“Those who forget history are condemned to repeat it.” - George Santayana
Near Kyoto, Japan: Genroku Year 4
Kaede watched as the eta loaded the last of the heads into baskets. They would be scattered to the winds, sent to shrines and castles, eight places as far from each other as possible. Each would be assigned to a family or sect to guard through the generations, and even she would not know all their locations. Maybe it would be enough to ensure that Orochi would never rise again.
Maybe.
She had refused to leave her post while the eta, the handlers of the dead, finished their grisly work. She had not slept since the battle, refusing food or rest until the field of battle was clear. Long black hair blew around her face, tangling and waving in the cold wind along with the tattered remains of her once-white kimono. Blood stained the trailing edges of the fabric. It was no surprise that none of the monks cared to linger long enough to insist that she eat or sleep. Her appearance and the hard, steely glint in her dark brown eyes were enough to keep them all at bay. None of the pain she felt made its way to her face. Her wounds hurt, but she refused to acknowledge them. After all, they would heal soon enough.
The same could not be said for her heart.
Kaede had always known that her time in this world was limited. As a slayer, she had thought she understood her destiny: to fight and eventually fall facing the vampires. She was to hold back the darkness for as long as she could and then die young, allowing another to take her place.
She was supposed to be the one who died fighting. It was her duty, her sacred calling, and the dark irony of the situation did not escape her. She knew in her soul that she should not have walked away from this fight.
Takeshi’s ashes had blown across the plain to be trampled into the snow. Kaede’s knuckles clenched white around the sword in her right hand, a dark mimic of the one resting on her left hip. The lacquered wood of the scabbard was smooth and warm against her skin. She would keep her promise, to Takeshi and to herself.
Kaede watched as Ichiro organized the monks and eta who would be transporting the baskets. She could feel his gaze, even at a distance. He would never know the truth of what had happened here. He did not deserve it. When all traces of the battle were cleared away, she would be escorted back to Edo. The monks would help her purify her mind and body, wash away the taint of death that seemed to follow her everywhere. She would leave this place, but she would never forget.
Kaede’s hand moved to her stomach. Takeshi had heard the new life there, growing in her womb. If it was a boy, she would name the child after his father, but a girl? A girl she would name Tsukiko. After all, what better name was there for the daughter of a slayer and a vampire than Child of the Moon?
Sunnydale, California: 1999
“All I’m saying is that you either owe me some marathon girl time for therapy or about a ton of chocolate.” Buffy paced the length of her dorm room, her nervous energy carrying her back and forth between the confining walls.
The slayer could feel Willow’s wide eyed gaze, pleading and contrite. “Buffy, I said I was sorry. I’ve made with the groveling. I even baked you cookies. I don’t know what else I can do.”
“Do you have any idea what this is like?” Buffy stopped in her tracks and faced her best friend. “Do you?” her voice took on a panicked edge. “I kissed him Willow! And he was good at it.” She sat down abruptly on the squeaky dorm mattress and dropped her face into her hands. “I think about the…” her skin crawled with barely disguised disgust, Yes, disgust, we’re going with that explanation, “kissing, and the other… stuff and this is all your fault!”
Buffy glared around her fingers at the redheaded witch. Willow’s eyes had grown wider and wider throughout the litany. At that moment, they looked ready to roll out of her skull. The slayer groaned and covered her eyes again.
This is a nightmare. Yup, I’m gonna wake up any second now…
Ever since Willow’s “Will Be Done” spell, Buffy had not been able to go an hour without thinking about the peroxided pest. Spike had seemed about as impressed with the entire situation as the slayer. After she had managed to get him back to Giles’ apartment and safely chained back in the bathtub, the Scoobies had been treated to his loud and very profane feelings on the matter. He had finally promised to stop yelling if he was allowed in the living room while Giles and a mortified Willow explained what had happened. His laundry list of complaints had not stopped, even if the volume had been scaled back. It had finally taken Willow literally shoving a cookie into his mouth to silence him.
Stupid, obnoxious, evil, sexy vampire. No! Bad Buffy, not ‘sexy.’ ‘Sick,’ that was what I meant.
Buffy dug the heels of her hands into her eyes as if trying to squeeze the last couple days out of her mind. To make matters worse, a pall had fallen over her relationship with Riley. He had accepted her hasty explanation of her strange behavior readily enough, but he had never stopped looking at her like she was going to explode or start speaking in tongues. Not that she could really blame him.
Not when three days later she was still thinking about another man’s lips.
Buffy abruptly jumped to her feet and grabbed her toiletries bag from her dresser. “I’m going to go brush my teeth.”
“But you’ve already…” started Willow.
“And I’m going to do it again.” How could she explain to Willow that she could still taste smoke and whiskey, blood and cool lips whenever she closed her eyes? How could she tell her best friend that she had brushed her teeth until her gums smarted under the assault the night before and still woke to the flavor of Spike on her tongue? How could she reassure the redheaded witch when she could not make sense of the tangle in her own mind?
Minty freshness, here I come.
“I’ll be back in a sec Wills,” and with that the slayer left the room, fleeing the worried gaze of her friend.
Fifteen minutes later she finally gave up. With leaden steps, Buffy returned to her room. She found Willow hanging up the phone. “That was Giles. He wants us to meet him at his apartment.” The witch looked at her worriedly. “Are you feeling any better?”
“Right as rain.” The forced cheerfulness in her voice made Buffy wince inwardly. In spite of it all, she managed to conjure a cheerful smile. “Let’s go see what Giles wants.”
Buffy, with Willow in tow, came bounding through the watcher’s front door not twenty minutes later. Seeing Giles pacing on the far side of the room, she called out, “Hey Giles! What’s the what?”
The watcher looked up from the letter he had been reading and nodded vaguely at the two girls. “Hello Buffy, Willow. Why don’t you have a seat,” he gestured with his free hand towards the couch.
When Buffy got closer to the couch, her eyes were drawn to the open wooden box that sat on the coffee table. “Look Willow! Giles brought me toys!” Two katanas, one in a black scabbard, the other in a tan sheath, sat inside of the velvet lined case. The swords were obviously old, the fabric wrappings on the hilts stained and frayed by time, the lacquer on the sheaths brittle and cracking, but Buffy’s hands itched to hold one of the weapons.
Buffy tossed herself onto the couch and pulled her feet up next to her. She looked up at Giles, face expectant as Willow took a seat next to her. Mysterious weapons and letters promised to provide a distraction from her unfortunate vampire obsession. Anything had to be better than rotting in her dorm room, replaying the events of Willow’s spell over and over in her mind.
Her watcher cleared his throat and held up the folded pieces of paper. “This is a letter from Quentin Travers.”
Okay, maybe not anything.
Buffy’s fingers dug into the fabric upholstery. “What part of ‘I don’t work for the Council anymore’ does he not understand?”
“Please Buffy. I know how you feel about the Watcher’s Council. For what it’s worth, I share your sentiments, but this seems to be important.” When Buffy released her death grip on the armrest, he continued. “He, ah, sends his regards and has forwarded the following letter and weapons,” he gestured vaguely towards the two swords, “from a Miss Reiko Maruyama.”
“Another watcher?” Buffy’s voice was cold and dismissive.
“No, actually. I guess you would call her a legacy. Her ancestor was a slayer in Japan some three hundred years ago.”
“But I thought that slayers don’t usually…” Willow trailed off with an apologetic glance at Buffy.
The slayer filled in the blanks in her own mind. Slayers don’t usually live long enough to have children. It was something she had tried not to think about ever since being chosen. Being a mother, watching her children grow, buying baby clothes: those were a few amongst a thousand childhood dreams that she didn’t think she would ever get to experience. Dreams she tried to pretend weren’t important anymore.
Buffy smiled at Willow, but her lips were thin and no warmth reached her eyes. Either Willow was too distracted to notice or Buffy was getting better at putting on a happy face whenever the going got rough. Then again, maybe she had been pretending for so long that her friend couldn’t tell the difference.
“Her name was Kaede, and she is one of the few slayers in recorded history who had a child.” Giles’ voice was clipped, businesslike as he continued. “I won’t bore you with the more technical details, but Kaede was responsible for defeating the demon lord Orochi. Despite her best efforts, she could not kill him though, so she dismembered him and his heads were sent to castles and monasteries all over Japan to be protected.”
“Wait,” Buffy interrupted. “Heads?”
“Yes, ah.” Giles scanned the rest of the letter. “Eight actually. He was apparently quite large.”
Buffy and Willow exchanged glances and the slayer rolled her eyes. “Quite large” could mean just about anything, none of it good.
Giles continued. “Four of the heads went missing during the fall of the Tokugawa shogunate. Two more after World War II. Over the last few months, the final two heads were stolen.”
“Stolen?” asked Willow. “Who would want two demon heads?”
“I’m afraid that a better question would be: who would want all eight heads? The first head was taken two months ago in Osaka, Japan. The monks guarding the shrine could not identify their attackers, but they did describe the men as well trained and equipped, maybe professional military.
“Then last week, the final head was taken from the Maruyama dojo in Chicago. Miss Maruyama was abroad at the time, apparently visiting relatives back in Japan, but her senior student had the misfortune of finding the robbery in progress. He was shot with some kind of tranquilizer, but not before he heard one of them speak.” Giles paused and gave Buffy a pointed glance. “They were American.”
“You think our little tin soldiers have been stepping up their extracurricular activities?” When the watcher nodded, Buffy continued, “But Giles, why would they go all saving private headless anyway?”
“With the proper rituals and all eight heads, Orochi can be resurrected. I would imagine that they intend to experiment on him, or maybe do to him what they did to Spike. I pray that is not the case though, because without certain spells and potions, which have been kept secret by the guardians of the heads,” he gestured with the note again, “Orochi cannot be injured or even feel pain. Trying to control him with a chip would be worse than useless.”
“Please tell me they sent their whole mystical cookbook.” Buffy asked, all business. “Don’t get me wrong, I love a good slay, but if I can’t even hurt this Olestra, then I’d rather take a rain check.”
“Orochi,” whispered Willow.
“Whatever.” Buffy looked up to find Giles watching her with a long suffering expression barely concealing his amusement. “Giles? Spells?”
The watcher cleared his throat. “Yes, the requisite ingredients and incantations are all here.” He shuffled the pages for a moment. “They seem common enough, even though the combinations are certainly unique. Also, the swords are important. It says here that they must be wielded by the slayer and, ah,” he scanned through the papers again before stopping and peering at Buffy cautiously over the rim of his glasses.
That reaction was never good. “What is it?” Buffy asked.
Giles finally met her eyes, but his gaze was guarded. “And her vampiric consort.”
Buffy found herself under the expectant eyes of her watcher and best friend. She glanced between them, nonplussed.
“Conswha huh?”