Author: Emella/Cherry Sinclaire
Pairing: None; Slayer & Watcher; Buffy & Giles.
Warning: None really
Summary: A slayer and watcher. The dynamic, the changes, the history, evolution. The slayer line. Short. Drabble-ish. One-Shot.
Notes: I started thinking about BtVS season 7 and I realized what Buffy realized; Giles wasn’t in charge, wasn’t the leader, she was. Also: this started out as a core-four(Buffy, Giles, Willow, and Xander) fic, but ended up a slayer fic.
Notes#2: This goes from the first slayer to Buffy.
Disclaimer: The characters/notions behind this story belong to Joss Whedon, 20th century Fox, and Mutant Enemy.
The first slayer was solitary. A single girl, working in secret, in the dark to hold the line. To keep the monsters at bay. One girl couldn’t destroy the evil, they should have known that. From the beginning there had only been one.
She was the first and last slayer to ever be alone. To walk the line between good and evil, day and night, light and darkness. She fought alone yet surrounded. Primal and basic, she fought with grace, speed, and skill. She’d stood on the grasslands, the mountains, the cemeteries, and at the flood gates. She held her ground and did not waver. Her hands shook and she lost battles, but she did not bow for any man; She always won the war. Alone and shrouded in shadow, she was taught to fight; a weapon against evil, against the dark, against the night.
A slayer was raised in the dark to fight the dark. Guided by the moon to hunt to kill, to stop the bad. Pale against the moonlight and driven into the night. Fighting, shrouded, concealed beneath twilight. She fought the dark. Alone. Silent
But then along came the watcher.
A watcher was to do, what a watcher was to do. A watcher sought out his slayer and enabled her to fight the monsters. He trained and guided her to her destiny. He lurked in the shadows watching the dance. Waiting for the inevitable day when his job was over, and she lost, yet again.
A proper watcher was good and just, and always knew right from wrong.
Watchers weren’t supposed to be bad. Streaked with rebellion and touched by the dark; He was the outcast in the age of tradition and polite solitude. If a watcher scoffed at gravity, he laughed at the notion of it.
Watchers didn’t kill people.
Watchers didn’t need to make snap judgments or come up with original answers: ‘When in doubt, check the handbook.’ Hellgods and souled vampires didn’t exist in the handbook. He was supposed to do. To be. To expect. To enforce. To require. To guide.
Watchers didn’t become attached. They didn’t care, or grieve, or love.
He wasn’t supposed to care, or to grieve, or to love.
But he did.
He expressed his emotions, he laughed and cried, smiled and sneezed, he yawned and screamed. He was supposed to work alone beside her: advise and escort. He fought and cared, lead and followed, loved and lost.
He wasn’t a watcher, a seer, a leader. He wasn’t the one in charge, he didn’t wield the power.
The dynamic had changed, they both caused it to change, to morph, to dissolve and rebuild.
For once, she lead the dance, she didn’t tow the line. The slayer hadn’t begun with a watcher, she wouldn’t end with one. Her power was lost, taken over by men. Oppressed and abused, beaten down. Taught that she didn’t belong, she wasn’t in charge; It wasn’t her power, it didn’t belong to her.
But she had realized, he had realized, learned, he-they were afraid, of her-of what she was. What she could do. She didn’t bow at authority, she stared it down. Stared them down. She wasn’t going to be submissive again. She was the slayer, one woman.
She didn’t belong to them, she didn’t bend or break. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She was as strong as any man. Stronger. She fought monsters. She didn’t weep in the dark. She wouldn’t be afraid of demons; she wouldn’t be afraid of men.
She was the slayer.