GarniGal's Journal:

"And they lived ever after." Dru whispered to the moon.

"Happily ever after, pet." Spike mumbled against her cool white skin. "We'll live happily ever after."

Dru pushed him away then curled into ball with her hands buried in her hair. "Always dark, dark night, dark blood, scent heavy in the air, then
sun comes, and the sun makes me so sad, Spike! So angry! All my happiness, down in dust."

"Hush, princess. If ever the sun shines, I'll be your parasol. Spike'll keep you happy,  naught to worry you."

But she wouldn’t be comforted, as  long as they lived.

She wasn’t a rebel. She married young, and obeyed as a good wife should, cooking and cleaning, smiling politely and hiding her pain.

She wasn’t a hero. She birthed a son, and tended him as a good mother should, lunches and laundry, smiling sweetly and letting him lead.

She was a hero. She rejoiced in her daughter, and guided her as a good witch should, magics and mutiny, smiling proudly and offering strength.

She was a rebel. She died young, and left the legacy that a good woman should, pinched pennies and prayers, ensuring her daughter had a better life.

“Our Father…”

He sits at his mother’s side, but his attention is fixed on Lil Malick’s skirt, and how it displays her dimpled knees.

“Give us this day…”

He leads the prayer now, his strong voice and strong opinions building a church he can be proud of. He looks out over the congregation, attention caught by a girl in a short skirt.

“Lead us not…”

He travels to spread his message and finds himself trusted. If girls start disappearing when he visits their town, he prays all the harder for the poor lost souls, and leads the search parties.

“Amen.”

Back from my honeymoon and the first thing I had to do was write a drabble for open_on_sunday.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was sixteen when he came to town, with his clean, unstained shirts and heavy books in unrecognizable languages.

Her hands were hard and calloused from working in the fields, burned from cooking meals over a wood burning stove. Her clothes were dull from washing, simple and plain in design.

But he said he saw something in her, a bright spark that set her apart from her family and friends. He gave her hope that she wasn’t trapped into this life, made her dream of escape.

And he pressed a stake into her hand and led her into the dark.

Kendra didn’t play. Never built castles with rocks and twigs, never held a rag doll and crooned a lullaby.

Kendra didn’t tease. Never leaned on a car and looked through lowered lashes at a handsome boy, never giggled and squeezed his hand.

Kendra didn’t shout. Never clenched her fists and stomped her feet, never argued for one more hour before curfew.

Kendra didn’t cry. Never curled on her bed and sobbed her heart out because of some small slight, never grieved a loss with silent tears.

Kendra trained, was called, killed and was killed in her turn.

Faith didn’t play…

I don't know why this one gave me fits and wouldn't work until now.

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( First Meetings - The Fanged Four )

She woke spitting and fighting. They’d used magic to down her, after she’d outrun and outfought every hunter they’d set on her heels.
They wouldn’t risk a hunter to unknown magic. They still wanted to eat, after all.

She strained against her bonds. They’d tied her tightly, but left a length between her and the tree she was tied to.
They wanted her to fight, but not win. They needed to break her, after all.

She screamed with rage, but swallowed her pain. They’d looked at each other, pleased with what they’d done.
She was their crowning achievement, after all.

“Buffy, come to dinner!”

They sat in tense silence, all attention focused on their plates. The scrape of fork and knife were jarring, but any words now would just lead back to another argument, start another no win fight. She remembered when they could linger over a meal for hours, just talking about what happened that day, what they were planning for tomorrow.

“I’m heading out, I’ll be home by curfew!”

She checked her watch as the door closed behind Buffy – 7 minutes.

“Hank. I can’t go on like this.” Hank set down his fork. “We have to tell Buffy.”

He spent more time on it than he really should have. But it had been so long since he’d indulged in a project like this.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Each element blended seamlessly into the next, leading the audience, all unknowing, to the great reveal.

Old Time is still a-flying:

He considered each detail carefully. This first masterpiece would set the tone for all the rest.

And this same flower that smiles to-day

One last look and he had to go. His art would have to succeed or fail on its own merits now.

To-morrow will be dying.

_______________________________________________________________________
Now, the question is: did I make it clear enough?

Fortes fortuna adiuvat. Or so claimed the script on their elegant letterhead.

They took it to heart, their motto. Bravery and boldness were traits to promote and develop.

Oh, not in themselves. They threw themselves into books, only daring the dangers of papercuts and eyestrain. But in the Slayer... bravery and boldness were to be encouraged above all. The Slayers had been given great strength and great speed, natural abilities that allowed her to challenge vampires and demons. She should react instinctively, impulsively. Strategy could... interfere with her greatest abilities.

Fortune favours the brave – and if not, there was always another.