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A Slayer is a weapon. Giles reminds himself of this truth every morning, every afternoon, every night. He steels himself against the tenderness in his heart as he soothes the baby squirming in his arms. Small, now, but already strong, this child is the last of the Slayers: a legacy millennia old bequeathed to her in full even as she drew her first breath.
She is a Slayer. She is a weapon to be shaped carefully; to be made strong and quick and sharp. She is a weapon to be wielded ruthlessly, coolly. The world will burn until Giles' weapon is brought to bear.
The baby coos, contented. Giles touches her cheek, and reminds himself of all that he can not allow himself to forget.