'Sunshine! Wilt tha sleep, golden an' warm, til it's time to let tha' go back?'
 
'Back? Whu-?' *Ok, note to self, Buffy brain and waking up are unmixy things. Need caffeine*
 
'Come now, little thing. Naught good it'll favour tha to rest overmuch. Tis time to rise and face thy music.'
 
*Wait a minute, what happened last night? I was fighting... OH! That bleached 80's reject from the highschool. He sounded a bit like Giles, but WAY more with the making of the snark. What do I remember? We fought, I chased him through some cemeteries, and found him at the warehouse the Anointed one used to nest at... Didn't he bite me? He BIT me! And now there's some strange woman trying to wake me up and I know I died because he-wait, Giles said his name was William something-or-other- told me he'd kill me when we fought and if I'm dead, why do I have such a headache?*
 
'Uh, where am I? Is this... Am I dead?'
 
A rich chuckle penetrated her skull, and her eyes fluttered open. The first thing she noticed as she cautiously sat up was a short, stout woman beside the bed. ‘Dead tha art, sweetling, but tha hast work to do and things to learn even here. Tis no rest for a Champion-in-Training, and tha hast much to accomplish with little time for’t.’
 
‘Way to vague things up. Can any of the supernatural people in my life make with the sense? Or is it a PTB requirement that cryptic clues and/or weird accents are the order of the day?’
 
‘Oh lovey, tha’d have to ask them thy own self, an’ late tha art already. Now up, up my girl, we’ve got much to do here. Clothes in the chest there, and belike tha’s ahungered. I’ll lead tha off to break thy fast if tha’ll only get dressed. I’ll wait outside for thee.’
 
*All in the life- or death I guess- of the Hellmoth's Chosen One. Can my wiggy life get ANY weirder? And NO, that isn't an invitation!*
 
 

---

 
 
 
*Time flies, like a pigeon. Or a hammer. Much to do with the sun sleeping. Secrets slipping, broken dolls to return. Mustn’t tell, Miss Edith mustn’t speak out of turn or there’ll be no cake for supper. Such pretty poetry, the sunshine’s return at knightfall.* The owner of these thoughts flitted from shadow to shadow. Amber eyes glowed from beneath a prominent brow-ridge as her form passed beneath one of the vanishingly few streetlights in the district. When she arrived at her destination, Drusilla skipped around the side of the building and dashed in the side door. *Mustn’t tarry, mustn’t linger. All angels and princesses burn and wither under the harsh glare of Apollo*
 
She eyed the crumpled form in the centre of a cleared space. It looked like a hurricane had gone through the lower floor, with smashed crates and the table that had graced the floor where the body was now laying in splinters. The slender vampiress minced her way through the splinters and wreckage, pulling a thick piece of yellowing parchment from her bodice. She peered at it before replacing it and kneeling beside the fallen Slayer. ‘Oh Sunshine. Mercury drained and pinions crippled. How are you to fly when he has broken your body to the floor?’ Drusilla looked skyward, human guise melting over her demon’s face. ‘Bad dogs shouldn’t be shown the sparkling fireflies of might-have-been, they bite and madden them. I chose the best and bravest knight in all the land, but I birthed him wrong and now he’s nearly spoiled the tea-party! You know better. You know. Time to make it right. Mummy is always cleaning up after the children.’
 
The mad seer lifts the body. With all the life and vibrancy stilled, the shell seems less than the sum of its parts. She steps towards the door and darts into the night.
 
An insistent drubbing on his door brings the Council’s representative to wakefulness. Giles rises swiftly, worry on his brow as he hurries to his closet and dons a robe. His haste brings him clattering to the front door, which he wrenches open, heart in his throat. He hasn’t seen his charge in over 24 hours and he hopes against hope that it’s her. The doorway is disturbingly empty and the disappointment threatens to floor him. Head dropping to look at the floor, he recoils in horror. The daughter of his heart is laid out before his threshold like an offering, hands folded over her breast. Her skin appears waxen, Californian tan competing against bloodless pallor. Perhaps the worst thing about the scene *she’s dead. She’s DEAD! It’s too soon ohgodohgod* is the tiny silver dagger pinning a sheet of parchment through her palms.
 
His hands shaking, the Watcher lifts his precious burden and carries her to the dining table before laying her out again. Gently moves her hands to her sides and removes the parchment and the dagger. His brow furrows as he attempts to decipher the foreign language. For a moment, a different man’s eyes flicker to the body on the table, anger deep within the sadness. Absently polishing his spectacles, Giles moves to his bookshelves and starts rifling through the collection. Pulling a codex of ancient predictions from the stacks at his desk he flips through it until he finds what he is looking for, muttering to himself and taking notes. Sipping on a glass of scotch, his eyes spark for a moment and he wonders. There is a lot to consider, after all. He knows some of it is missing, but that’s not as important as what is there. For some time he’s suspected that the line had passed to the new slayer, called when she had died for that minute last year. Now that it seems certain that his charge is retrievable, that it is desirable that she should return, he isn’t going to question it too closely. It appears he has some of what he needs, and if what he’s read is correct then he has his own part to play. *Saeson’s mount?* something niggles in the back of his mind. He reaches without appearing to look at the shelf at beside the desk and retrieves another tome. He looks over it, skimming quickly before his eyes light up in a Eureka moment. *Looks like I’m going back to Merry Ole’*
 
As the hours drew closer to dawn, the man looked as if he had aged a decade overnight. The level on his crystal decanter crept closer to the bottom and yet still, Giles could not conceive of a way to inform her mother. *God, no wonder we traditionally isolate these young women.* And it was only now, in the tiny hours of the new day, that British stoicism gave way to bitter tears in the face of a heartbreak so profound it seemed inconceivable that it could leave anything whole in its wake.
 
The shrill clarion of technology interrupted the Watcher’s silent vigil. His eyes leapt to the clock over his desk before he grimaced. Nothing ever good came of a phone call at 4 in the morning, especially on the Hellmouth. The scratchy voice of the sleep-deprived woman on the other end had his eyes closing in mute misery. ‘Giles, who is the White Queen, and does she have anything to do with why Buffy hasn’t been home since yesterday evening? My baby... she’s... Oh tell me it’s all in my head Giles, tell me nothing’s wrong and she’s beside you and I can talk to her right now!’
 
He cringes reflexively. ‘Ms. Summers- Joyce. How did you-? Nevermind. Unfortunately you are only partially correct, the dear girl is beside me, but (a fortifying breath) she is unable to reassure you as to her wellbeing. I am afraid I have been the recipient of perhaps the worst home delivery in history.’
 
‘Oh God! Oh my God... Giles do you mean to tell me that someone has delivered my daughter to you? This is that Slayer nonsense she was going on about isn’t it? That ‘early expiration date’? So help me if she is dead! Oh God... she is, isn’t she? I just know it. I woke up this morning with just the most awful feeling, and then someone knocked on my door. I thought perhaps Buffy had locked herself out after a long patrol, you know how forgetful she gets- oh (a sob) –got. I found an envelope on the doorstep. There was a note, it just said “Black Knight takes White Queen” and there was your number written on the reverse! Giles who would write such a horrifying thing? I’m coming over now; I hope you don’t plan on keeping me out when you have my little girl there’
 
‘I wouldn’t dream of it my dear; I told you my door is always open. I am so sorry it is under such terrible circumstances though. I have some things I need to share with you that I think would be best related in person. It appears- well- I hope I am not misinterpreting it but- Oh, just come over and I will let you see what it is for yourself.’
 
Just as the pale fingers of dawn begin stroking the horizon, a grieving mother reaches the last resting place of her child. She knocks quietly at the door and is immediately granted ingress. A heart-broken wail is heard, faintly. Then the half-light of the rising sun is left to brighten a diurnal course that no parent should have to bear, that day that they survive their own offspring.
 
‘So what you are saying is that she was SUPPOSED to just die?! That there was no choice and no way to prevent it?’
 
‘It would appear that there was a slight chance that it wouldn’t be necessary, but this prophecy deals with the assumption that the worst did in fact occur. The hope is that my welsh is not so rusty as to have completely mangled the translation, that she is indeed supposed to return. I know it’s a long shot my dear lady, but if I may? I believe it is entirely viable. She was a very special young lady, and the fact that there is such a clear instruction on retrieving her spirit makes it likely that the Powers are not done with her yet; it appears she is to become a Champion of sorts. Here, I’ll show you what I have so far.’
 
Amidst the notes and crumpled paper is a piece of parchment very like the piece that she had received her cryptic note on. Underneath it is a line by line translation;
 
Ai Gwynnwy Banon chodymau , 'r byrddia hysgubir
If White Queen falls, the board is swept
Mae'r Hyrwyddwr yn dysgu o'r newydd
The Champion learns anew
Gwreichionen addysgir 'r rhyfelwyr chyfundrefn
Spark is taught the warriors code
Dychwelodd i ymladd, ail-bendithio gan dynged
Returned to fight, re-blessed by fate
Os Gwyliwr yn hedfan i ddal y seren
If Watcher flies to catch the star
Mae disgleirdeb dros fynydd Saeson yn
A brightness over Saeson’s mount
Gwynnwy Blanc yn dwyn y llwybr cartref
White Horse bears the pathway home
Achos Bencampwr - addysgedig rhyfelwr 'n grai
For Champion-taught a warrior new
 
Hon 'na must 'r ceisiedydd arwedda
This then must the seeker bear
At chyrch 'r Gwynnwy Banon addef
To bring the White Queen home
A 'n euraid chlo, 'r Gwynnwy Banonau ddiwyg
An golden lock, the White Queen’s garb
Arian agoriad, er bob amser 'n awchlym
An silver key, though ever sharp
A 'n goch 'r bannod chan Dadau asgre
And red the line of Father’s heart
Er e bod mo chrau 'r carennydd amlyma
Though he be not blood the kinship clear
 
‘And you think she’s this White Queen? Who’s the black knight that ‘took’ her? I think you are missing something here, is this all you have to go on?’
 
‘Unfortunately yes, this is all. Judging by her wounds-‘
 
‘Oh God they hurt my poor baby so badly! She’s so pale’ Joyce sobs. The shock is wearing off and it’s hitting her hard.
 
‘Judging by the wounds, she’s been exsanguinated. That is, it was almost certainly a vampire. There is only one set of bite-marks, and given the fact that her throat is not torn out or mangled, she was no longer capable of struggling. Buffy has been highly resistant to thralls since her run-in with the Master last year, so I would hazard a guess that she fought a vampire of master status, who was either working alone or had lost all their minions by this point. They would have had to overpower her and incapacitate her for long enough to drain her. No simple task.’
 
‘I don’t care about all that, I just want my baby back. My poor Buffy!’
 
‘Allow me to make you a cup of tea Joyce, we can discuss what needs to be done and make a plan. I still need to go through some of my books.’
 

Chapter End Notes: Be aware, the prediction Giles received is not complete   Also, Saeson's Mount and the White Horse refer to the Uffington Horse in Oxfordshire, the oldest chalk-cut turf horse in Britain, it dates from around 1000 BC (Late Bronze Age) or so, perhaps as late as 100 AD (Iron Age)