A/N: I'm probably getting predictable in my old age but the next couple of stories should come in chronological order. I want the horsemen complete before I get to ripping them to shreds, bless their vicious little hearts. Thank you for your nice and encouraging comments!
Dru’s eyes turn don’t turn white as Cordelia’s did – will do, one day – but they turn glassy whenever the sight takes her over and so Buffy holds very still as soon as she notices the other woman’s expression and lets her lean into her.
After a few agonizingly slow moments, Dru returns to her body with a slight shudder and a drawn out sigh. Unerringly, her left arm lifts to point south as she says, “Blue lightning. Forever. A fight. That way. The black eyes are your gift.”
After that she closes her eyes and refuses to say anymore. She is tired and getting old slowly, but still too fast for Sun who still looks like she did twenty, fifty years ago. It’s not fair but it’s life and this is how it goes so, with all the care in the world, the blonde hands the seer over to her chosen mate and takes off toward the south. She has some water, her scythe and immortality with her. She needs nothing else. Not anymore.
She walks half a day without rest before she hears it. One might think that sound carries far in the plains of the desert but they don’t. Wind whips them away and the soft sands swallow them and so, she’s barely dune away when she hears the sharp metal sounds of swords meeting. Even after several decades, they still seem to dull. She is used to weapons much sturdier, much deadlier
than those of this age.
One quickening races down her spine followed directly by another as they come into sight. Two men, both with swords, both dirty and bloody and panting hard, fighting for the right to take everything from the other.
One of them is a mountain of a man, black bearded and tattooed, the other is lighter, faster, with features that – even through the grime – seem cut from stone. Clear lines and an amused expression even as he escapes decapitation by a split second. His eyes are black and neither man pauses to acknowledge her presence.
So she just stands there, waiting, watching as the smaller man gets disarmed, his arm breaking with a jarring sound. His weapon arches in the air, catching the sun for a moment, before crashing back down, close to her feet.
Clutching his injured arm, he drops to his knees and more metal catches the light as a sword is drawn back for a strike that will behead.
She has known for a long time that Dru’s visions are not sent by the Powers or any other deity. She does not know their purpose. Are they meant to warn or just to show? To help prevent or guide the path?
Black eyes are her gift, that is what the vision said. But how can she take her gift? How can she interfere in a fight about which she knows nothing and pick one stranger over another? Either of the men below could bring hell or salvation to this desolate world and what right does she have to interfere in that?
Maybe Dru’s visions have no purpose at all, simple flukes with no impact. But the fact remains that they show black eyes as hers and she…she wants
Once upon a time that would have meant nothing. Her desires always came last, the world before her. But here, now, it is enough to make her lunge for the lost weapon and throw it toward the kneeling man.
In a breathtaking move he throws himself forward, under the falling stroke of his opponent, reaches out, grasps the hilt of his weapon and drives it into the other man’s knees.
A moment later, lightning gathers above-head and the fight is over in a flash of blue and blood.
Head thrown back, arms spread, she lets the quickening whip around her and into another, enjoying the feel of power and electricity that wraps her up for just a few seconds. It’s about power, she knows that now.
Then, still feeling light, she slides down the dune to kneel beside the winner. He looks up at her, eyes wide with exhaustion and surprise, face weary. He holds his weapon tightly.
“I will not harm you,” she placates, hands in plain sight, far from the handle of the scythe behind her shoulder.
“Why?” Neutral, serious and oh so smooth. Close up his eyes are not the piercing black she noticed before but the deepest blue she has ever seen and they glitter like dark stars. Beautiful, beautiful creature.
“You are mine,” She tells him.
He looks at her forever, not judging, mot measuring, just looking. Then he nods and allows her to set his arm.
Years later he fights by her side, matching her step for step, never faltering, never dying like everyone else. She found him because Dru showed her the way but she keeps him because he reminds her of nothing and demands only what she is willing to give.
There is love there, she is sure, but he is no Angel or Spike, not even a Riley, though those memories seem dim at the best of times now. He is simply himself and when she crawls into his tent at night, she belongs. He is her gift and her gift is Death and belonging to him feels like home.
That is all there is to it.