Title: Kiss the Violets
Author: Syn
Rating: G
Spoilers: Betcha-by-golly-wow there are spoilers! The rest of Season Six.
Disclaimer: Not mine cuz if it was I'd kill Dawn and not Tara.
Distribution: Take it, see if I care. :)
Summary: Written on an impulse after reading some spoilage about the rest of the season. Not really based on anything I've seen, just making up my own events and the way it might happen on the show. Kinda short, but really sad. Poor Tara.


It smells like voilets.

Her hair is long and pale, spread across her cheeks in golden slashes. Blood, almost obscene on so gentle a creature, glistens at the corner of her lips. Blue eyes that were once so bright are now milky and glazed.


Where did she go?

Her breasts are still, the lungs beneath the pale, soft flesh dormant. Her fingers are splayed, twisted against the wound, bone and bits of sinew trapped beneath the palms that held so much power. No more power here and I see she's still. So still.

My lip trembles. I touch the golden cascade of her hair where it's spread across the red carpet. A darker crimson wets my knees as it flows around me, too thick and too warm to be real. But it is.

It smells like violets. Like death. Like mouldering things that should never have been broken.


My fingers tangle in the mess of her hair and I draw her head into my lap. Her head lolls limply on it's perch, the slender white column of her neck useless, the brain beneath silent. So silent.

Where are the words of comfort? Platitudes? Where are my friends?

Just us. Lovers. My beautiful girl with blood on her lips. I graze a thumb against those lips and wipe the blood away, smudging her lipstick like paint upon canvas. She's no canvas. She's a woman and I loved her.


My voice is weak, trembling and child-like. She doesn't answer. The house is silent. Far away I hear an ambulance wailing like I should be. But I can't cry.

The edge of my senses I hear a male voice, rough, anxious. Xander. Go away.

Just us now. Me and my love. But not anymore, we're not alone. Death is with us, slipping his mouth against ours and prying us apart. We are not one. We are separate.

I am alone.

It smells like violets. Too many violets and why not lilacs? They're so pretty in the spring.


My hair falls down against her throat, like bloody red welts. My fingers twist themselves into animal shapes against the breasts I know so well. No magic inside anymore. Nothing.

"Buffy! It's okay! Hold on!" Xander again. Fear swirls through me. Buffy? What is wrong with Buffy?

A daze, a haze and I'm up, slowly moving to the window and looking down into the backyard. My head tilts, eyes questioning. Thick red splashes against the green grass and I think it looks like Christmas down there.

But I'm Jewish. I don't understand.

Her hair is spread, fanned against the ground in a golden wave, bloody wound sucking the breath from her chest. Buffy? Xander's hands, so strong and skillful, are pressed to her chest. He's a carpenter, like Jesus. But I can see he can't make water into wine or heal the sick because she's dying. Dying like my girl.

"I'll kill Warren for this!" Xander again, his voice carrying across the yard and up through the trees to me.


I look back at my girl and then down at the fallen Slayer in the yard. What did he do?

Anger. All-encompassing, throbbing, painful and powerful.

Time slows.

I bend and take her hand in my own once more. The blood is still warm, slick to the touch. No time to say goodbye and I won't have to.

Kiss the violets, lips still and cold and aching. Kiss them now and I'll bring her back. Bring them both back. I won't let them go.


Not them! Not that fucking bastard! I will kill him. Kill him and then my girl won't be gone, won't be a stain on the floor.

A single tear as I pry my lips from hers and stand.

I walk out the door, sirens wailing louder and accosting my ears. I turn the sounds off and the world narrows to the smell of violets and blood and creamy skin.

I feel the magic swelling in my chest and I let it, eyes turning midnight black and my hands crackling with power.

He will pay and I'll have her back.

I smile and the world trembles.

He will pay.