest. The sunrise felt like a personal message, a sign that the universe itself was lighting her path, guiding her steps towards an unknown yet promising destination.
Amidst the breathtaking spectacle of the rising sun, Faith found herself wrestling with a storm of emotions. Her thoughts were a whirlwind, a tempest of memories and aspirations that danced at the edges of her consciousness. The rumbling engine beneath her seemed almost distant, a soothing backdrop to the cacophony of her mind.
Around her, the chatter of fellow passengers swirled like a symphony of humanity, a reminder of the world that continued to spin and thrive beyond her personal journey. Yet, within the cocoon of her thoughts, the road stretched ahead like a canvas of endless possibilities. It was more than just asphalt and miles – it was a symbol of her future, a future imbued with the promise of brightness and warmth.
The road, unending and ever-winding, seemed to mirror the winding path of her own life. It represented more than a physical journey; it was a testament to her resilience, a testament to her strength and determination to forge a new destiny. The uncertainty that lay ahead was softened by the glimmer of hope that shone within her, a hope that whispered of the family she yearned to find.
Her heart swelled with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, like a fragile bud on the cusp of blooming into a vibrant flower. She dared to dream of a family that would embrace her, that would love her unconditionally – a family she could finally call her own.
Author's Note: Westbridge, Massachusetts is where Melissa Joan Hart's Sabrina the Teenage Witch TV series was set. I am basing Zelda, Sabrina, etc. from that series and not Archie Comics version or Netflix's Chilling Adventures version.