Clear

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They stand loosely grouped together in the bright midday sun. The dust of their victory clings yet to the air, hovering; a eulogy.

In the arid desert heat, Buffy stares down into the gaping maw where Sunnydale once stood. She stands beneath clear skies and tries to remember the heavy taste of grave dirt in her mouth, the wet pressure in her chest and throat, the smell of ash and electricity and the whole world falling apart.

But it is gone.

The skin on her palm is smooth and pink, and a double vision flickers at the edge of the void; a golden haze of dappled light that shifts and breaks in swells of distant melody. The fire in her blood has cooled, and the blazing beacon in her breast has surged and steadied. At the edge of the still-crumbling abyss, Buffy’s feet stand firm. Her eyes are bright. Her mind is clear.

Her headstone is miles deep already.


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Next up - The Gulls