A/N: I don't own the characters depicted here. I have been sitting on this story for a couple of years now and opened it up again after David Bowie's death. (RIP, you amazing man, you.) Since I only have five of around 30 planned chapters written, updates will be sporadic as I deal with school and book projects, so bear with me, please. I hope you like it. The world of Buffy is fun to play in, and Jareth will fit in well. Or perhaps it's the other way around. Either way, enjoy.

1

(Season 1 Prophecy Girl)

There's a first time for everything, or so the saying goes. A first kiss, a first dance, a first love. The first vampire she ever saw. The first demon that had bested her and sent her running to recover and recoup. The first time she saved the world. And though she didn't really remember it she knew that there was a first time she had tried pancakes and, judging from the way her mouth watered at the mere thought of a stack of hotcakes, that first time had been a rousing success.

In a world of firsts, a world where new demons came springing out of whatever hell dimension they came from, and the old demons, the vampires, just never stopped coming, never stopped multiplying, there was this, probably the weirdest first she'd ever encountered.

This was the first time Buffy died.

Smoke from the numerous candles burned Buffy's eyes, scratched her throat. Her normally quippy sarcasm was seriously lacking some quip, though that could have been a combination of the smoke and the way that her arms were being pinned behind her back. It made it a little more difficult to breathe.

Buffy struggled to free herself from The Master's grasp, the icy fingers of fear gripping her heart for the first time. She wasn't afraid of The Master. She was afraid of failing, of letting everyone down, and of ruining the dress that she had picked out just for the Spring Fling and damn if apocalypse obsessed vampires didn't have the worst timing. No matter how she tried his nasty bat fingers crushed her wrists, his long nails biting into her flesh.

The Master leaned into her, so close that his breath tickled the fine hairs beside her ear, and whispered, "You tried. It was noble of you. You heard the prophecy that I was going to break free and you came to stop me."

Well, duh, thought Buffy, screwing up her face as she redoubled her efforts to get free. If he was going to kill her she wanted him to just do it because she really hated the part of the battle that involved listening to the bad guys brag about their dastardly plans.

"But prophecies are tricky creatures," said The Master, "They don't tell you everything." He leaned in closer and Buffy cringed as the thought of how close that lipless slit of a mouth was to her delicate and girly ear. "You're the one that frees me. If you hadn't come, I couldn't go. Think about that as you go to wherever it is you Slayers go when you die."

The Master bit her. The instant agony of his bite, of his teeth puncturing the skin, was nothing compared to the fiery pull of his mouth on her neck. Her blood rushed to her head and her vision swam so much that the world began to spin. She closed her eyes against the sensation and continued to struggle in his grasp, but his grip was too strong and her efforts too weak and growing weaker with every moment.

His lips were hot against her skin, like a pair of branding irons, and if this was how she was going to go then so be it. She wanted it to end, to be over. She expected her life to flash before her eyes, a series of disjointed, miserable images shot through with bright pinpoints of happiness. Instead her vision dimmed to darkness, then she saw nothing at all.

She felt herself suspended in midair, teetering on the edge of oblivion, as if she were watching it happen to someone else. Something pushed her and she tipped over the edge and fell forward.

Buffy's hands shot out automatically to brace her fall and smacked against smooth stone. Instinctively she leaned into the fall and somersaulted forward, standing up into a defensive crouch in one graceful, swift movement. It was only then that she looked around, ready to defend herself against another attack and not willing to let The Master get that close to her again. But she wasn't in The Master's lair anymore. Confusion made her pause and she stood up and turned in a quick circle to take in her new surroundings.

There were still candles, but these were tucked into heavy iron candelabra along the walls and iron chandeliers suspended from the ceiling. There were chickens and boxes and stone steps and tiny little monsters of every shape and size scattered all about the room. And they were all looking at her as if she had just farted in class. Or had a booger in her nose. Or as if they were the fashion police and she had been caught wearing white after Labor Day.

From behind her came the sound of someone clearing his throat and she whipped around to see a man sitting cockeyed on a gray throne, one leg thrown over the arm of the throne with his back propped up against the other. He rested his hand on his cheek as if he were eternally bored. He wore gray pants and a frilly pirate shirt that hung open halfway down his chest and his hair was like something out of an 80's glam rock music video.

The sudden change of venue was unsettling but she didn't sense nay imminent threat coming from the guy on the throne, or the little monsters. She smirked and asked, "Let me guess, Poison cover band?"

The man scowled and sat up straight in his throne. He lifted his left hand and deftly twisted it and a small, clear crystal ball appeared, balanced on his fingertips.

"Oh, I get it! You're a magician."

"You're not supposed to be here," he said. His voice was haughty and he had a British accent and Buffy wondered why her brain, in its death throes, would choose to populate itself with stuffy British guys telling her what to do, as if she hadn't already had enough of that.

Of course, this stuffy British guy was nothing like Giles. She'd have had Giles committed if he'd shown up dressed like a Sigfried and Roy impersonator. On this guy, however, in a weird way, it sort of worked.

Then he lobbed the crystal at her. Buffy caught it on instinct and the throne room with the glam rocker popped out of existence, immediately replaced by suffocation and darkness and an inability to breathe.

But then . . .

Buffy's chest was moving. Everything felt sluggish and full and any movement caused this intense, fiery pain that radiated from her lungs outward, burning throughout her entire body. Buffy felt the urge to cough. So she coughed. Her body kicked back into gear and she purged the brackish water from her lungs as strong arms held her and excited voices spoke to her about coming back and waking up.

She opened her eyes and blinked until her eyes focused on the face hovering inches above hers. "Xander?" she said. Her voice sounded faint and hoarse.

Xander smiled at her, relief evident on his face. "Welcome back."

Buffy glanced over Xander's shoulder to see Angel, his brow furrowed and his mouth drawn into a grim line. She sat up.

"Easy," said Xander, keeping his hand on her back as if expecting her to collapse at any moment.

"The Master . . ." Buffy started.

Angel said, "He's gone up."

She wished that she could take the time to clear the deadness from her head but she had to go now or more people would die, people who weren't likely to come back. She climbed to her feet and brushed aside all of Xander's clumsy attempts to help her.

You can do this, she told herself. Kill The Master now. Fall apart later.

"Buffy, you're still weak," said Xander.

"No, I'm not." She had spoken the words automatically but then realized that they were true. Something had changed. She felt more powerful somehow but she didn't know how to explain it. So she just said, "I feel . . . different."

Angel and Xander said nothing, merely exchanged glances that told her that they were wondering if they should try to stop her from doing something. The look also said that they knew they wouldn't be able to stop her if she really wanted to go. So in the end they both simply looked back at her for direction.

"Let's go." Buffy led the way to the entrance to the church. Sure, she had just been brought back from the dead but evil wasn't going to sit around, waiting for her to feel better. She was the Slayer. And she had a mega badass vampire to kill.