A/N: It's my birthday, so I give you presents. I love my logic. Enjoy and thanks for the comments of the last few bits.
The alley has no name. She finds it not by any conventional means but spends a week walking a grey city, touching walls, tracing long forgotten paths, wringing memories from aeons past.
Then she hides far up in the fire escape and waits.
That is where.
Ten years ago the first piece fell into her lap, quite literally. It hangs around her neck now, dangling between her breasts, waiting. A pendant to manipulate time and space. A tiny blue gem set in silver vines of ivy or some other forgotten plant from the edges of the world. All it takes is a drop of blood and a will of iron and then –
That is how.
The head hunter comes tearing around the corner at breakneck speed three nights later, shortly after two am. Her quickening rushes down his spine as he brakes hard, sword scraping along the wall. His eyes widen as he realizes his mistake. The alley is a dead end.
He spins in time to see his would be victim skid around the corner and block his escape. The blonde does not feel Sun’s quickening. It is her own after all. She grins unconcernedly and lifts her sword in a ready stance.
“You weren’t trying to run from me were you? Because attacking me and then running away? That’d be like totally bad form.”
Such fire, such youth and energy and passion
. She barely remembers ever being like that.
That is when.
Ever since the pieces of the puzzle fell into place she has spent long hours staring at walls, trying to decide whether or not to be here, now, tonight. Whether or not to do this.
Whenever she decided not to, Methos would walk into the room and smile at her and her resolve would crumble.
Whenever she decided to do it, something would happen to remind her of age and time and bitterness and death and hunger and hate and brittle things.
But in the end it all comes down to two things. One, the one thing she has learned over the millennia is selfishness. She does not want to cease existing. She does not want to lose what she has here, now, tonight.
Two, she’s already done it, hasn’t she?
That is why.
Below, a blonde whirlwind of life and mortal things swings her sword in a high arc, aiming for the head. She does not enjoy death. Does not take pleasure in bloodshed. Not yet.
Her opponent ducks and spins, looking frantically for any means of escape. He knows his death now that he has seen its face and he wants to live. Insect. Tiny, pathetic, arrogant insect. He thought he could take the slayer’s head. Thought he could be a god. All he will be now is a nameless corpse in a nameless alley.
“You know,” the slayer chirps, ”You could at least hold still. I mean, you started this, remember?”
He swipes at her, overreaching, stumbling, skittering back like a scared animal. Up in the fire escape Sun smiles thinly.
“It’s not fucking fair,” he suddenly snarls, “You shouldn’t even be one of us.”
The smile falls from her face like rocks from a cliff and the glitter in her eyes gains an edge that wasn’t there before. Resentment. Anger. He tried to unbalance her, instead he made her mad. Silly little bug, teasing the bird of prey.
She stabs forward, pulls back, feints left and slices deep into his arm. His weapon droops. Her smile returns but it is fake, too bright, too cheery.
“Well,” she suggests, “That’s what happens when you get resurrected by your best friend and resident witch. Funny thing, huh?”
A moment later she has him on his knees, panting hard. He is dead and he knows it. But instead of giving up, of giving in, he rears up one last time and stabs her deep, deep in the gut. Then his head falls and he just stops
The slayer looks down at her stomach and the sword sticking out of it and frowns. “Crap.”
Then the quickening fills the air with ozone and she dies in a storm of blue.
Sun drops to the ground in a graceful arc, landing between two bodies. For a moment she stands very still, a ghost among ghosts, staring down at the face staring back at her. Staring at herself. A reflection in a reflection in a reflection, an endless row of mirrors stretching through forever. From the end of time to the very beginning. It makes her dizzy.
Then she kneels beside the blonde woman and pulls the sword out of her abdomen with practiced ease and no grimace. She wipes it clean and puts it away. Then she picks up the slayer’s sword and places it on her chest carefully, a grave marker for one who will spend the next five thousand years dying but never dead.
She nicks her finger on the blade and carefully places a drop of her blood on the centre of the pendant. She lays it over the other woman’s heart on pale bare skin, cooling rapidly in the chilly night air. She pushes all of her will and memories of sand and sun into the gem, pushes with all her might until it glows.
She does not worry that anything might go wrong. It didn’t.
Then she stands, brushing a stray strand of honey out of her own – the slayer’s – still face.
A moment later the portal starts to open with a crackle of blue, so similar to the lighting marking the death of one of their kind.
That is the condemnation of self.