“Men make their own history, but they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances directly found, given and transmitted from the past.” - Karl Marx

Near Kyoto, Japan: Genroku Year 4

Takeshi rode for all he was worth, pushing his black mare to the limits of her endurance. Branches struck him across the face as he sped through the trees, but he barely noticed their sting. Only one thing mattered: getting to Kaede in time.

He had fallen behind during the day. Forced to take refuge under a rocky overhang, he had paced the confines of the tiny cave, knowing that every second that passed, Kaede’s palanquin was being carried closer and closer to a battle that she could not win.

He had soundly cursed his fate, his vampiric nature, and particularly Sano, his late and unlamented sire. He had railed against the sun for keeping him trapped, the gods for cursing him with life beyond the grave, and Ichiro, for sending his slayer on this suicide mission. In the end, he had spent the final hours of daylight damning himself for not being strong enough to avoid being turned, for not being able to convince Kaede of his continued loyalty, for not being fast enough to reach her with the potion and news he carried from Ise.

With the sun’s light still fading on the horizon, Takeshi had left the cave, riding hard down the Tokaido, the highway that connected Edo to Kyoto, the only road Kaede could have taken.

He had caught her signature an hour after sunset. He did not think he would ever get used to his ability to identify people on scent, but there were moments that he could appreciate the talent. He followed the wispy trail of steel and sweat, silk and white plums, the perfume she wore in her long black hair, when it lead him off of the Tokaido and into the wild. Kaede’s party became easy to track as they had made their way across virgin snow.

When his horse finally broke through the tree line into a wide, snow covered expanse of barren land, he knew he was getting close. Fire had scoured the area bare of trees for miles around and the glow of the moon on the snow gave the plain an ethereal beauty. The tracks and the scent pulled him onward. He goaded his horse into even greater speeds, cold fear gripping his unbeating heart when he detected a new scent on the wind. It smelled of damp earth, rotting flesh, the stagnancy of truly dead water, and through it all a scent he found disgusting even as it called to him: human blood.

After what felt like an eternity, he crested a small ridge and nearly fell when his horse reared in panic. For the first time, Takeshi saw Orochi in all of his terrible glory. The monster’s true size was difficult to gauge, thanks to the endless coils that could tangle together into a mass the size of a small house, or spread far and wide to cover a city block. At irregular intervals, Orochi’s eight barbed tails bobbed and reared, moving as if they had minds of their own. In some ways they did, because eight great heads weaved and dipped among the coils and dangerous tails. This was the demon lord that had only known defeat before at the hands of a god.

On some level, the vampire took note of all of this, but his eyes were riveted to the figure in white who held the demon lord’s attentions. Even as he watched, Kaede landed a strong blow against one of Orochi’s writhing coils, but the wound immediately closed again, leaving no trace in its passing. In retaliation, one of the serpentine tails swept across the snow, tossing the slayer aside like a rag doll.

Takeshi spurred his horse forward, forcing the maddened beast to obey. He drew his katana, coated with the potions the priestess Ai had given him, and charged down the hill, screaming a battle cry.

All eight of Orochi’s malevolent heads turned to face this new threat. With seeming disdain, the demon lord struck at Takeshi with one of its heads. The vampire leapt from his horse in time to see the razor sharp teeth sink through the mare’s throat. The horse, another gift from Ai, screamed in pain, thrashing in her death throes. Even as Takeshi struck, he lamented the creature’s death. His mount had deserved a better fate. Down came his blade, arcing through the scaled neck and severing one great head.

This wound did not heal. Ai had been right.

Orochi reared back in pain and surprise. Taking advantage of the moment, Takeshi pulled a pouch from his belt and threw it toward Kaede who had regained her feet, if not her voice. She was staring at him with wide eyes, her mouth agape and her sword tip nearly touching the ground. She stirred from her shock in time to catch the bag midair.

“Kaede, pour the potion on your sword! It was blessed by a priestess of Amaterasu!” The smallest flicker of understanding dawned in the slayer’s eyes. Takeshi moved to defend her as she hurriedly opened the bag and removed the small vial within.

The vampire’s sword turned the attack of one tail and landed a solid blow against a part of Orochi’s writhing body before he noticed Kaede standing at his side. He chanced a glance at her face and saw the confusion and other warring emotions written there. “I am here as your ally Kaede. All else can wait until after the battle.”

She looked as if she was about to protest when suddenly the slayer’s eyes opened wide. With a speed he had no hope to follow, she struck him across the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. His surprise was complete when he saw scaled jaws snap closed not a hand’s breadth above his chest. The silver flicker of Kaede’s sword cut through the creature’s head, mangling it beyond repair. Orochi howled, an unearthly sound so low and pain-filled that it rattled through the vampire’s bones.

The next thing he knew, Takeshi found himself staring up into the twinkling eyes of the woman who had been his wife. A smile tugged at her lips as she offered a hand and pulled him swiftly to his feet. Despite the danger, not to mention indignity, of his situation, Takeshi laughed. This was battle as he remembered it: facing the thrill of the fight with dark humor and the woman he loved.

The spell was broken when Orochi pressed his attack again. The two warriors shared a look of complete understanding and harmony before returning to the fray.

All else could wait until after the battle. They had a demon lord to slay.

*****

Sunnydale, California: 1999

“Sod off, Rupert.”

Spike sat in the hard, wooden chair, still tied, with his arms crossed and an expression of complete revulsion on his face. Giles had been trying to talk him into joining the white hats and taking out some ancient Japanese demon-god-thing. The vampire was having none of it.

“You keep me chained in your loo for weeks, feed me coagulated slop, let your little slayer torment me at every turn, and now you want my help? Not bleeding likely.”

The watcher was sitting in a similar chair, sans ropes of course, holding his glasses in one hand and his head in the other. “Your part in this has been preordained. You have to help.”

“Don’t have to do anything, mate.”

“We could pay you.”

That gave the vampire pause. “Doubt you’d be able to meet my price,” he said at length.

Giles looked up from his hands and his eyes held the most pleading look the vampire had ever seen. Spike was unmoved. He smirked at the watcher when the raised voices across the room made it plain that Willow was having about as much luck with Buffy as Giles was having with him.

“Get this chip out of my head and we might have a deal.”

Giles looped his glasses through his fingers and allowed his face to sink again into his open palms. “I need a drink,” Spike heard the man mumble.

“You and me both, old man.”

“I hardly think that you have the right to be casting dispersions upon my age.”

Spike simply shrugged. “Pour us both a round of scotch, not that swill you have in the kitchen either, the good stuff hidden in your study, and I might feel a little more charitable,” he said, not really meaning anything past the request for alcohol.

“How do you know about…?”

“I’m dead Rupes, not stupid.”

With a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his feet, the watcher rose from his chair and walked to his study. From the bottom, right hand drawer, under files and a few strategically placed books, was the subject of Spike’s interest: a bottle of Laphroaig, aged fifteen years. Giles poured two glasses, no ice, before returning to his chair and offering the vampire one of the drinks.

The liquid was smoky and burned pleasantly on the way down his throat. It was the best thing that had passed his lips in a long, long time. Spike closed his eyes and savored the moment.

“Now where were we?” Giles interrupted.

Spike looked at the watcher, scowl returning in full force. “You were tryin’ to convince me to don a cape and tights and fight along side your little Scoobies.”

Watcher and vampire stared at one another for a long beat. Spike was unnerved when Giles’ eyes opened wide, then narrowed and took on a calculating glint.

“Spit it out Rupes. Neither of us is getting any older.” He smiled sarcastically, “Well maybe you are…”

The watcher let the jab pass and sipped from his glass. “I was just thinking that if you wouldn’t fight against Orochi for any of the right reasons, maybe revenge would be a better impetus.”

That had Spike’s full attention.

“Think about it Spike. Miss Maruyama’s letter said that the last of Orochi’s heads was stolen from her home by a group of American commandos.” Suddenly the conversation became a great deal more interesting to the vampire. In truth, he had missed that little bit of information before. “They were traced to Sunnydale, which seems to have an underground military force with a penchant for experimenting on demons.” Giles gave Spike a pointed look.

“Go on,” the vampire growled.

“It’s just that a demon of Orochi’s size and strength, he would have to be a rather important project for such a group, don’t you think? Maybe even the most important project…” Giles trailed off, but his eyes never lost their gleam.

Spike hated that the watcher could manipulate him, but the bait was too good to resist. Revenge on the humans who had effectively neutered him, especially revenge that would not result in a splitting headache or an acute case of dustiness at the hands of the slayer? How could he say no?

The watcher shrank back into his chair and his victorious look faded into obvious nervousness when Spike’s face rippled and shifted, fangs descending and eyes blazing gold. With a grin made all the more fierce by his demonic visage, Spike gave Giles the answer the watcher had sought.

“Count me in.”