SERIES TITLE  : A Time To Cry
CHAPTER       : Epilogue
AUTHOR        : Black Widow
EMAIL         : bw@l...
SUMMARY       : When death is only the beginning of the pain and        
                suffering
SPOILERS      : Season 5
RATING        : PG
PAIRING       : Gen Fic
DISCLAIMER    : The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant
                Enemy, Kuzui, Sandollar, and Greenwolf Productions, 20th
                Century Fox, the WB Network, and whoever else may have a
                hold on them. The situation is wholly mine, and I do
                not mean to infringe upon any copyrights.
ARCHIVE/DIST  : Whatever.  An email if you use it would be nice
NOTES         : The prologue, interlude and epilogue tell the story, as
                it was related by the Slayer's mother, so that it could
                be remembered. 
                The other chapters (should they ever be told) will tell
                the story of her death in full, of how she lived and
                loved and lost, of the guilt and the pain, and her
                dream for an end to the suffering.

*

She was my grandmother and she gave me the most wonderful life anyone
could ever wish for. I was near middle age when she came to me and told
me her story. 

I lived alone in a house I inherited from a relative I never knew.
There were no pictures on the walls, no books in the bookcases. I had
no albums of photographs, nothing to tell me who I was and I had no
compulsion to find out. I had an allowance paid from an anonymous bank
account that was much more than I ever needed to survive. I never
dreamed, I never had any nightmares. I had everything and I had
nothing, yet I was complete.

I had but one friend, a dear old lady who would bring me flowers. My
house was full of flowers. Not cut or dried, only living flowers that
we would spend half the day tending. And we would sit and sip tea and
talk of inconsequential matters. Or she would regale me with tales of
magic, of strange creatures and monsters and a girl that killed them.

Yet she would never say their names. It was always 'the chosen one' and
her friend 'the witch' with her lover 'the betrayer'. She always spoke
so fondly of her lover that I often wondered why she called her that
but she would never tell me. The chosen one had a sister she called
'the key' but when I asked what she unlocked she would always change
the subject. There were other friends who helped them in their
struggles. I think she loved some of them, too. There was the librarian
and the heart and the werewolf and the soldier.

She always had such a faraway look as she told me her stories. She
would lapse into long silences and there were often tears in her eyes.
Yet more often she would laugh and we would sit watching each other,
smiling for no real reason.

I took to drawing sketches of her. I had no great skill, but she
encouraged me, not out of vanity but as a mother encouraging a child.
At first I just did portraits, simple drawings of her as she talked or
as we looked after the flowers. Then we began to go for slow walks in
the summer sunshine. She would tell me how little the town had changed
in all the years she'd lived here. She would point out the places she
used to go to, where she grew up, where she went to school, where she
lived before she went away.

We would sit and talk and I would sketch. Then, as she grew bolder, we
would go to the strangest places. We would go in the morning to a
cemetery and we would sit and she would tell me a story and have me
draw it for her.

Other times she would look at me conspiratorially and show me her own
magic. Little spells that brought light like small fairies, or she
would make a pencil float in the air. One day she brought a single cut
rose and spent all morning just looking at it lost in her own memories.

Then grandmother came.

Early that evening, just after the sun had set, she came to me and told
me her story. She bade me not to speak but only listen as she poured
her heart out to me. And she gave me the choice, so afraid for me but
not knowing that there could only ever be one answer. 

So I showed her the rose and we cried. I showed her all the pictures I
had drawn, and told her of the tales I had been told. And I told her of
how she was remembered and then I knew how great her grief truly was.
All through the night she told me her story and I showed her how much
she really was loved, for there were only ever the kindest words
between the witch and her betrayer.

Morning came and she asked me one last time. And one last time I told
her I wouldn't want it any other way.

*

The front door was open, as it always was. I sat on the carpet and
waited. In front of me I'd drawn a circle, and within the circle I'd
drawn a star. At the sound of footsteps I closed my eyes and held the
rose next to my heart and silently prayed.

I heard the sharp intake of breath and looked up at her. "H-hello,
W-willow," I said as softly as I could, unconsciously stuttering. If I
was afraid before, I was petrified now. I saw the look of horror on her
face. "C-come, s-sit," I offered and her face softened. "I've missed
you." I'd never gambled as much in any of my lives as I did then. I
waited for her to move, I didn't dare do anything more. She looked at
me and saw the rose in my hand, clutched tight to my breast, uncaring
as the thorns dug into me.

Slowly she edged towards me and sat down. "How could you?" she asked,

"Because I had to."

We sat in silence.

"Betrayer," she said, finally.

"Witch." I watched her closely then smiled, knowing that she accepted
me. Not what I'd done, but accepted me for who I was. It would take a
long time for all the wounds to heal. So much blood had been spilt, all
of it hers, none of it mine. Willow would always be the victim.

She regarded me closely, searching my face, staring into my eyes,
looking for some difference, something that would tell me apart from
the dead people she'd known and the young woman she spent her days
with.

"I'm so many people, you would not believe," I told her. "Ultimately I
am who I was but foremost I am the woman you loved."

"So now you come back and ruin another young life?"

Oh, it hurt. I tried to keep the pain from showing, but it was so hard.
"I... I gave her the choice."

"Choice?" she thought for a few seconds. "Death or life as a Slayer's
mother? But she doesn't even get to live that, you do."

"No, she'll live it. Not yet, but later she'll live it. This and so
much more."

"I've heard promises like that before," Willow spat, "usually from
vampires and demons."

"What I am is not the same but what makes a Slayer has to come from
somewhere. It wasn't my choice to retain my awareness, but I lived my
lives as the people I became. Only once was I ever anything but
your..." I couldn't say her name. I held out the rose to her and opened
my hand. The rose remained in the air, floating between us.

*

We went for a walk. We talked about our lives, what we'd done, how we'd
lived. Who we'd loved. There were long periods of silence as our talk
returned to our former lives. "The longest time I'd lived since bearing
a daughter was ten years," I told her. "In forty years I've had seven
daughters." Willow did the math in her head and was appalled.

She never realized - she never had reason to contemplate - just how
good a Slayer her best friend was. And just how difficult she made it
for those who came after her. Buffy the vampire Slayer was a legend -
and demons and vampires don't like legends. And a Slayer was a Slayer,
whether she was 10 years old or 10 months.

As the afternoon came to a close we returned to the house. "What made
Buffy a legend," I said, "was not who she was, it was who she was with.
Her friends, her family. It was the love they had for each other. Never
doubt the power of love."

Willow looked up at me with those beautiful eyes of hers and I could
see the tears she wanted to cry. As much as she hated me she had never
stopped loving Tara. "Or forgiveness." I opened the door for her and
she saw the rose still floating where we'd left it.

"I may not have Tara's body, but she is still inside me." I waited. I
thought I knew my Willow, I was banking on still knowing her. I knew
her capacity for love and how boundless it was. I knew how many times
we'd faced adversity and emerged from it stronger than we were before.
We had lived together for ten years; if fate hadn't been so cruel, we
would still be together now. If Willow's heart was capable, there was
no reason we couldn't have another fifty, I knew she had the power to
forgive. But it never stopped me from trembling as I waited, watching
her. She never looked at me once, she never took her eyes off the rose
as she stood up straight, went over to it and took it in her hand.

"I think," she murmured, turning to face me, "I think we destroyed one
too many roses." She came to me then and I held her in my arms. "I want
this one to last." And now there were tears in our eyes as we both
cried and hugged each other, as we saw that we were still so much in
love with each other, as we kissed.

It had been such a long time, but I talked to her as Tara would have, I
held her as Tara would, I kissed her as Tara would. Then I talked to
her as my granddaughter did, held her as she would and kissed her as I
would. This time it would be Willow who would have to adjust to a new
body, to learn to love another person, to overcome her personal fears
as we forged a new relationship.

So I made her climb the stairs to my bedroom, I pushed her through the
door and onto the bed. I started undressing in front of her all the
while she babbled on at me, protesting how old she was and how young I
was, and how could there possibly be any way... I undressed her as she
fidgeted, knowing full well that she just needed to get it out of her
system. And when we were both lying naked on the bed I kissed her. "Do
you remember the night my grandmother died?" I asked her. She nodded,
so I told her, "it wasn't Tara that made love with you."

It took a second for Willow to understand, and when I saw that she did
I kissed her again. I had one more surprise for her, but that would
have to wait until morning. Until then I wanted us to get reacquainted
and there was no better way that I could think of.

*

After Buffy I had seven more daughters. My first was with Willow, then
I had my insane years when I gave more thought to the mother than to
the welfare of the child. I had three girls, one in Hong Kong, one in
Africa, one in Brazil. The next I had in New Zealand, thinking that
perhaps the remoteness might make growing up easier. Then I went to
France and finally I came back to America.

Yet all through this I never stopped thinking of home, and so I
formed a plan. 

I needed financial security so I could be independent, personal
security so that above all my daughters would be safe, which meant I
had to live in the right location. And I needed knowledge, so through
agents I managed to acquire Giles' library when he passed on, and the
effects of other less able individuals.

But mostly I wanted to do my duty as best I could with as much love as
possible, which meant I needed a family.

And Willow and my granddaughter were very much a part of it. I set up
the trust fund that pays her - my - allowance; I kept the house so that
she might live in it; and I had the most elaborate security system
built into it so that she would be safe. If my insane years gave me
anything, it was low cunning and the highest survival instincts. When I
had the money I built myself a small empire. If the Council of Watchers
so much as spit, I'll have someone there to blow it back into their
face. I also knew how to be cold and ruthless.

But not with Willow. Never with Willow. When she finally fell asleep I
gave the signal that would restore our home with one special addition.
I wanted her to feel at home, to be wanted and loved, to be a part of
the family. I had so much I wanted to give her, there was so much I
owed her, not least of which was my unconditional love.

*

I used to adore Willow first thing in the morning. I loved watching her
wake up, open her eyes and look at me. I loved watching her smile. The
next morning I discovered I still did. I was nothing like Tara, I was
much taller, slimmer, my eyes were brown and my hair black. Yet she
looked at me and smiled so sweetly. We said our good mornings and we
showered and dressed then I told her I had a surprise for her.

Her initial delight turned to immediate suspicion. "Trust me," I told
her. There was no way I could explain it to her so I urged her down the
stairs to the basement door. "Didn't you ever wonder what happened to
the door?" We were standing in front of a blank wall.

"I guess not," she whispered.

"Touch the wall," I said, "anywhere." She could sense my excitement but
she was still suspicious. "Go on."

She jabbed at it with a finger and the hidden door drew back. I showed
her the security system and we argued semantics; I insisted that I was
protecting my only granddaughter, and she complained that I was spying
on her, manipulating her. 

Then I showed her the A.I. and she softened briefly at the thought of a
new toy to play with. I used that moment to tell her, "If I had had the
slightest doubt, I would never have come back. And don't dare call me
calculating, because you have no idea how much I agonized over this
decision. I've lost seven daughters and made more sacrifices than you
could begin to imagine." I leaned against a wall for support, the agony
was all too close. Willow saw it on me for the first time and blanched.
She held me while I recovered, she had no idea how close the pain was,
but she was about to find out.

I heard the front door close. I knew the system wouldn't let anyone in
the house it didn't recognize as friendly. "There's someone I'd like
you to meet," I said quietly, taking her hand. I clung to her as we
climbed the stairs. "I only bear Slayers," I continued and caught her
glance; her mind hadn't lost its sharpness. "And, if you will, I want
us to be a family again." Willow barely nodded. "Within a year I'll
have another daughter."

We all have to make sacrifices. Sometimes we have to die so that others
might live, but there always has to be a reason for it. My first death
seemed so senseless at the time but it was necessary. As was my last.

"The most important thing," I paused as we reached the top of the
stairs, "is to have a family to look after them and a mother to guide
them."

I'd learned many lessons over the years. Of course, a Watcher never had
nine lifetimes of experience as I did now when it came to raising a new
Slayer. Without a mother a Slayer is nothing. But then, I'm no ordinary
mother.

I led Willow through to the kitchen. "Honey," I said. Willow looked at
the young girl raiding the fridge then at me. "Tara told me a long time
ago that two heads are better than one." The girl turned to face us.
She was five years old, bright as a button and had a beautiful mop of
bright red hair atop the prettiest face. She smiled shyly at us and I
could feel Willow's heart melt and I knew I'd finally have the family I
always wanted.

"Willow," I smiled at her, "I'd like you to meet my daughter."