I'm sorry it's a day late, kittens. Enjoy!
Rating by chapter: PG
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all its characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I’m just sneaking Willow and Tara out for a night-time stroll… Neither the author nor this site receives compensation for this work.
Spoilers: This is an Alternate Universe fic, but it does contain some spoilers for ‘Chosen’ of season seven.
Feedback: Yes, please. This is my first Buffy fanfic. Reply on the forum or send email to
tara_the_phoenix@yahoo.ca Author’s Note: Thanks for being patient, kittens. Willow's awakening is imminent.
Chapter Eleven
Resistance
It was late. The hospital room was dark and Tara felt confined behind the drawn white curtain. She could hear the sounds of the three other patients in her room, could hear their breathing, tossing, and muttering in their sleep. The quiet maddened her. Tara’s thoughts were torturous; her mother’s letter was folded again and placed in her purse.
A great rage was rising within her, and even her purse, usually the most comforting of possessions, became a thing reviled. Within it laid the instruments of her death: her mother’s letter, the amulet of Thespia, and a note from Angel. Snatches of words came back to her in a dizzying flood; she felt as if she were drowning in her fate and no one cared to throw her a life preserver.
From Angel’s note, “Remember, if your eyes turn black, you’ll have to be killed.”
From her mother’s letter, “I allowed it all, I allowed your father to belittle you and your brother to hit you and for you to be picked on in school.”
From Aranaea, “My dearest and most precious child, this time you will be the rabbit, you are my sacrifice to save the world. You are the lamb.”
Hateful memories filled her, and she desperately cast back on the moments of her life, seeking for any to lift her from this black despair. Any moment of peace, of happiness, of comfort, just one to quiet the din of depression, the little gremlins of memory that would swarm over her and consume her. But in the dark of the Saturday night, in the hospital room that somehow seemed to sum up her entire blighted existence, and in the torturous memories of those who were supposed to support her, she could only recall the dark.
From Donny, “You’re just hoping to rack up the blood debt, and that someday you’ll be called to pay up.”
From her mother’s letter, “But I was called upon to make my own sacrifice for this unknown person you need to heal, and I will give my life for it, and for you, and for this act you must accomplish in order to save the world.”
From Angel’s note, “Let me know when Willow is conscious. I want to see her.”
From Aranaea, “There was so much more to tell you, why I did what I did to you and your family, but I’m afraid there is no more time.”
Only then did another, sweeter memory threaten to cascade over her, showering her in just a hint of the miraculous as Tara remembered crying in Willow’s room that first day, the feeling of a new focus, a new
(Willow-light)sun, a new reason for being that made utter and complete sense at the time. At that moment she had been fulfilled, she had purpose, she had faith.
But the memory was too sweet, and Tara balked, and walled it up and enclosed it in her fury. Tearing up inside, she took a handful of hospital sheet and gripped it tightly, the silence in the room as menacing as any demon. Her skin felt hot and prickly, and a scream echoed behind her lips, just waiting for her resolve to crumble. She couldn’t be here, not one moment longer.
Tara looked around her. What else was keeping her here? After Donny left so precipitously the police had come and taken her disjointed account of her attack, and she knew that not a word made sense, but the detectives seemed so uninterested that she simply didn’t care. More vitals had been taken; a shot of painkiller had been offered but declined. No doctor had come to wow over her healing, no nurse had offered more than the thinnest sympathy in their haste to do their job and move on, and no friend had appeared in the doorway to comfort her. She was on her own.
She was out of here.
Tara looked at her left hand, the one pierced with the IV needle. It may be a ball and chain to the other inmates in her room, a way to make sure they couldn’t leave, but she was a nurse. She knew exactly what to do. Tara carefully peeled away the tape and smoothly slid the needle out, clapping the small bead of blood with some Kleenex. She shuffled out of her bed and put her pants on. Unfortunately, both her shirt and jacket had been shredded in the demon attack and were not returned to her. Thank goodness she had an overnight bag with clothes in her car, which Angel’s note said he parked in the ‘C’ block of the parking lot.
She wrapped her hospital robe and thin housecoat tightly around her, blotted the back of her hand once again, and took up her purse. Sidling around the white curtain Tara then hovered in the doorway of her hospital room, looking down the darkened hallway. It wasn’t quite midnight yet, and the nurse at the station was busy going through file folders.
No use fooling around, getting caught.
(You are the Kraken)Tara took a moment and concentrated, then cast a shifting glamour on herself. Holding a sense of fierce modesty in her mind, confident in her near-invisibility, Tara headed down the hall towards the exit. The nurse looked up once as she walked by, but Tara’s spell had the nurse disinterested immediately, and Tara was ignored. Tara grimly smiled as she headed down the stairs. Pure invisibility was rare, but this magic was centered more in making the caster seem unremarkable, and ordinary, and quickly forgotten.
Imbued with anger and revelling in the feeling of it, Tara released her spell, found her car and took off, away from the hospital and all the hell it represented. She stopped long enough down a dark street to change out of her hospital robes, pulling on a T-shirt and a jacket. As she resumed her drive through Los Angeles and towards home she cycled through radio stations, hoping to find one to fuel her rage, and stopped on a heavy metal station. Driving recklessly, almost savagely, she soon found herself on the highway home.
Instead of trying to exile the terrible moments of her past, Tara now fed on them. She should have been exhausted, weary from pain and drug use, but the rage fuelled her, sustained her. Dragging herself through a miry pit of despair, Tara cast herself through the hundreds of slights, hurts, and pains inflicted upon her throughout the course of her life. A void began to grow inside her; an empty kind of hollow that invaded even as the music grated and Tara drove ever close to home.
And Willow.
No. No Willow. No more.
This gorging on past fear and terror was a dreaded path that could lead only to oblivion, yet Tara eagerly rushed down it. As headlights streamed past her, music thudded into her barely healed chest, and her fury boiled into a sort of distilled cunning, a hatred that flickered through her memories, casting them all in dark shadows. Ever Tara’s mind whirled, and ever she remembered, even as the long hours passed.
From Aranaea, “I kept her alive, but it is up to you to save her.”
From her mother’s letter, “I will allow every horror, every calamity, every catastrophe that this wicked world has to offer, I will allow them to fall upon you, and hurt you, and curse you.”
From Donny, “Do you honestly hate us that much?”
From dream-Willow, “Can you save me?”
And from dream-Anna, “For the love of this woman, you will surely die.”
ENOUGH!
Tara suddenly and viciously turned off the main highway, turning onto a dirt track that led past some farms and to the ocean. Burning, seething, writhing, Tara parked her car next to a cluttered beach and got out.
She felt as if she were about to explode. Tara clutched at her middle even as she stumbled onto the rock-strewn beach; the intense moonlight illuminating every pebble, casting shadows. The ocean was remarkably calm, and a light wind softly brushed Tara’s hair. The calmness, like the silence in the hospital room, was too much for Tara; gritting her teeth in fury she picked up a rock and heaved it into the ocean, crying out as she felt the intense pull of muscles across her newly healed flesh. Instead of stopping, she threw again and again, yelling and rejoicing in the fiery burn of pain. It meant, for a little while longer, at least, that she was alive.
“You hear me?” Tara screamed. “I’m still alive!”
She threw another rock into the vast inky blackness of the ocean, lost her balance, and fell heavily to the ground. To her vast dismay, she found that she was sobbing.
This is all Willow’s fault, she thought.
“No, it’s mine,” Tara heard. She turned her head and saw the tiny shape of the child-goddess sitting on a rock next to her. The goddess still had her daisy crown, and grass stains on her feet, and Tara felt a wildness rage up inside her.
“I won’t do it,” Tara vowed, and her low voice was etched in fury. “Get someone else to be your rabbit, your lamb. You and I are done.”
“No one else has the power you do,” Aranaea softly replied. If the softness was meant to placate Tara, it had the opposite effect. The hungry void inside Tara yowled in rage, and her ears rang as the goddess continued, “There is no one else.”
“Then I guess she dies,” Tara replied heartlessly. Or she hoped heartlessly, but even as she said the words she could feel her heart yearn for Willow, for the imagined feel of her, for the possibility of a life together. No, don’t think of Willow.
be hard, Tara, be hard!“It is true that Caleb, the preacher, holds Willow hostage in her mind,” the diminutive goddess said. “But it is also true that Willow holds Caleb hostage as well. As long as she lives, he is imprisoned. The minute she dies, he is free. Just imagine what he could do,” and the hateful goddess just wouldn’t stop there, she forced an image upon Tara so rank, so evil, that Tara literally choked on it. There weren’t words for the devastation she showed Tara then, for the blood and bile, for the fear and frustration, for the absolute cheapness of human life and the depths of depravity suffered by all.
And ever more clouds of hatred scudded through Tara’s mind, igniting electric storms of madness, and for a moment Tara stood upon the very mouth of hell. Thunder roared within her and an abiding hatred for the goddess arose.
Maybe realising she had just made a major mistake, the goddess said, “This is it, Tara. This is the encounter we’ve been preparing you for your entire life. This is why your mother died.”
Tara interrupted. “Don’t you dare mention her. You both betrayed me long ago. How can I ever trust either of you again?” To her astonishment and dismay, Tara found herself crying softly. “How could both of you do this to me? She let my father…”
(hush, little Tara)Aranaea quickly interrupted. “No, she didn’t. She never found out what he did.”
Tara heard what Aranaea didn’t say and shot back, “Maybe she didn’t, but you did.”
“I only did what I had to. With every moment you suffered through life, your potential for godly power grew. I needed you to be the most powerful healer, so I did what I did, and I’m not ashamed. But see, healing Willow, this will make sense of it all. But it is still your choice.”
The words fell on deadened ears. “My choice?” Tara barked, her voice harsh. “How is this a choice? Die if I save her, the world dies if I don’t? Answer me this, goddess, if I save Willow, will I die?”
“Yes,” Aranaea replied, unhesitating.
Tara got up from her stony perch and faced the ocean. “What if I want to live?” Tara screamed. “What if I want to love, and be loved, and have babies? Are my dreams so expendable? Am I supposed to just give this all up, for this girl I don’t even know?”
And Aranaea, determined to save Willow at any cost, determined to make Tara choose the right way, delivered her most fatal mistake of all. With a single wave of her hand, the goddess opened a window and showed Tara a vision of indescribable loveliness.
Tara was lying on her side on fresh-mown grass, sunshine filtering softly through green leaves. Soft sounds of laughter, of children playing next door, delicately intruded her little dome of sunshiny delight. She could smell the sharp tang of tomato plants, the soft musk of decaying plant matter, the sandalwood and rose of Willow’s hair. She ran her fingers through that gorgeously alluring red hair, smiling at the rising blush in Willow’s cheeks.
Willow was lying on her back along Tara’s body. Her face was turned invitingly towards Tara, her dimples deep in barely restrained joy. As Tara’s one hand gently caressed Willow’s hair, her other hand was entwined with one of Willow’s, and lay soothingly on Willow’s baby-distended belly. As Tara looked into Willow’s eyes she saw only the deepest contentment, a love so strong and whole that it turned her insides a-flutter.
And then Willow smiled, a low playful smile, and said, “Come here.”
Pulling on Tara’s entwined hand, Willow drew Tara over her like a blanket. Their lips met, and Willow pushed against her with familiar insistence, her tongue flicking against Tara’s mouth, demanding entry, and Tara more than gladly granted it, feeling her whole soul melt in the abiding sunshine of Willow’s love. There on the grass under the tree in their backyard, as Tara heard the bees buzzing around the flowers she had planted, as she smelled the intoxicating aroma of cut grass, as she felt their baby kick underneath her, Tara knew she had found heaven.
“STOP!” Tara screamed at the goddess, sharp moonlight illuminating the tears streaming down her cheeks. “How dare you? Stop tricking me! Stop teasing me! None of that is real!”
“It could be,” Aranaea replied, shame flushing her cheeks.
“How?” Tara demanded. “I’m dead, remember?”
Turning her back on the goddess, Tara made her way up the rocky strand to her Honda. Holding her icy hatred of the goddess as protection against the overwhelming sorrow that battered against her, Tara smartly drove away, looking back once in the rear-view mirror only to see a deserted beach drenched in moonlight. The goddess was gone.
By the time Tara arrived in Los Osos at five in the morning she was near catatonic with exhaustion and pain. Surprisingly, her hands on the steering wheel did not turn her down the streets to her house, but took her unerringly to the slumbering form of the hospice halfway up the mountain. Tara parked in the lot and used a little of her remaining strength to cast the glamour again. The last thing she needed was to explain her face, her battle wounds.
She unlocked the doors and slipped into the hospice. Following the familiar trail, she found herself in the West Wing and directed her lumbering feet to Willow’s room. John was working the nurse’s station, and looked up as she approached, but merely returned to his endless tasks as she walked on.
It was an almost outside force that pulled her into Willow’s room, and Tara succumbed to it. Mindless now, her every reserve spent in rage, hatred, and now exhaustion, Tara pulled a chair close to Willow’s bed and sat down. Her hands trembling, she grasped one of Willow’s hands in both of hers, then bowed her head over their conjoined hands and started to cry.
There was no passion behind her tears, no forceful ejection of feeling. There was only weariness. Despite everything that had ever happened to Tara, as she sat there in Willow’s room and sobbed, she began to realize that this was the lowest point of her life. She’d never been so alone before, or so bereft of hope. Even in her worst moments, the ones so dark she could never bring them to the forefront of her memory, she at least could have hope of a better life. She could imagine a happier time and place, imagine hugs and puppies, and love and kisses. But now there was nothing left, no future to speak of, and only the prospect of unimaginable pain between now and the end.
And there, in the moonlit expanse of Willow’s room, surrounded by inevitable torture and death, Tara began to feel peace. And at first she railed against it, wanting the rage to fuel her again, wanting the void to swallow her, and devour her, and spit up her bones on an uncaring landscape. But the peace kept radiating forth, a slow blaze and Tara finally lifted her head from Willow’s lap, tears stinging the furrows in her cheek.
It was Willow.
The day Tara met Willow and stood here, feeling a new sun rise within her, her soul had been drawn to Aranaea, and to the white god-light that had poured from her through Willow’s body. But now Aranaea was gone, yet Willow continued to shine. Her breath catching in her throat, Tara clutched at Willow’s hand, and still the slow flush of peace and hope continued to invade her body, melting her defences. There was no god-light, only
(Willow-light)the shining aura of Willow’s own indomitable spirit. A portion of that spirit reached out to Tara, and seemingly encircled her body, lent her breath and strength and courage to go on.
“Willow, will you save me?” Tara choked into the darkness.
Her last ounce of resistance faded as the first lightening rays of the sun entered the room. Willow continued to pulse with radiance, not distant like the gods, but earthly, womanly, and Tara basked in it, letting it dissolve the hideousness of the past two days they’d been apart.
“I’ll do it,” Tara whispered aloud. Tara stroked Willow’s cheek, and caressed her hair, and before she could convince herself not to, she swiftly kissed Willow’s chapped lips. “I’ve got work to do,” Tara told the sleeping woman. “Hang in there. I’m coming to take care of the preacher for you.”
Checking her glamour, Tara crept out of the hospice and slowly motored home. Just as dawn was breaking over the mountains Tara entered her house, marvelling at all that had occurred since she left. Her meeting with Angel, her encounter with the demon, Donny’s secret, and her fight with the goddess; it seemed time had drawn out far beyond a mere 36 hours.
Tara automatically checked her answering machine, and heard Ethan’s voice. “Tara, it’s Ethan. Look, you didn’t say how long you’d be in LA, but it’s Saturday afternoon and I thought you’d be home. Call me.” There was a beep, and then she heard his voice again. “Tara, it’s me. I’m worried. It’s ten on Saturday night, and you haven’t called. Call me no matter what time you get in.” Yet another beep, and his voice flooded the room. “Tara, where are you? Are you all right? Call me!”
Tara managed a small smile through blinding sheets of pain and exhaustion. It was six in the morning on Sunday, he’d be sound asleep, but she called him anyway. Reassuring him that she was all right, she told him that she needed to sleep all day, then asked if he would come over that night. “I know how to save Willow,” she told him. “But I need your help. I have a big favour to ask you, Ethan,” she warned before hanging up the phone.
Staring at the phone after it had gone dead, Tara recalled Angel’s warning. “I may need you to kill me,” she whispered.
to be continued with Chapter Twelve: The Confessions of Dr. Daniels
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He's a bastard.
