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kiss_evilgoodbyeBuffy Summers is chosen to live the life of a fairy tale princess. She’s cursed by a witch to prick her finger on a spinning wheel, and is whisked away to live in the safe protection of a man who will probably become more of a father to her than anyone would like. Unlike the fairy tale, however, she’s not a baby when this happens. She’s closer to five years old, which is old enough to understand what the curse means.
She stays away from sharp things. Giles keeps her safe and secure, practically wrapped in cotton for most of her child years, and only lets her go outside so far as to play with her dolls on the front porch. He’s protective, and while she doesn’t fully understand what’s going on, she doesn’t mind either. She hasn’t gotten this much attention from an adult since Dawn was born, and she soaks it up like a sponge.
It doesn’t give her much reason to wander far.
It’s one of these days where she sits with her dolls when a group of village boys runs past her porch, brandishing wooden swords and playing a feverish game. She’s a little over seven at the time. They’re laughing and shouting, and the ruckus is enough to draw Buffy’s attention away from her dolls and to the game at hand. The boys are her age, if not a little older, and it’s that fact that has her stumbling down the stairs, watching them closely.
“Can I play?” The three boys all turn to face her with stupefied looks on their faces. She stands there watching them, fingers laced behind her back and eyebrows up inquisitively. “Well?”
“But you’re a girl.”
( *** )
She stays away from sharp things. Giles keeps her safe and secure, practically wrapped in cotton for most of her child years, and only lets her go outside so far as to play with her dolls on the front porch. He’s protective, and while she doesn’t fully understand what’s going on, she doesn’t mind either. She hasn’t gotten this much attention from an adult since Dawn was born, and she soaks it up like a sponge.
It doesn’t give her much reason to wander far.
It’s one of these days where she sits with her dolls when a group of village boys runs past her porch, brandishing wooden swords and playing a feverish game. She’s a little over seven at the time. They’re laughing and shouting, and the ruckus is enough to draw Buffy’s attention away from her dolls and to the game at hand. The boys are her age, if not a little older, and it’s that fact that has her stumbling down the stairs, watching them closely.
“Can I play?” The three boys all turn to face her with stupefied looks on their faces. She stands there watching them, fingers laced behind her back and eyebrows up inquisitively. “Well?”
“But you’re a girl.”
( *** )
