“Life must be lived forward, but it can only be understood backward.” - Søren Kierkegaard

Near Kyoto, Japan: Genroku Year 4

Kaede and Takeshi stood back to back, surrounded by fetid steam that rose from the torn scales and stinking flesh of the demon lord. Orochi was defeated, but he was not dead.

Takeshi turned in time to watch Kaede sheathe her sword, her motions elegant and silent: the product of years of training. She was as deadly as she was beautiful, especially with a blade in her hands.

He looked at his own sword. Its gleaming surface clean of blood despite the battle it had just seen. It was strange to look at the katana without seeing his reflection in the mirror-like finish. The folded steel and sinuous temper line always evoked a sense of calm in Takeshi. The blade was a true work of art; Kaede’s father had bestowed a great gift upon his daughter and son-in-law, perhaps greater than even he could have ever known.

With a deft roll of his wrist, Takeshi slid the sword soundlessly into its scabbard. He looked up to see Kaede watching him, her eyes wide and wet with unshed tears.

“You came,” she said, her voice wavering.

Takeshi raised an armored hand to her cheek. “Of course I did. How could I not?”

“But Ichiro said…”

“Your watcher is wise to the teachings of his Council, but they do not like or accept exceptions in the war they fight.” Takeshi’s other hand absently stroked the fabric wrapped hilt of his katana. “Thanks to your father, I am one of those exceptions.”

Kaede’s own hand rose to cover the one cupping her cheek. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

“The sword, dearest.” He smiled and lifted his other hand to wipe away a tear that had escaped the slayer’s eye. “My soul went into it when I died. When I rose again, it was still there, waiting.”

Kaede leaned into his hand, her tears flowing in earnest. “I am so sorry,” she whispered. “I did not know…”

Takeshi cupped both of her cheeks and forced her to meet his gaze. “How could you? I do not blame you, Kaede.” He pulled the slayer, his wife, into his arms and allowed her to sob against the lacquered finish of his armor. “You are the slayer, and I am a vampire.”

The two warriors stood together among the remains of their enemy, momentarily oblivious to the ruin around them. Takeshi allowed himself to run a hand through Kaede’s long, blue-black hair, soothing her tears and letting the intimacy of the moment wash over him. However, reality soon came crashing back as the vampire noticed the barest lightening of the sky to the east over Kaede’s shoulder.

“Kaede, listen to me.” With a heavy heart, Takeshi pushed her to arm’s length and looked into her eyes. “I do not have much more time. The sun will rise soon.”

The slayer’s eyes widened in panic. “We can hide you! Find somewhere…”

Takeshi slashed his hand through the air in a negating motion. “Look around us,” he gestured at the wide, open plain in which they stood. The white blanket of snow was not even broken by the shade of a single tree to provide sanctuary from the rising sun. Had his horse been alive, he might have been able to reach the tree-line, but the animal lay in a pool of its own blood, torn by Orochi’s fangs. It never even occured to the vampire to hide with the remains of their fallen enemy. The spiritual pollution, even in his undead state, would have been unthinkable to the former samurai. “There is nowhere for me to hide. Now listen.”

Takeshi untied his sageo and pulled the katana from his belt. “You must take this.” Kaede was still shaking her head in denial. “You must. It holds everything that I am, and I will not have it misused when I am gone. Take it and go to the temple at Ise. There is a priestess there who has information about how to finally kill Orochi should he rise again.”

He extended the sword to her, blade facing him and parallel to the ground in the age old courtesy. Kaede’s nerveless hands wrapped around the black, lacquered scabbard. “I will do as you ask.” Her voice was dull as she clutched the sword to her chest.

The sky had lightened further, the coming glow finally visible to human eyes. Kaede’s tear streaked face turned to the eastern horizon in resignation.

Takeshi let his gaze wander over her face, tracing its contours one last time. In the silence, he heard the slightest flutter. His eyes narrowed and he focused on the vampiric senses that he had not had time to develop. He heard the sound again and his eyes flew wide as he located its source.

A pale hand stole across Kaede’s stomach. She turned to him, questions rising in her eyes at his odd gesture. The confusion on her face only increased when a radiant smile graced the vampire’s face. “You are with child.” Her mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came. “I can hear it.”

Kaede’s hand covered his own and she laced her fingers through his. Takeshi allowed himself to dream for a moment. He thought of what could have been, had fate not intervened. He would have had the family he had long desired. Grief flooded his frame, but he would not let the feelings surface. He would face his final death with dignity and stoicism for Kaede’s sake.

“It is time.” Takeshi reluctantly pulled his hand away from the slayer’s grasp and backed away.

“I will take the sword to Ise, and I will raise your child with the knowledge that you died a hero. I promise.” Her hand remained over her stomach and she managed to stop her tears.

Takeshi smiled at the brave face she presented him. “We will see each other again, beloved. If death could not keep us separated, neither will my dusting. I will wait for you.”

“And I will come, when the time is right.”

The sky was streaked with reds and purples, a sight Takeshi had thought to never see again. When the sun crested the horizon, the vampire allowed the pain to wash over and through him. Motes of ash, his own dust, drifted past his vision. Flames erupted from his skin, but he was beyond caring. His eyes remained fixed on the slayer and the sunrise behind her. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. No matter what fate awaited him, he knew that this vision would see him through a thousand trials.

Then he knew no more.

*****

Sunnydale, California: 1999

The porcelain was cold and hard, but the indignity of his situation bothered Spike more than any physical discomfort he might have felt. He was chained to the shower fixtures in a watcher’s bathtub, surrounded by enemies and waiting to be fed week-old pig’s blood from a novelty mug. He had not been allowed to bathe or change his clothes in a week and his thoughts constantly returned to the bit of silicon and wires the Initiative had shoved into his head.

His only comfort was in knowing that he had survived challenging times before and he would again. Maybe his past experiences were not exactly the same, but living as a fledgling under Angelus, Darla, and Dru had had its moments. He had killed two slayers in his time, a feat few other vampires could match. Not to mention St. Petersburg, Rome, Paris, New York, Chicago, Prague… Yes, Spike had always managed to make it through the stickiest of situations with enough scars to keep things interesting, but with most of his hide fairly intact. A vampire does not live to celebrate its first centennial without having a good dose of luck and adaptability.

That luck seemed in short supply as Spike lay in the bathtub, futilely attempting to get comfortable. He had finally managed to curl up on his side, head propped on the lip of the tub in a somewhat less cramped position when the slayer’s exasperated shout caught his attention.

“He is not my consort!”

Well, this might be interestin.’

The watcher’s weary voice answered. Even with vampiric hearing, Spike could only pick out a few words, the most prominent among them being “Angel,” “figurative,” and “temporary.”

‘L see myself staked before I let Angelus see me this weak again.

The human’s conversation continued, but their voices soon dropped out of even a vampire’s hearing range. Finally giving up, Spike tried again to relax. He was soon asleep.

*****

“Wake up!” The imperious voice of an irritated slayer woke Spike from a dead sleep, sending him upright in surprise. Or it would have had the chains around his hands and feet not immediately jerked him back, causing him to crack his head against the porcelain and slither badly in the slick tub.

The vampire suppressed a groan at the new pain in his head. He would not give the slayer the pleasure, especially not when she was wearing that derisive smile under the false pretense of compassion.

“Dinner time, you know the drill,” the slayer said coldly. Giles appeared in the door of the bathroom, crossbow trained on the vampire’s chest.

Spike scowled, even as he raised his hands for the slayer’s attention. “You know I can’t hurt you. I think you’ve just got a thing for tyin’ me up ‘s all.” In some twisted corner of his mind, Spike hoped that irritating the slayer and her watcher enough would convince them to finally untie him and free him of this godforsaken bathroom. He leered at Buffy suggestively as the slayer released the links from his wrists and went to work on the ones binding his ankles. “Bet you dream about chainin’ me up and havin’ your way with me.”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say because the slayer’s hand faltered around the link on his left leg, sending the sharp edges of the key across his shin. It didn’t really hurt, but he complained all the same. “Oi! Watch what you’re doin’ with that thing!”

Buffy’s face turned a particularly unflattering shade of red and she opened her mouth to let fly with what passed for a colorful insult in this day and age, but her watcher beat her to the punch. “Do be silent Spike. I would hate for you to make me nervous when I was aiming a crossbow at your heart.”

The slayer smiled victoriously when that earned nothing beyond a dark scowl from the vampire. Spike truly hated that expression on her face. No other slayer had been able to send him into the towering fits of rage that this one could conjure with ease. He had never hated the slayers he had faced before. Not really. They were simply challenges, ways for a young vampire to prove himself. Their meetings had always been about the heat of battle, the rush of the fight, and the sharp edge of danger, not the girls themselves. Not so with this one. He had no idea why Buffy Summers evoked such a visceral reaction in him, and part of him feared finding the answer.

Spike rose stiffly when the last chain fell away and the slayer backed out of his reach. Hours in a tub made him creak like an elderly human. He flexed his arms and massaged his wrists.

“Move it.” As expected, the slayer had managed to produce a stake from somewhere in her skimpy outfit and was holding it at the ready, eyes hard and cold as steel. With as much dignity as he could muster given the circumstances, Spike stepped out of the bathtub and made his way past the slayer and watcher to the living room and the chair they had designated as his.

He found Willow sitting on the watcher’s couch, reading through some papers and nibbling on one of her guilt cookies. When she looked up from her readings, her eyes held a pleasing glimmer of fear, which helped assuage the vampire’s fragile ego.

“’Lo Red. Glad you could join me for lunch. Rupes ‘ere tends to be stingy with the blood, but I’m sure he’d share if you’d like.” Spike had barely started to grin at the horrified look on the witch’s face when Buffy’s foot slammed into the back of his knee, dropping him unceremoniously into the waiting chair. “’Ey! Watch it!” Buffy answered him with a falsely sweet smile.

Bloody bint.

The vampire met her cloyingly sweet expression with a long, angry glare before Buffy scooped up a rope and started winding it around his waist. The entire ritual was beyond ridiculous. They didn’t even bother to tie his hands anymore, not that the extra bonds would have mattered much. If he had really wanted to, Spike could have smashed the simple wooden chair to kindling and shrugged his way out of the ropes with ease. In the long hours of the night when his mind was most awake, even as he lay chained in the watcher’s tub, he often wondered why he did not do that very thing.

Spike would have voluntarily dusted before admitting, even to himself, that it was the ghost of Willow’s spell that kept him still and compliant under the slayer’s ministrations.

Ministrations that at that moment were revealing more of the slayer’s cleavage than the vampire could believe she planned as she bent over him. Mortal enemies or not, Spike wasn’t blind. After giving him an eyeful, Buffy deposited a mug of warm blood into his hand and flounced over to join her watcher and the witch. He watched her retreat with thinly veiled appreciation before taking a sip of his blood.

Huh. Ninety-eight point six. Since when did the slayer get so thoughtful?

For once, he drank his meal in silence.