Well. . . here at last, after ages and ages, another “brief” update. Thanks to everyone who has kept up with the story and has continued to leave feedback. It means a lot. If any of you read the preview for this chapter, be aware that I did, in fact, change a few things here and there. No major plot points, but some things nonetheless. If any of you are wondering where on Earth this story is in these pages, here you go:
Pg. 1: Prologue
Pg. 4: Part One: Descent(A)
Pg. 6: Part One: Descent(B)
Pg. 13: Part One: Descent(C)
Pg. 21: Part Two: Maelstrom(A)
Pg. 27: Smutus Interruptus, Part 1
Pg. 30: Smutus Interruptus, Part 2
Pg. 32: Part Two: Maelstrom(1B)
Pg. 34: Part Two: Maelstrom(2B)
Pg. 36: Part Two: Maelstrom(1C)
Pg. 41: 'Preview' Part Two: Maelstrom(2C)
Pg. 48: Part Two: Maelstrom(2C)
Pg. 77: Part Three: Undone(A)
Pg. 79: Part Three: Undone(B)
I’m not suggesting you go back and re-read the whole thing, but I’d say it wouldn’t hurt to “refresh.” So, enjoy. . . or not. Thanks for reading.
Title: Darkness Falls
Author: KrisBo5 (Kris, obviously)
Email address: KrisBo5@aol.com
Feedback: Sure, I’d love it.
Distribution: This story is the narrative form of four spec scripts I have written for BVS, each of which is registered with the WGAw, so please don’t publish it or reproduce it in any way, shape, or form. If for some reason you’d like to, just ask first. It’s the polite thing to do.
Spoilers: Season 6, “Entropy” and “Seeing Red” episodes. Everything else? Blame on me.
Rating: The story in its entirety: PG-13 to NC–17. This includes sex, violence, language.
Pairing: Willow and Tara, that goes without saying. However, Buffy and the others are here as well.
Disclaimer: I didn’t create these characters, those kudos belong to Joss and crew. I’m just borrowing them for the story I did write.
Summary: The mythology surrounding the creation of the first Slayer(sounds like a Buffy story, but have no fear, this is all about Willow and Tara).
Note: Nope, not really. I’ll let the story speak for itself.
Darkness Falls, Part Three: Undone(C)
“Profound joy is remembering; profound grief, the same.” Clive Barker, Weaveworld
Everything that happened that night, all of it, it was like a whirlwind in her head. A jumble of images, sights and sounds; of screaming, fire, death. A torrent of noise and pain and suffering.
Hers.
And Buffy’s.
And Xander’s and Anya’s and Dawn’s.
And scores and scores of others.
Too many now to count.
Too many now to even think about.
And at the center of it all?
Tara.
Her Tara.
In the calm and the perfect and the silence, just Tara.
Willow sat on the edge of the toilet, her eyes blank as she stared emptily into space. Her dirt and blood-stained jeans had long ago been stripped off, cast carelessly on the floor near the sink; her injured leg sat propped against the side of the tub, her hand poised just above the deep-sliced wound, a soapy washcloth dangling in her limp, frozen grasp. The scalding tub of water she had drawn had cooled, she had sat idle for so long.
She sat in silence, completely still, her eyes void and unfocused, as her mind continued to reel.
Tara’s hand fell from the doorframe to her side.
“Willow,” Tara whispered.
And took a step.
Willow swallowed hard, forcing the lump that had lodged itself in her throat, back down. The image of Tara looking directly at her, saying her name, seared through her heart. “Tara. . . .” She whispered, her voice hoarse and cracked. Tears stung her hollow eyes, and as she blinked, she failed to see them fall to the tiled floor and mix with her blood.
***
“Would you stop-- sit still!” Dawn’s voice was stern and sharp.
Buffy shifted on the kitchen stool uncomfortably. She looked at her sister. “It hurts,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Uh,
duh,” Dawn said, raising a gauze bandage in one hand and smearing burn cream on it with another. “All the more reason to not move and let me put this on.”
After some doing, Dawn and Buffy had finally been able to extract The Slayer from her leather jacket. Dawn had been utterly horrified— and quite a bit sickened— to discover that pieces of the material had actually melted into her sister’s scorched flesh. It had taken almost an hour to debride the wounds on her arms and neck; another hour had successfully accomplished the treatment of them. All that was left now was to treat them, cover them, and hope that The Slayer’s healing power would prevent any infections.
Buffy propped her elbows on the kitchen countertop again, holding her arms as immobile as possible. She watched Dawn closely, watched as she carefully applied the bandage over the remaining exposed burn area. The teen tilted her head from side-to-side, eyeing her first-aid technique. “Looks good,” Buffy said, a half-smile gracing her lips.
Dawn looked at Buffy, then turned her attention away; she picked up a roll of gauze and began wrapping The Slayer’s wrist. “Yeah. . . well.” She continued to mummify her sister’s arm in silence.
“Dawn.”
“Yeah?” Dawn asked, never letting her eyes waver from her task.
“Hey,” Buffy said, “Dawn.” Dawn paused and glanced at The Slayer. “I’m okay.”
Dawn swallowed, and as tears welled in her eyes, she blinked quickly and looked back to her sister’s arm. Before Buffy could say anything else, Dawn cleared her throat. “Buffy?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think. . . .” The teen’s sentence drifted away, unfinished.
Buffy shifted on her seat. “Think what?”
“I-Is Tara. . . .” Again, she paused, unable to continue.
Buffy stopped moving completely. Her eyes remained on her sister’s down-turned profile, waiting. When the teen made no show of continuing, The Slayer finally spoke. “I don’t know. . . if she’s a vam--”
Dawn lifted her face to her sister’s, meeting her eyes dead-on. “. . . evil,” she said, interrupting her. Buffy felt her jaw moving, but no words, not even a sound, would emerge. “Is Tara evil?”
Buffy closed her mouth, her lips drawing together in a taut, straight line. Was Tara evil? Funny that. The thought that Tara could be evil had never really entered Buffy’s mind; that she might be dead? Yes. Or even a vampire? Sure, of course. But evil? No, it never crossed her mind -- not once. Buffy blinked as she tried to form the right answer in her mind.
Vampires were evil. If Tara
was a vampire, it was logical that she would be evil.
Right?
But Angel wasn’t evil.
Even Spike, in his own way, wasn’t evil. Not entirely anyway.
They were special cases, weren’t they? One vampire souled; one, chipped. To be certain, the inclination to be evil was always there, just below the surface— just like every other person in the world— but they weren’t necessarily evil.
They just weren’t.
“No,” Buffy said, her voice barely above a whisper. She cleared her throat and said more clearly. “No, I don’t think she’s evil.”
Dawn stared at her sister as a tear finally escaped, sliding down her cheek. Whatever the teen was expecting her sister to say, ‘no, I don’t think she’s evil’ didn’t seem to be it; Dawn was ready -- had been ready -- to hear the worst about the blonde-haired witch. But this? Incredulity spilled over her features. “She burned you.”
“I know.”
“On
purpose.”
“I
know, Dawn.” Buffy released a hard breath. “Believe me, I know.”
“Then how ca--” Dawn stopped sharply, taking a deep breath. Buffy didn’t answer, she didn’t quite know how. “She tried to
kill you.”
“No,” Buffy said immediately, her tone harsh and forceful. “She didn’t.” Dawn tilted her head slightly, her eyes darting to Buffy’s injuries. “She could’ve killed me— she could’ve burned me alive— if she really wanted to.” Dawn raised her eyebrows. “But she didn’t, Dawn.”
“Not like she didn’t try,” the teen said sarcastically.
It was so uncharacteristic for Dawn to have a harsh word— or even a thought for that matter— about Tara, that Buffy could do nothing but remain silent. The Slayer knew how much Tara meant to the teen, and this— just
all of this— had to hurt more than any cut or bruise she could ever receive. “Dawn.” The teen dropped her eyes and began the process of closing up the medical supplies. “I can’t explain it-- why. I just don’t think she
was trying to kill me.” Dawn snapped the lid on an anti-burn cream container and nodded her head. ‘Yeah, right,’ it said, loud and clear. “I. . . I think she was. . . protecting Madrine.”
Dawn twisted the cap onto the bottle of Peroxide, sliding it away from her across the counter and looked at Buffy. “That’s better how?”
Buffy moved to rest her arms on the counter, then thought better of it; she dropped them down between herself and the tabletop, planting her hands on her upper thighs. “It’s better cause— well it’s not better, really. That’s not what I mean.” She shifted. “I mean, I don’t think she was trying to kill me.”
Dawn leaned a hip against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest. She raised her eyebrows slightly. “You said that.”
Buffy cleared her throat. “Dawn, I ju--”
“He’s asleep,” Anya announced as she came around the corner into the kitchen. Both Buffy and Dawn turned at the sound of her voice, facing the Vengeance Demon fully. Anya stopped beside the island, letting her hands rest lightly on the counter’s top.
“How is he?” Buffy asked.
“He’s. . .” Anya started, then glanced down at her hands; drying blood -- Xander’s blood -- covered her skin: her palms, her fingers, her forearms. She pulled her hands back and absently wiped her hands on her pants several times, then clasped them together. “. . . he’s sleeping. . . now, ” she said, almost as an afterthought.
“Anya?” The Vengeance Demon shifted uncomfortably before raising her eyes to The Slayer. “
How is he?”
Dawn became completely still, her eyes moving from Anya to Buffy to Anya once more. “What?” the teen asked, uncertain herself as to who she was asking, or even what.
Anya’a eyes pinged between the Summers sisters several times before she finally answered. “I’m not a doctor, okay?” the Vengeance Demon announced, her tone both apologetic and accusatory. “I did what I could— I cleaned and bandaged and. . . bandaged.” The Summers sisters stared at Anya, silent, slightly thrown by the normally caustic-tongued demon’s now-scared tone. “I’m not a doctor,” she said once more, dropping her hands to her sides.
Buffy nodded her head slowly, the sting of tears prickling the backs of her eyes. She knew what Anya meant. What she couldn’t bring herself to say.
Xander. . .
. . . was dying.
Buffy understood.
She turned to look at Dawn; gently she pushed the long hair away from the teen’s face, a soft smile touching her lips as Dawn met her eyes. Buffy dropped her hand back to the table and pushed away from the counter. She stood slowly, trying not to grimace as her burned flesh stretched anew.
The Slayer understood.
“We can’t go back out there.”
Anya and Dawn both stared at her, but it was the Vengeance Demon who spoke. “I know.”
Buffy looked at Dawn. “It’s too dangerous.”
Again, Anya answered. “I know.”
Dawn looked at the two women, not sure exactly what was happening, not quite grasping what it was that they knew or understood. “Buffy? What are yo--”
“I can go,” Anya said abruptly.
“No,” Buffy said, shaking her head with emphasis.
Anya made a ‘please, not like that’ face. “No. Poof go. Poof over.”
“No,” Buffy repeated. “It’s too dangerous -- besides, you said you. . . you, ah, you don’t work that way.”
Dawn stepped closer to Buffy. “What are you talking about?”
Buffy’s eyes darted quickly to her sister, then back to Anya. “Nothing.”
Anya went on, ignoring the sisters’ conversation. “Well, I do.” She snapped her fingers. “Like that. Poof, I’m there.” The Slayer opened her mouth, but Anya continued. “I can’t poof back with him, no, but I’ll. . . he’ll
make a house call.”
Dawn looked back and forth between them. “Who? Who are you talking about?”
Buffy ignored the teen this time, taking a step around the counter’s edge to stand before the Vengeance Demon. “No,” she said, a forceful finality in her voice. She shook her head. “No, no more risking anyone else. We all chose this, but we can’t force others, Anya, we just can’t. Not for anyone.” Despite the pain, Buffy reached a hand out and took hold of Anya’s arm softly. “Not even Xander.”
Anya swallowed hard, and in spite of the fact that in her long life she had rained terror and retribution down on unworthy men, one man still held the key to her heart; her lower lip quivered as tears filled her eyes. “He’d make a house call,” was all she could say, her voice shaking.
Buffy felt tears threaten her own eyes, and she smiled sadly. “I know he would,” she said, nodding softly, “and if Xander mak--” Buffy stopped abruptly, giving Anya’s arm a comforting squeeze. “When morning comes, you can get us that house call.”
Anya sniffled loudly. Buffy released her arm and stepped back. “I’m. . . going back up. . . .”
Buffy simply nodded and watched as Anya left the kitchen as quietly as she had entered. The Slayer cleared her throat. “Dawn,” she started, turning to face her sister, “we need to--”
“Xander’s gonna die.”
It wasn’t a question.
Buffy opened her mouth to answer, then shut it. Her lips pursed together tightly as she shook her head softly. “He won’t-- he’s not. . .” She looked into her sister’s eyes, knowing her own must have appeared sad and empty and. . . alone. How on Earth could she offer her sister any solace, when she harbored none for herself. The Slayer settled for another soft shake of her head. “I don’t know, Dawn. I don’t know.”
***
Tara clutched the edge of the toilet and leaned over, her body convulsing uncontrollably as another wave of nausea struck. Her back bowed as she vomited once again; white spots danced before her eyes as her breath was ripped from her body. She gasped for oxygen as the heaving slowed, feeling the sting of tears bite at her eyes.
Oh, God. . . . She pulled in a deep gulp of air, expelling it in a violent cough as her lungs protested; she sat back slowly on her heels, her hands still grasping the white rim tightly. She raised her head slowly, dimly aware that if she moved too quick she might cause herself to vomit again. When a few seconds passed, and no sign of further illness presented itself, Tara slid her arms back around to the front of the seat; pressing her palms against the rim in front of her, she tried to push herself off her knees onto her feet.
It was dizziness, not nausea, that assailed her, and almost dreamlike, she felt herself going down. Her body folded into itself, succumbing of its own volition. Before the darkness took her to her inevitable ending, Tara reached a hand out, fighting to find something to break her fall. When none availed itself, she blindly held out for the floor, feeling the cool surface of the marble on her palm; she used her remaining awareness to half-faint, half-collapse onto her side on the bathroom floor. Tara pressed her left cheek to the smooth, chilled marble tile, her eyes closed against the now-spangling spots bopping behind her eyelids.
“I love you, too, Tara.”
Tara squeezed her eyes more tightly closed as the ever-present, ethereal voice haunted her.
Please. . . please. . . help. . . .
“I love you, too, Tara.”
A swirling of images -- fire and smoke and death -- and sounds -- screams and cries and death -- resurfaced suddenly, exacerbating the feelings of nausea and dizziness. Tara moaned, a sound that quickly turned to a broken sob, as a single tear slid from the corner of her eye and fell to the floor beside her.
And then, among the flashes and pain, another image pushed its way forward.
Tara’s head tilted slightly, her hair cascading over one shoulder as she stared at the redhead limping towards her. The blonde fought with herself, fought to draw out from the convoluted images a solid picture. . .
. . . a name. . . .
Tara’s fingers flexed against the marble as, out of the smoke and ashes, the image came straight towards her.
“W-Willow. . . .” Tara whispered, as at last, the exhaustion claimed her and she slipped into unconsciousness.
***
Standing just outside the bathroom door, Mr. Bellum watched silently as Tara continued to shake violently. He had watched her for several minutes, quietly, observantly: her vomiting, her shivering, her pain.
He never moved to help her, nor did he make any sound to indicate he was near.
He simply watched.
“W-Willow. . . .”
Mr. Bellum squinted his eyes and raised his chin as the whispered name, the whispered plea, reached him. And just as quietly as he had stood there, he took a step away from the door. Then another. Then another. He turned on his heel and moved with purpose towards the bedroom door. As he opened it, he cast one more cursory glance at the bathroom; then he stepped through and softly closed the door behind him.
***
Madrine’s expression was one of purest rapture as she continued to gaze into the fireplace across the room. Idly the fingers of her right hand glazed over the deep brown mahogany table where she had sat since their return from Main Street. In her left hand, she held a crystal chalice filled with vintage Merlot.
“Tonight was magnificent,” she said, her voice floating dreamily across the large room. She lifted the drink, pausing just before the clear glass touched her lips. “No?” she asked, proceeding then to take a small sip.
Mr. Bellum, standing solemnly in the doorway, shifted slightly, clasping his hands together in front of himself.
Madrine set the glass down, running the tip of her index finger around its rim slowly; she continued the slow, steady motion until a soft, vibrating hum began to fill the room. When Mr. Bellum made no answer, Madrine cocked her head slightly towards him, her finger continuing its monotonous trek around the fine edge. “You don’t agree?” she asked, her tone slightly edged, almost challenging.
Mr. Bellum tipped his head, as if considering his words carefully before answering. “Tonight was. . .” he began, pausing briefly before walking into the room completely. His heels
click-clacked over the polished black marble as he edged towards his Mistress; he stopped beside the table’s corner, a concerted distance from Madrine. “. . . tonight was as you say.”
The corners of Madrine’s lips inched upwards, a note of positive victory snaking across her face. She lowered her glass carefully, setting it in front of her; she swiveled in her chair, facing Mr. Bellum. “Did you see her?” she asked, almost beside herself with childlike joy. “Did you
see what she did?”
Again, Mr. Bellum shifted his feet, then cleared his throat softly. “Yes, Madame.”
“I couldn’t have wished for something more glorious.” With that, Madrine slammed both hands onto the table, a slap cracking through the cavernous room sharply. She pushed herself away from the table, laughing to herself as she stood. “Magic, Mr. Bellum.” Madrine moved along the length of the table till she was a mere foot from Mr. Bellum. She tipped her head forward slightly, somewhat conspiratorially. “She used Magic. . . .”
“Yes, Madame.”
Again Madrine smiled, her straight, white teeth cutting a sharp contrast to the darkened atmosphere of the room. She moved away from Mr. Bellum then, around him, around the corner of the table towards the fireplace. She ran her fingertips along the fine mahogany mantle as the orange-gold flames reflected outwards from her eyes like shooting stars. “She cast against The Slayer. . . for me. . . to
save me.”
Mr. Bellum remained still, unmoving; he waited, as always, for his Mistress to inquire, to ask. Never would he presume to speak without invite. And the words he needed to speak now. . . . No, no, he would wait for the right moment. For it could be his last and he was not so eager to meet it.
“She chose me,” Madrine continued, her hands finally resting casually on the mantle’s edge. “After it all, after all of her protestations and regret. . . she chose me. She came home with me.” Madrine’s tone remained victorious, tinged now with a sneer of ‘I told you so.’
“She is rejecting the pendant.”
The words reached Madrine’s ears, she heard them fully, but they were ugly and harsh and. . . .
Lies.
And they had destroyed— in the instant of their utterance— the unadulterated joy she had been experiencing.
Lies.
Complete lies.
They. Had. To. Be.
Madrine’s smile froze on her lips, her eyes blackening so dark they blotted out the glow before her. “No,” she said, her voice barely audible, a whispered denial teeming with malevolent undercurrents.
Mr. Bellum could feel the shift, the sway of Madrine’s anger permeate the atmosphere inside the room around them. Oppressive and suffocating, it swelled to an almost explosive pitch. He remained motionless, keeping his eyes glued to Madrine’s profile. He knew he would live or he would die for those words, but he could no longer wait; his Mistress needed to know. “The sickness has begun.”
“No,” she said again, her voice raised, firm, determined. Her hands tightened their grip on the mantle, the aged wood creaking under the strength her lithe hands beheld.
“Madame—”
“
NO!” she raged, pulling hard as she turned to face Mr. Bellum. The
CRACK of the mantle breaking free from the wall echoed so loudly it surged throughout the room, cascading down the emptied halls. Madrine stormed towards Mr. Bellum, a blurred movement of fury incarnate. Stopping before him, she leaned in, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “You
witnessed! With your own eyes—you
witnessed!”
Mr. Bellum remained completely silent, completely unmoving. His Mistress had to know— had to understand— and it was his duty to make sure she did.
It was his lifelong duty.
He would fulfill his duty.
“She has no sickness,” Madrine said, her voice low and gravelly.
Mr. Bellum blinked once, his breath regaining its calm patterning. He raised his chin more fully to meet his Mistress’ fury. She was his Mistress. . . and he belonged to her. He would fulfill his duty. As always. “She would not be the first,” he said, as calmly as he could.
Madrine’s eyes narrowed for the briefest moment.
And then, a flash, an almost invisible, lightning movement.
In that flash, in that lightning movement, Mr. Bellum was not sure what had happened until his body smashed against the wall and fell, limp and doll-like, to the floor. Plaster and paint rained down on his form, covering his dark suit in a hazy, misty layer. Before he could regain his bearings, Madrine was standing over him, her body taut, emanating an uncontrolled viciousness rarely seen by others. “You. . . do
not speak to me thus,” she hissed, bending low. Mr. Bellum, with some effort and quite a bit of pain, raised his eyes to his Mistress’. “You are not so important. . .” she continued, the sentence— the threat— left hanging between them.
Mr. Bellum held Madrine’s gaze unwaveringly. “Go—” he began, coughing hard as pain seared his obviously broken ribs. “Go to her,” he finished finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Madrine watched him closely for several seconds. Mr. Bellum did not avert his eyes, nor did he fear his death at her hands if she so desired.
She was his Mistress, and he belonged to her.
She straightened slowly, her eyes still on his. After several seconds, she took a step backwards.
Then another.
With no other word spoken, she turned from him and walked from the room.
Mr. Bellum released a breath, then coughed. He planted his hands on the floor and got to his knees. Leaning one hand on the wall, he pushed himself up to his feet, bits of wall trickling to the ground. Pulling himself up, he brushed as much dirt and muck from his suit as he was able, then smoothed his hair back into some semblance of order. Only then did he turn, only then did he follow after his Mistress.
She would need him. . . and he would be there for her.
As he always was.
***
Willow gingerly pulled up a pair of loose-fitting black jeans, trying to avoid the throbbing cuts and scrapes and bruises covering her legs. Her short-sleeved black t-shirt had been fitted as carefully, but, like her pants, it hurt just the same.
Pain. Pain is good. I deserve pain. I caused pain. I deserve pain.
She sniffled again, as tears filled her eyes for the hundredth— the thousandth— time; she shook her head and faced the bathroom mirror. Her eyes fell on her own reflection, and she found herself staring silently at what she saw.
Who. . . is. . . that? The face staring back at her was a complete stranger. The blood and bruises, nothing new there after years fighting on the Hellmouth.
New to her though was the look in her own eyes. She limped closer to the mirror, her eyes steady and unblinking; she rested her hands against the cool, smooth surface of the sink as she continued her long gaze at the woman she no longer recognized.
She was gone.
Willow was gone.
Reflected back at her was just what was left— a broken, empty, hollow shell.
I. . . deserve. . . . Willow raised her right hand to the mirror, pressing her palm against the surface, leaving only her deadened, vacant eyes exposed.
. . . pain. . . . She pushed her hand up the glass, burying all of her face behind her hand, blotting out her image completely.
Willow felt her tears fall as she dropped her hand from the mirror and walked out of the bathroom. She stopped just on the other side of the door, her heart and soul broken; on their own, her eyes gravitated to the far corner, where the pillow and blanket she and Tara had shared the night before still lay.
Tara. . . She almost staggered across the carpet, the short distance feeling like a mile under her. Again tears fell, rolling unchecked down her cheeks, dropping to the floor. Through the watery barrier yet unshed, she caught a glimpse of the book she had shared with Tara; when Tara had needed her comfort and support and love. She dropped to her knees, despite the pain it caused her, and slowly reached for the abandoned volume. The book remained open, where she had left it as she had drifted off to sleep.
‘I am not resigned. . . .’
Willow’s unshed tears filled her eyes, blurring the lines before her. She passed her fingertips over the fine print, her heart aching with the sweet memory of holding Tara close to her as she recited the beautiful words to her lover.
‘I am not resigned. . . .’
Willow closed her eyes against the images in her mind; the words— words that had brought comfort and safety and love— only hours before struck at her heart with its every beat. She pressed her hand over the page, covering them completely, hoping that by hiding them from her sight, the memories would soon follow.
Tara-- her Tara-- was walking towards her.
Willow squeezed her eyes more tightly shut as new images forced their way into her mind.
“TARA!” Willow screamed. The door was closing behind Tara’s retreating form, the blonde completely deaf to her anguished outburst. She dropped the sword and tried to run, her lumbering gait severely impeding her. She saw the red lights dim once again, and Willow half-jumped, half-dove the last few feet, throwing her body at the back of the limo. . .
Willow’s chin dropped to her chest, silent sobs wracking her fragile form, as the cacophony of images continued to pour into her, pour through her.
. . . her hand caught on the bumper as she fell, and she felt herself being dragged as the vehicle started away. “TARA!
Willow’s hand clutched at the book, the pages crinkling beneath the desperate grip.
She felt her fingers lose their grip, and she was falling again; her body skidded, then rolled several feet over the black-top before stopping.
Willow’s grip finally relented, and the book tumbled from her hands, bouncing once on the blanket before it fell closed and lay still beside her on the floor.
Dazed and battered, Willow raised her head, then pushed up on a bloodied elbow. The limo was gone, turning the corner at the far end of Main Street.
Willow raised her hands to cover her face, muffling the tiny sounds emanating from deep inside her throat. Her body folded in on itself, and she slowly bent forward, her forehead falling to rest on her knees.
. . .Willow raised her head, then pushed up on a bloodied elbow. The limo was gone,. . .
Willow’s tears poured from her eyes as she continued to cry, their salty wetness soaking her hands, seeping through her fingers to dampen her clothes.
. . .Willow raised her head,. . . . The limo was gone. . .
Willow sat up slowly, her chest rising and falling in a stuttering, staccato pattern as she struggled to regain her breath. Her hands fell from her face, falling limply to her lap.
. . . The limo was gone. . . .
“Ta-ra,” Willow pleaded, her voice no more than a cracked whisper.
. . . The limo. . . .
Willow sniffled, her hiccupping respirations filling the silent room.
. . . The limo. . . .
Willow took a slow, deep breath.
. . . The limo. . . .
Willow opened her eyes very slowly.
. . . The limo. . . .
Willow released the pent-up breath, hearing her heartbeat pick up its beat suddenly.
. . . The limo. . . .
As if in slow motion, Willow turned, twisting her body until she could see her desk.
Until she could see what was on her desk.
Reaching a hand out, Willow took hold of the edge of desk and pulled her weary, aching body up from the floor; she pushed the chair back and sat down with a new, determined purpose. Her hands moved on their own, first flipping open, then turning on, her laptop. Her fingers hovered over the keys, fluttering in anticipation.
. . . The limo. . . .
Her fingers began their dance, flying over the black, plastic letters and numbers,
click-clacking without pause or indecision or mistake.
I love you, too, Tara.
***
Madrine entered her bedroom, pausing mid-step as she noticed Tara’s coat thrown haphazardly on the floor. The blonde’s shoes lay close by, literally “walked” out of, one step apart from the other. Her eyes traveled to the bed where the thick down covers were hanging halfway off of the bed. Madrine quickly surveyed the remainder of the room, but found no other sign of Tara; she turned back towards the door, not surprised in the least to find Mr. Bellum there, just inside the doorway. Mr. Bellum’s eyes met his Mistress’ briefly, then shifted away, towards the bathroom.
Madrine’s followed instantly, as if he had spoken aloud. She turned and walked across the remaining distance; a soft noise, a plaintiff sound not unlike a whimper, stopped her in her tracks, just feet from the bathroom. Madrine again paused, but she did not turn away.
She would see for herself.
She would show Mr. Bellum.
She would show them all.
They. Were. Lies.
Madrine took the final steps, stopping at the bathroom’s threshold. The door was opened merely inches and swathed in darkness, yet Madrine had no difficulty seeing what appeared to be the head and arm of a body lying on the floor. Swallowing the bile taste in her throat, she pushed the door open, the illumination from the bedroom sliding around her and washing into the bathroom; her shadow, elongated and unearthly, spread across the small room, falling beside. . .
. . . Tara.
Although the light from the other room was diffused, Tara moaned, tiredly squeezing her eyes more tightly shut. She remained on her side, her left arm twisted at an awkward angle behind her back, her right laying beside her head; her face stayed pressed to the marble floor, though the coolness that had soothed her earlier, now sent chills throughout her body.
. . . help. . . please. . . help . . . me. . . .
Madrine’s face twisted, her expression moving from haughtiness to anger to revulsion all in a matter of seconds. The sight before her – Tara, broken-down, ill, . . .
weak – it was just something that Madrine could not tolerate.
Would not.
Not again.
Not ever again.
“Mr. Bellum,” she said, her voice low, almost predatory.
A soft rustling heralded her servant’s presence as he came further into the room. “Madame,” he replied, his tone neutral.
“Mr. Bellum, this—” she began, breaking off as she gestured toward the bathroom and Tara.
Mr. Bellum nodded once brusquely, knowingly and without judgment; he turned slightly and raised a hand, snapping his fingers sharply. He returned to his original position, quiet and passive and still, behind his Mistress.
After a moment’s silence between them, a sound from outside the bedroom wafted towards them: a humming, low and woody for a tick, then higher, slightly sharp and lyrical. They alternated back and forth, each growing somewhat louder as they moved down the hall towards the bedroom.
Madrine’s body seemed to relax, the air of dread and disgust somewhat dissipating from in and around her.
She did not need to see who— or what— was approaching.
She knew.
It was not the first time.
A shuffling, a scraping of covered feet over carpet, sounded behind Madrine, then ceased. Madrine could feel the presence behind her, so close to her, but as it always was, through all time, she was not sure. No shadow cast beside her. No shadow cast into the bathroom.
Yet somehow, she knew.
It was not the first time.
Madrine swallowed. “Tell me.”
Again the shuffling, the scraping of covered feet, as two figures moved out from behind Madrine.
Two children.
Two identical girls.
They swirled around her and almost skipped into the bathroom, their patent-leather shoes
tap-tap-tapping over the marble floor. Both wore beautiful, short white dresses, complete with frilly petticoats and short, puffed sleeves; their hair– one spun gold, one raven black– was a mop of tightly curled ringlets haloing their perfectly round, perfectly cherubic faces.
“Ohh,” the Gold Child said wistfully, as her translucent, albino eyes fell upon Tara’s form.
The Raven Child stopped beside her sister, her own eyes— black as pitch— taking in Tara as well. “Soo. . . .” she said, stepping behind Tara and kneeling down. Her sister followed suit, kneeling at Tara’s head.
“Ohh,” the Raven Child said, a playful smile catching the corner of her mouth as she looked at her sister.
The Gold Child looked at her sister, cocking her head slightly. “Soo. . . .”
Madrine stood silent during the somewhat coded, somewhat bizarre exchange. It was as it always was between the two; it was their way, and she must allow it, she must wait.
She knew it.
It was not the first time.
Tara, though there was no true movement, felt like the Earth was shaking as they knelt beside her.
. . . no more. . . please. . . .
The Raven Child raised a hand over Tara’s back, centered over the Wiccan’s heart. “Oh, my. . . ” she said, her expression almost surprised.
She moaned softly against the continuing pain; a tear slid from her eye and fell silently to the floor.
. . . Willow. . . .
The Gold Child mimicked her sister’s behavior, letting her hand hover over Tara’s damp hair. “She longs to fly. . . .”
Madrine’s eyes menaced in the darkened bathroom as the girls spoke to one another. She clenched her fists and waited in silence.
There would be more.
She knew it.
It was not the first time.
And then, completely belying their size and apparent age, the two girls took hold of Tara’s body and rolled her onto her back, ever-so-gently moving her arm from beneath her and cradling her head so it would not bang against the marble.
A flood of nausea washed through Tara as they rolled her, but the weakness and shaking had taken it’s toll, and she could not even garner enough strength to be sick. Her voice a ragged whisper, she barely managed, “. . . W-Willow. . . no. . . more. . . .”
The girls lowered their hands to Tara, the Gold Child’s palm resting against her forehead, the Raven Child’s on Tara’s heart. They closed their eyes for several seconds as they listened to Tara’s labored breathing, as they felt her convulse sickly. Then. . .
. . . a humming, low and woody, then higher, slightly sharp and lyrical. It alternated back and forth. . . low. . . high. . . low. . . high. Then. . .
. . . their eyes opened slowly, finding one another without hesitation. The humming stopped abruptly as they both turned in unison, staring at Madrine, their expressions blank.
“This soul is torn,” the Gold Child said, eyes unblinking. “Twisted and pulled, beaten and worn. . . .”
“So sad and lost,” the Raven Child said, eyes equally unblinking. “Not much to do, save unbind this heart. . . .”
Together, the two finished. “End one of two,” they said in unison.
Madrine stared at them, absorbing what the two had said. “End one of two. . . .” Madrine echoed slowly, the words rolling over her lips as she worked on them in her mind.
Tara’s eyes fluttered, then opened briefly, closing just as quickly as the room spun before her. “. . . no more. . . .” she whispered. The girls’ heads whipped around, their otherworldly gazes locking on Tara’s face. “Please. . . please. . . stop. . . .”
The Gold Child slid her hand from Tara’s forehead to her right cheek. “Ease your mind,” she said quietly, leaning down. “Rest your soul.”
The Raven Child’s hand shifted from Tara’s heart to her left cheek. “No more pain,” she said, mirroring her sister as she bowed low. “You will be whole.”
Tara’s eyes fluttered, but did not open. She sighed audibly as the words reached her through her pain. They ran like warm water over her mind, and Tara felt safe and warm and happy in their depths.
. . . Willow. . . . It was this thought— of fiery red hair and emerald eyes— filling the darkness, as blissful unconsciousness claimed her once more.
The girls sat up, pulling their hands into their laps; then they stood, brushing the ruffles of their dresses and straightening their collars. They pivoted and
tap-tap-tapped over to Madrine. They looked at her, their angelic natures betrayed by their unearthly eyes.
“End one of two,” they repeated to Madrine, then smiled.
They moved around her out of the bathroom, shuffling towards Mr. Bellum. Stopping there before him, they each extended a tiny hand to him; Mr. Bellum reached inside his breast pocket and retrieved two items. He placed one in each hand, and watched as the girls tore the wrappers from their lollipops and shoved them into their eager mouths. Their eyes found one another again briefly, their lips curved in rapture with their sugary reward. They started for the bedroom door, and as they crossed the threshold and entered the hall, the humming sprang up again, echoing back towards the bedroom for an eternity, until at last it faded away into nothingness.
Mr. Bellum watched his Mistress, waiting till she made her choice. He knew that she would now make one, now that she knew what her true choices were.
He knew it.
It was not the first time.
“End one of two,” she whispered, staring at Tara. She faced Mr. Bellum slowly, her eyes set, decisive. “Bring her,” she said, as she strode past Mr. Bellum and out the bedroom door.
Mr. Bellum tipped his head slightly, though his Mistress was already gone from his sight. “Yes, Madame.”
***
Buffy shrugged her shoulders tiredly, rolling them in circles to stretch the muscles. She started up the stairs, trying— but failing completely— to stifle a yawn. She had sat with Dawn on the couch for almost an hour, letting the teen rest against her until she fell asleep. Unfortunately for The Slayer, her sister drowsy state had seeped into her body as well, and when she was finally able to extricate herself from the teen, The Slayer discovered that her feet had fallen asleep and her injuries had settled into one big, stiff, painful ache.
She reached the top of the stairs and glanced to her right, towards Willow’s bedroom. Light seeped out from the bottom of the door, but she couldn’t hear anything from within. After a moment’s hesitation, she turned in the opposite direction and went to her room; turning the knob quietly, she pushed the door open, peeking inside.
Xander lay in her bed, his body and face so bruised and battered and cut up he was almost unrecognizable. In a chair beside him Anya sat, holding his hand in hers, her eyes closed.
Buffy stared at Xander: he lay so still, and his breathing was so shallow, he would have appeared dead to someone not “used” to seeing such things.
Dead.
Xander dead.
Buffy closed her eyes for a second and swallowed. Opening them, she took a fortifying breath and walked into the room. She crossed over to the bed and stood beside Xander; a soft smile touched her lips as she leaned down and carefully pushed a lock of hair off of his forehead. Her fingers lingered for a second, the continued warmth of his skin bringing some measure of comfort to her.
She stood up, turning towards Anya. Just as caringly, she placed a hand on the Vengeance Demon’s shoulder. “Anya.” When there was no hint of consciousness, Buffy tried again. “Anya.”
Anya’s eyes fluttered, then sprang open; she bolted upright. “What? What’s going—?”
“Anya,” Buffy said, trying to get her attention. “It’s o—”
Anya leaned towards Xander, her hold on his hand tightening. “What happened?”
Buffy placed a hand over Anya’s, even as the other remained on the Vengeance Demon’s shoulder. “Anya, it’s okay. Xander’s. . .” The Slayer’s eyes darted to Xander’s face then back to Anya. “He’s fine,” she finished, nodding. Anya looked at Buffy then, finally seeing her completely. Buffy nodded again, smiling kindly. “He’s— it’s okay.”
Anya released a haggard breath, running a free hand over her eyes. “That was not funny,” she said.
“No,” Buffy said, the smiling disappearing. “I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to—” The Slayer stammered, her mouth agape, taken aback by the mere thought of playing a joke at such a time. She felt her heart fall to her stomach as she tried to recover. “I just wanted to see— do you— are you okay? Do you need anything?”
Anya stared at her for a second then smiled. “Now
that. . . that was funny,” the Vengeance Demon said, enjoying the light break in the waiting.
Shocked, Buffy stared at Anya, not quite believing that she had just been “had.” “Had” at a time like this. Again, The Slayer’s mouth worked silently as she tried to form words, finding only one at her call. “Anya!”
Anya glanced at Xander, moving a hand to adjust the sheet to cover more of his chest. “You sound just like Willow when you do that.” Buffy closed her mouth. “It is a very good impression.”
Buffy paused, then burst into laughter, quickly covering her mouth to dampen the sound. She shook her head and wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. “Anya,” she said, shaking her head, “do you need anything? A break? Water? Anything?”
The Vengeance Demon sat back in the chair once again, Xander’s hand still firmly ensconced in her own. “We’re okay,” she said, giving Xander’s hand a soft squeeze.
The gesture wasn’t lost on Buffy, and she felt more tears threatening. She cleared her throat and took a step towards the door. “Okay, well, if you do. . . .” She let the sentence hang between them as she reached the door.
“We’re okay,” Anya repeated, letting her eyes fall to Xander’s sleeping form once more.
Buffy backed out of the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click; moving down the hall, she reached Willow’s room in just a few strides. She raised a hand and knocked. “Willow?” She turned an ear to the door, then knocked again. “Will?” She pressed her ear to the wood, straining to hear some sound from within.
There was no sound.
No sound of Willow.
Buffy stood back and dropped her hand to the knob, pushing in as she twisted, the door swinging open easily. “Willow?” she asked again, her eyes taking in the somewhat cluttered surroundings: bed unmade, blanket and pillow in the far corner, computer on desk, open closet.
No Willow.
The Slayer quickened around the bed to the bathroom, banging the door open.
No Willow.
Buffy turned back to the room, her eyes scouring the area with a more detailed scrutiny, with a thought that she might see something now that she had not seen before.
There was no sound.
There was no Willow.
But then, from the corner of her eye, a movement. Buffy’s eyes shifted to the window, watching as the curtains covering the window swayed gently in the wind. The soft night breeze wafted over The Slayer’s face, warm and light, but in that split second of feeling it caress her skin, Buffy’s heart beat faster. She ran to the open window and leaned outside, looking down.
Looking at the flower trellis. . . .
Looking at the broken shrubbery. . . .
“Willow!” she yelled, knowing instantly why. . . .
There was no sound.
There was no Willow.
No Willow.
“
WILLOW! Buffy screamed her best friend’s name into the night, the knowledge that Willow had gone, that Willow had left to meet a fate she believed she deserved flooding her heart and mind and soul. Buffy felt her body shaking then, shaking in a way that no unearthly demon she had encountered on The Hellmouth had ever been able to produce in her.
“Buffy?”
Dawn’s sleep-filled voice behind her snapped Buffy out of her spiraling fear and dread. The Slayer pulled herself back inside and faced the teen.
Anya appeared behind Dawn, disoriented, but armed with a baseball bat. “What? What happened?” she asked, pushing past Dawn into the room.
Dawn entered and walked quickly over to Buffy, who stood silently staring as her sister approached. “What?” Dawn asked, stopping in front of The Slayer. “What is i—” Dawn paused abruptly, glancing quickly around the room. “Wait, what’s—where’s Willow.”
“She’s gone,” Buffy said at last, her voice sounding hollow to her ears.
“Gone?” Anya asked, lowering the bat as she took in the room’s disarray. “Around the bend?”
Dawn huffed in frustration, but before she could respond, Buffy glanced at the open window. “Gone.” She looked back at the two, but said nothing.
“Where?” Dawn asked. Buffy’s eyes went to Dawn’s, holding the teen’s gaze with hers.
Anya moved to the bed, laying the bat down on the rumpled sheets; her eyes drifted to the bed table, her eyebrows furrowing in curiosity and confusion as she reached out and picked up the small, old, cloth-covered book. “After Tara,” Anya said matter-of-factly. Dawn and Buffy looked at Anya, who held up the volume of poetry the Summers sisters had given Willow for her birthday. The Vengeance Demon slipped a piece of paper from the bound pages and held it up to read the words written there. “I’m sorry,” she said simply, then dropped her hand to her side.
Dawn faced her sister once again, her voice full of fear and uncertainty. “Buffy?”
Buffy swallowed the lump that had made its way to her throat and took a deep breath. She cleared her throat and as she opened her mouth to speak, a sudden thought came to her. It crystallized in her mind’s eye so clearly she was struck silent.
“What?” Dawn asked, taking a step towards her. “Buffy,
what?”
Buffy still did not speak, but her gaze shifted slowly, feeling almost like slow motion, towards the desk across the room. Her eyes found the solid form of the image that had jumped into her head, and she practically sprinted across the short distance to the desk. She yanked open the laptop haphazardly, gesturing at it wildly as she turned to look at Dawn and Anya. “This!” she said, poking her finger at the screen as it slowly emerged from “sleep mode.” “
This!” Buffy looked at the computer, leaning over the small console, her eyes roaming over the small keyboard and touch pad; she took hold of the laptop, tilting it upwards. “What— what was she doing?”
Dawn’s hands took hold of the laptop, pausing her sister’s “Slayer-handling” of the delicate instrument. Buffy looked at the teen. “Let me,” she said soft yet firm, pushing the computer back down to its original resting position. Buffy released the laptop and continued to stare at her sister. “I can just. . . .” Dawn’s fingers tapped away on the keys, opening several programs and accessing the Internet in a matter of seconds; Buffy watched silently over her sister’s shoulder.
Anya dropped the book and page on the bed and walked to the closet, peering inside. As was with the rest of the room, the closet was in a pretty bad way, clothes off of their hangers, boxes pushed around or upturned altogether, Hope Chest open and empty, shoes. . . . Anya’s gaze paused, moving back to the small, brown Hope Chest. She gestured to the box. “What was in this?” she asked, tossing a look over her should at Buffy. “It’s gone, too.”
Buffy walked quickly to the closet, kneeling down beside Anya. She grabbed the box and tipped it towards her. “Shit,” she said under her breath; she set the chest back down none-too-gently, then began rummaging through the discarded clothes and other items on the floor. “
Shit!”
“What?” Anya asked, watching as items flew up from the floor as fast as Buffy could grab them. “Shit what?”
Buffy pulled several more boxes out from the back of the closet, tossing the lids off and dumping the contents. She threw the last one away from her in frustration. “God damn it,” she said, standing up.
“What?” Anya asked again, her voice rising slightly in annoyance.
“Dawn?” Buffy asked, turning her back on the closet and the ever-increasingly frustrated Vengeance Demon.
“Maybe. . . .” the teen began, her voice trailing off as her eyes followed over the running text on her screen.
Buffy walked to the desk, leaning over her shoulder once again. “What?” Dawn continued to read silently, her fingers tapping the touch pad every few seconds to move between pages. Buffy’s eyes scanned along with Dawn’s, a feeling of dread welling up as the search continued; Dawn’s hands stopped moving suddenly, and the sisters stared at the screen before them.
“
God damn it what?” Anya yelled.
***
Willow ran.
Every muscle screamed in protest, but she kept on. Her heart felt like it would burst from her chest, but she kept on. Her lungs burned, but she kept on.
Faster. . . faster. . . can’t. . . stop. . . . She knew, when she had made the decision, that she would have to get as much distance between her and the Summers’ house. . . as much distance between her and Buffy, as she possibly could.
Because if she ever knew one thing in this world on The Hellmouth, Willow knew Buffy— The Slayer, her best friend— would come after her.
So Willow ran.
***
Tara felt her body rising, rising high and floating aloft, buffered by a cushion silken fabric. Her head lolled to the side listlessly, her strength completely depleted by her illness. Her eyes fluttered, opening just a fraction as she tried to prepare herself for the onslaught of pain.
But none came.
Nothing but darkness surrounded her, the full, deep blackness disrupted by soft, golden torchlight every few seconds.
Tara felt herself going down suddenly, her body flying. . . her body falling. . . .
. . . down. . . down. . . down. . . .
In a far away distance, Tara thought she heard footsteps falling beside her, all around her, everywhere.
Click-click, click-click, click-click, click-click.
All around her footsteps fell, leading her, following her, carrying her, their discordant tempo echoing all around her.
. . . Willow. . . .
And then her body was moving again, suddenly lowering, leveling, and a hard surface spread over her head and back and legs. It was cold and damp, and it sent her into a new round of uncontrollable shaking, her teeth clattering in the silence.
. . . please. . . so . . . cold. . . help me. . . .
The sun.
The sun was rising.
All around her, a soft glow was expanding, intensifying, surrounding her, but Tara couldn’t feel any heat. She struggled to open her eyes, her vision foggy and blurred. She squinted, trying to pull her eyes into focus, despite the pain searing through her.
The sun.
The sun was moving.
All around her, spears of golden orange flame danced, illuminating the air around her, but still, she could feel no heat.
. . . so. . . cold. . . .
Hand shaking, Tara reached out, reached out to the flame, searching for the warmth that would soothe her cold and aching body. “S-So. . . .” Tara whispered, her voice hoarse and barely audible. She licked her lips. “. . . cold. . . .”
Madrine stepped forward, taking Tara’s hand in hers; she did not hold it for long, instead placing it to rest at Tara’s side. She leaned closer to Tara, dropping her mouth close to the blonde’s ear. “You will be whole.”
***
Willow squatted down behind a cinder block fence, her breathing labored and fast. Tiny spectacles of light danced in front of her eyes, and as she tried to catch her breath, she could actually feel her heart pounding wildly in her chest, she could actually hear her blood rushing in her ears.
Slow. . . deep. . . breaths. . . . She passed the back of her hand over her forehead, wiping away the sheen of sweat that had appeared, then slowly shifted on her haunches. Putting a steadying hand on the ground in front of her, Willow leaned forward and cautiously peeked around the end of the fence.
It looked like a street.
It looked like any old street in Sunnydale.
A more upscale neighborhood street with a cul-de-sac, but it still was like. . .
. . . any old street in Sunnydale.
Except, this was The Hellmouth, and this street. . .
. . . this street was going to take her to Hell. . .
. . . this street was going to take her to Tara. . .
. . . one or the other. . .
. . . one way or another. . . .
Willow retreated behind the wall again, tipping her head back till it rested against the gravelly surface. She clutched at her sweater collar and closed her eyes, taking a slow, deep breath.
Tara. . . . The name of her lover, of the woman she loved more than life, resounded within her, bringing a new calmness, a new sense of peace, a new sense of determination to the mission at hand. She opened her eyes then, pushing up onto the balls of her feet.
“Tara,” she whispered softly.
With the blonde’s name on her lips, and the love for Tara in her heart, Willow moved out from behind the wall completely, her body bent low as she ran behind parked cars and hedges, over the finely trimmed lawns, keeping to the shadows as best she could, hidden from anyone— or anything— that might see.
***
Humming.
Low at first. Low and woody sounding. And then, higher. Sharper, but just as lyrical. Just as. . . .
. . . beautiful. . . .
Tara forced her eyes open again, the desire to find the source of the humming outweighing the pain she felt. She turned her head, her brain unsure exactly what it was that her eyes were seeing.
Two children?
Two girls?
Twin girls?
Humming.
Through the haze clouding her mind and blurring her eyes, Tara smiled. As the sound grew louder, she took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as the Twins drew nearer. They continued to hum as they stopped beside Tara; Tara squeezed her eyes shut tightly, then opened them wide, forcing her eyes to obey her, forcing them focus on the two small girls.
Not. . . twins. . . . There was something there, below the ruffles and curls, something dark, something lurking just underneath.
. . . not. . . girls. . . . Tara’s shaking increased, her teeth beginning to chatter against the cold spreading throughout her body once again. The nausea reared up, seizing her stomach with cramping spasms. Tara moaned loudly, then tried to turn over. “P-P-Please. . . s-s-so. . . c-c-cold. . . s-s-sick. . . .”
Madrine, again, was there, near her head, her hands taking hold of Tara’s shoulders and pushing her onto her back once more. Sinuously, one hand slid over Tara’s skin, from her shoulder to just above her breast, coming to rest above the blonde’s heart; the other hand, in a similarly fluid movement, worked over Tara’s neck and cheek, resting at last on her forehead. Madrine eyes remained on Tara’s face a moment longer, then she raised their blackened depths to find Mr. Bellum. “It is time.”
***
Out of breath once again, her muscles screaming at the prolonged crouch-run combination she forced upon them, Willow literally dropped to the ground behind the bumper of Cadillac parked in the driveway across the street and one house down from her final destination.
Fearing detection, she tucked her mouth and nose into the crook of her elbow, covering the sound of her fast, strenuous breathing. She waited, for what seemed like hours, until her body was once again under control and she could continue on. She licked her parched lips and swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the dry scratchiness that had made its way into her throat.
Swallowing once more, she took a deep breath and got to her feet in a tightly-crouched position. Moving as quietly as possible, she worked her way along the length of the car, her a half-bouncing, half-crawling duck walk not exactly the type of advanced military maneuver that would win her the ‘Stealthiest Scooby Award.’ But, it was working well enough for the mission at hand, and when she reached the front right passenger side of the car, she stopped.
Pressing her hands against the door, she stretched herself upwards, craning her neck until her eyes breached the top of the passenger door and she could see through the window, across the interior, and out the driver’s side; her eyes fell instantly upon the elegant house just yards away.
Tara.
Yards away. . . .
Willow’s fingers flexed, gripping the doorframe tightly. Seconds ticked by endlessly as she gathered her strength, as she gathered her resolve. Taking a deep breath, she whispered, “It’s time. . . .”
***
The humming had reached an almost fever-pitch, rising and falling in discordant, inharmonious notes that echoed off the stone walls around them.
Mr. Bellum raised his arms outwards, holding them wide open, palms up.
From the corners of the chamber room, six black-robed figures moved forward, each carrying a lit torch; they each took up positions around Tara and Madrine, enclosing them within their burning circle.
From where Tara lay on the stone altar, she could feel— at last— the heat from the golden flames surrounding her. Despite her discomfort, she sighed openly, mentally willing the fires to engulf her, to bathe her in their warmth.
The Gold Child left her sister’s side and walked around the head of the altar, behind Madrine, stopping at Tara’s left side; looking across Tara’s prone form, she stared into her twin’s dark eyes and, through some ancient, silent signal, they ceased their song. Both took steps closer to Tara; The Gold Child reached out and took hold of Tara’s left hand, while the Raven Child mirrored her sister by taking Tara’s right hand.
“This soul is torn,” the Gold Child said. “Twisted and pulled, beaten and worn. . . .”
“So sad and lost,” the Raven Child said. “Not much to do, save unbind this heart. . . .”
Together, the two finished. “End one of two,” they said in unison.
From the doorway, a Creature— something that at one point
could have been a man— crossed into the room, lurching forward, its body bent and twisted and malformed beyond recognition. Enormous tumors and pulsing, open sores covered it from head to toe, dripping yellow-brown pus and blood with each step it took. It stopped beside Madrine, waiting, its breathing a wet, glugging sound.
From the shadows at Madrine’s back, two men appeared, standing directly behind her. Dressed similarly to Mr. Bellum in high-fashion suits, they stood silently.
Mr. Bellum brought his arms forward from his sides, holding them out before him, palms still held upwards. He held his Mistress’ eyes as he nodded once.
“This soul is torn,” the Gold Child repeated. “Twisted and pulled, beaten and worn. . . .”
The Creature stood up then, its bones cracking, its deformities running rivers down its length. The wet breathing became ragged and harsh; it pressed its body against Madrine’s, its clawing hands taking hold of her face. Madrine let the Creature turn her face towards it, pliant and acquiescent under its touch. The Creature made a noise, a hacking, heaving sound deep in its chest, then leaned forward. Opening its mouth, it fastened its split and bleeding lips over Madrine’s; it coughed into Madrine’s mouth, expelling a foul, greenish-black viscous liquid.
Madrine’s eyes went wide momentarily, and she pulled her head away from the Creature, dribbles of liquid running down her chin. Grimacing, she swallowed the vile substance, squeezing her eyes shut against the putrid taste.
***
Willow dropped down from the window, back into her crouched squat. Reaching a hand behind her back, she took hold of the wrench she had tucked into her pants, and pulled it out. Hefting the weight in her left hand, she absently touché the collar of her sweater with her right hand.
Tara. . . .
SCREEEEEECH.
Willow froze, her stomach flipping over before free falling down to her stomach. She death-gripped the wrench, her eyes growing wide with fear.
SCREEEEEECH.
Everything inside Willow screamed at her. . .
To run.
To stay still.
To hide.
To fight.
To turn and look.
To not turn and look.
To do something.
To do anything.
and 
4ever
by girlfriends actually » Sun Mar 21, 2004 5:36 pm 
)
Pax! -Bev
Missed ya, glad you're back! 
How could you turn your back on the old one, it was heartbroken when we told it about your betrayal, it no longer wants to live now, we have to keep it alive with lots of IVs and good therapy because now it has serious abandonment issues! 
Hope you know what you're doing, and hopefully it looks like this: 
No matter how heart-wrenching, thank you for the update! 
Good one aka MKF! 
Keep up the great work! 
I can't take it, my heart's not strong enough! 
I had this whole huge feednack thingy and then my PC went and lost it. Anyway let's see if I can remember what I wrote. My favorite part of this update was the Dawn and Buffy chat and how Buffy never even thought of seeing Tara as evil. I wonder if that will change now that she has Madrine's eyes. Does that mean that Tara is in Madrine? Madrine btw needs her ass kicked most seriously. I can't wait to read how she gets that. Tara needs to be ok. Willow needs to hope that she hasn't outrun Buffy by too much as she needs Buffy to save her right about now. And the spit thing near the end was VERY ewww. I think I actually recoiled from my computer while reading that. Very descriptive. 
Like the title of your last chapter…I’m coming “undone” here!
