i died for beauty, but was scarce
They have died many times: in alleys, in stables, in flames, at the point of a sword. For adventure, for love, for duty. For her.
This alley is still wet with rain. There is blood on the pavement, a red smear of sacrifice from a human comrade, a friend Buffy never knew. She found his body in the morning glare, insects worming through his wounds. Tomorrow he will be buried.
Of them, her vampires, nothing remains. Buffy mourns over mud and ashes.
“We brethren are,” she whispers, and lays a bed of red roses on the spot where they fell.