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Disclaimer: The characters are owned by Joss Whedon, et al. I care not. The opening poem is by C.K. Williams, who, I hope, won’t mind. The second poem is by the late Robert Graves, an Englishman worth quoting.
Timeframe: This is set in the present, season severed, so spoilers maybe inherent.
Feedback: Love some!
Summary: A scene cut from “Selfless” – D’Hoffryn grants a wish…kind of.
Rating: PG for now, will likely progress into the NC-17 arena.
Pairings: T/W…no brainer, really.
Warning: High angst here; this story is about grief and dealing with grief. I wanted to see them together again as well…but I thought Tara deserved better and she gets a little of her own back in this one.
Note: This is the first W/T fic I’ve written, and it comes from a place I’m not really sure about, so feel free to slap me around a little. It’s just something I had to get out of my system, and I apologize beforehand if this offends anyone. After last season, though, I’m not sure that it’s possible.
After That
Do you know how much pain is left
In the world? One tiny bit of pain is left,
Braised on one cell like a toothmark
And how many sorrows there still are? Three sorrows:
The last, the next to the last and this one.
And there is one promise left, feeling
Its way through the poison, and one house
And one gun and one shout of agony
That wanders in the lost cities and the lost mountains
And so this morning, suffering the third sorrow
From the last, feeling pain in my last gene,
Cracks in the struts, bubbles in the nitro,
This morning for someone I’m not even sure exists
I waste tears. I count down by fractions
Through the ash. I howl. I use up everything.
- C.K. Williams (American poet, b. 1936)
Prologue
Grief is not an open book. It does not reveal itself with words or pictures. You cannot speak of it, think of it or hold it closely and examine it. You cannot read it from cover to cover, and expect an answer at the end. Grief cannot be known, only experienced, and within the experience of grief lies a question. Without the answer, the question becomes intolerable, persistent, maddening. This question can leave you senseless, aching through every fiber, each chromosome and every interconnected cell of your being; wanting, desperate and forever unfulfilled. Grief will not be translated and written down. Grief will only be.
Dawn scraped mindlessly at the drying glue on the tips of her fingers. She surveyed her handiwork with dry eyes, some fundamental part of her being too tired, too numb to give into feeling. She wanted nothing more than to let go of herself, stop being so rigid, so uptight. She wanted to be a real teenager and have all the little joys and irritations an adolescent should have. Not that she resented her birthright, no, she was thankful someone had the bright idea of making her an actual person, of giving her a family and friends and a name.
They gave her memories, too, even if they never really happened. Memories that gave her a sense of self, of a place in the world; they gave her balance and protection. She felt loved, even when she didn’t want to be, even when her older sister was borrowing her clothes or whenever Willow would look at her sometimes, not really seeing her there. She would wave a hand in front of her friend (ex-friend? Surrogate mom? What?), and nothing would register. And then she’d be back. Not really Willow after all, since Willow had always been so present, so aware, and so…Willow. The memory of Willow, maybe, that’s what it was. The memory of Willow made her tired and numb.
And to remember Willow, then, was to remember Tara.
Chapter 1
She had no intention of asking him for anything. She wasn’t there to bargain or make deals. She wanted to help Anya, and she reminded herself of this again and again, as he stood there before her, so calm and poised, almost elegant, such a powerful demon. His compliments were horrifying, though. She didn’t want to be commended for her murderous ingenuity. She didn’t want to know how she was the talk in hell; the next ‘big thing.’ Being the subject of demon gossip can never be of the good.
No, it was her fault; you can’t just go around summoning things like that and expect to stay in control of the situation. She knew what she was doing and why, but why couldn’t he stick to the subject? She didn’t think it would be so easy to convince him to let Anya go, that he would just nod his horned head, shrug his shoulders and say, “Sure. Fine, okay.”
“But how can I help you, Willow?’
Of course she would never make a wish. Not to D’Hoffryn, the patriarch of vengeance demons, no, no, no. She couldn’t be tempted, wouldn’t be. She was stronger now, she knew herself, even if she didn’t approve of what she had become. Darker, wiser and just barely there; she had lost something fundamental, something unique and beautiful, something better off gone, maybe. She felt a million shades of unworthiness and lonely. It didn’t matter. Tara was in a better place now. She was safe and young and beautiful forever. It didn’t matter. So I’m the talk of hell. I wish I could care.
“Yes, she is better off, I imagine. Evil types so rarely do well in the love business.”
She had tumbled out of her reverie, struck that he had read her so easily. She glanced about the mess she had made in the bathroom and the wild incongruity of the beast in front of her. Yeah, this is normal. Just another day in the Normal…no strange stuff here. Move along, little doggie. Get lost you furry midget. Scram!
“It’s the pain of it all, isn’t it?”
Was he being sympathetic? She crossed her arms and frowned a little; she’d done her bit, she just wanted to be alone now.
“What?”
The ancient demon regarded her with a slight tilt of his head. His red eyes were unblinking and full of patience…or something else.
“The pain, Miss Rosenberg. You understand the pain, don’t you? It’s part of you now, like the magicks. You have become the pain. It’s not so unfriendly though, is it?”
He was almost smiling now and she felt as if her heart would climb out her throat, wave a leaky valve and catch the first train to Kansas City. Sayonara, sweetheart. Thanks for nothing.
“We’re done, D’Hoffryn. This is me thanking you very much and wishing…nothing whatsoever. I’m cleaning up now and saying goodbye.”
D’Hoffryn was not of an order that liked being ‘dismissed’. It was something he actively discouraged in his minions and anyone who asked anything from him. He made it a policy (which he revised every century or so, just to stay current), to never be taken advantage of or used in any way that did not keep with the spirit of vengeance. Willow Rosenberg, powerful though she maybe (and good thing she doesn’t realize just how, he thought, with relief), was still a child and, therefore, owed him a little respect. He wasn’t going anywhere. Yet.
“Miss Rosenberg.”
His tone held a smidgeon of menace; he didn’t want to frighten the girl, who knows how that might end up, but he did want her full attention.
Willow had bent on her haunches, wiping at the debris of her summoning spell, but stopped when she realized he had not left. She stared up at him with empty green eyes and she knew he could see right through her, knew that he understood somehow, he knew everything.
“What?”
“You have not been honest Miss Rosenberg and you have been disloyal. I would have you as one of my own, of course, in a shot, but you won’t belong to me. I understand. You belong to someone else. Belong in every sense. And to belong to someone is to owe them. Do you know what I’m talking about? Miss Rosenberg?”
She was transfixed. She wanted to run away, teleport off the planet, dig a hole and stick her head in it, anything, but what was he talking about? Why won’t he leave? She felt panic, and the panic made her tense, and she could feel the rush of darkness under her skin, itching and burning. He moved closer to her, staring her down, his lips red and wet and his eyes, unmoved, cold.
“You owe her.”
His voice was low and strangely soothing. She wanted to reach out and touch his face, reach into his eyes and take it all back; but he touched her, first.
“Contrary to popular belief, I am not evil, Willow. I believe in justice. I am justice. If the balance of things is uneven, I will do all I can to set it right. Wouldn’t you?”
She had no time to think, no time to react; his hand touched her face and everything went dark and silent. Like her heart, waving from the train to Kansas City.
Chapter 2
Arrears of Moonlight
My heart lies wrapped in red under your
Pillow,
My body wanders banished among the stars;
On one terrestrial pretext or another
You still withhold the extravagant arrears
Of moonlight that you owe me,
Though the owl whoops from a far olive
Branch
His brief, monotonous, night-long reminder.
- Robert Graves
The golden chime from the grandfather clock struck midnight, forcing the pale redhead to stir, her knuckles rubbing at her eyes as she adjusted her sight to the darkness. The grandfather clock tolled on and each chime pulled her further and further from her foggy half-awareness. She sat up carefully, shifting awkwardly with the soft cushion beneath her.
This is not my bed.
As her eyes focused, she realized she was not in her room, nor any room she recognized. She was not in a hospital, certainly, and she had no idea how she came to be there. She noticed, too, that she was wearing dark blue pajamas, a pair she had never owned. They were comfortable, however, and oddly enough, she felt no anxiety about her new situation.
The room was small, but generous for a bedroom, maybe a college dorm. The bed was plush and covered with impossibly soft down blankets. The walls were covered in silken tapestries, and ancient-looking maps or star charts. A string of small orange lights ring the ceiling and a long desk lay just opposite the bed, covered in heavy, leather volumes. A glance to the floor revealed hand-painted wooden toys and large, satin pillows strewn about. The overall effect, to Willow was as if she were in a scene from the Nutcracker, if it had been set in 19th century India, via the Secret Garden. The grandfather clock sat in a corner, now silent, yet ever-vigilant. Willow could make out a large owl carved just above the clock face, its wings spread wide, as if about to swoop down and gather up its prey.
Where am I?
She reclined a little, too comfortable to stand just yet, and looked up; overhead was a canopy of stars, the night sky held in suspension, enchanted, perhaps; the moon, a white marble, was nearing its zenith. The final chime of midnight was echoed with the striking of a match; Willow glanced in the direction of the sound, sitting bolt upright.
A candle had been lit and a pair of pursed lips blew out the match. The candle flame flickered for a moment then grew strong and full, illuminating the face beside it. A face she knew better than her own. Willow felt all the air leave her body in one breath.
“Tara?”
TBC....feedback is very welcome!
"Human kind cannot bear much reality." - T.S. Eliot
You've got off to a great start, can't wait for more! 
What happened to Tara? 
