Chapter 43
Kraken
3 a.m. Tuesday morning and the moon shone eldritch over the hospice courtyard, pursued by thin veils of cloud. The waterfall, such a cheery song by day, became a threnody at night. John stood by the window in what used to be Willow’s room and felt the lamentation of the earth deep within his chest. This dirge was far too familiar to him, as one of the keepers of the dying, but in the past he was always able to be philosophical about it, to some degree. Death is but a part of life.
The staff rocked precipitously to Ethan’s quiet, calamitous news. Tara would not be returning. Ethan shared the truth about the shadow, the headaches, the fainting. To nearly all the staff members, this unwelcome surprise had shaken them to their core. It was one thing to nurse a stranger through the ravages of terminal disease, quite another to care for one so dearly beloved as family.
John had known, the minute they wheeled unconscious, white-haired Willow Rosenberg into the room, that Tara would be called to her greatest challenge. John also knew that Tara was more than capable of surprising them all. She may regard herself to be merely a drifting mite, but to John she had always been a Kraken.
And not because of the magic.
He had always felt a special kinship with Tara. They had both come to the hospice to heal themselves of past wounds and heartache. He remembered vividly the day he first met her, and recognized what truly lay within. Even in his youth John had uncanny knowledge
(child prodigy, a genius, cursed by the gods)a knack of seeing what some people tried so hard to hide. With the coming of his God, John knew even more.
How many roles would they each assume before the play was finished? Tara never suspected that John had anything but a minor part; he was a tertiary character built to support the main cast. John never wanted the limelight, but he would accept the role when it came.
Tara was the lamb. John was the shepherd. And Willow was the one wielding the sacrificial blade.
Willow. She didn’t remember him. Then again, he didn’t really expect her to. It was quite possible she was blissfully unaware that she had saved his life. Willow was mired deep in the currents of the underworld, a place into which John had merely dipped his toe. By God, he had paid for his curiosity, and then some.
It was vastly apparent that no one stays dead in Sunnydale.
John looked into the courtyard, felt the depth of his task weigh down his soul like a millstone, and waited for Ethan to arrive to relieve him of his shift. Knowing what they did about Tara, John hoped that Ethan was not drunk. He had sounded groggy on the phone when John called, but the nurse hoped it was just sleepiness that drugged Ethan’s voice. The story of family emergency would work well enough for John’s purposes tonight. No need to explain what a large and unusual family it was.
The stars dared to shine.
(The great kings of the past look down on us from those stars.)Heavy footsteps down the hall, and John turned to retreat back to the nursing station, to feed Ethan even more lies,
(how much had Tara revealed to him about our world?) anything to get him out of the hospice in time to save Willow. This night of all nights it was time to repay his debt.
In his heart, John always knew he would see Sunnydale again. With luck, he would survive his encounter.
Past experience had proved that it was better to rely on magic than luck.
*****
Rack prowled the edge of the glimmering forcefield, a hound on his Master’s leash. Althanea was somewhere in that rickety building, bleeding. The thought made him smile, if that twisted scarred grimace could remotely resemble a smile. He had been the one wielding the Knife when it cut her – he could feel her weakening through the blood connection. The Knife was powerful; use it to kill a demon, a witch or warlock and their magical gifts became yours. He was careful not to kill her with it; that privilege was not to be his. Besides, he didn’t pretend to be waiting for that.
She was only bait.
She and that vampire were luckier than they knew. Rack had been weakened immeasurably by his weeks-long task of repairing Caleb’s body. Then he had been called into the desert to resurrect Tawarick – something he had to be compelled to do, remembering the last time he had encountered one of the great demon’s spawn. The imp had made mincemeat of Rack’s face, and no amount of magic would heal that disfiguring scar.
It had been such a pleasure wielding the knife. Thirteen Priests of Danzalthar, unwashed and unbalanced fanatics as they were, willingly put themselves under his knife in the horrific rite that granted Tawarick blood and breath. For a time, Tawarick would be weak, unable to move far from the spot that granted him life. The First put a bodyguard around the demon and Rack was permitted to leave with his life intact.
Weary beyond measure, trudging back to the restaurant, thinking of strawberries and cold beer, Rack was ambushed.
The warlock stroked his fingers along the edge of the forcefield, feeling it crackle beneath his touch. The witch may have gotten the knife, but she was wounded, and Angel was taken prisoner, and all Rack had to do was wait.
Eventually the field would fall. Tawarick would have gained enough power to move. Willow would come and spring the trap, and the jaws would fall.
Upon the amulet.
*****
Maggie was only nineteen when she died. Althanea remembered screaming at Cassandra, the coven’s seer, after she heard the news. There they were, scrying on people all over the globe, watching the Slayer line (Buffy had been adorable as a baby), watching the Watchers, watching everyone except her own family.
Her husband had left her. Then her only daughter died. Now, fifteen years later, Althanea was still trying to relieve her guilt.
Why else was she so desperate to leave England to see Tara? They had watched Tara for so long, been so vicariously involved in her life that she had become like a daughter to all of them. Watching her take Willow’s pain that terrible day was like revisiting an ancient nightmare. There was no bloody way Althanea would watch another loved one fall.
The price was greater than she imagined.
For now Althanea sat, felt blood dripping down her side, and hoped it was enough. She may have the knife, but their enemies now had Angel and the scythe, and with every moment that passed, Althanea felt weaker. She had not wanted to call Willow – not that the red-haired witch wasn’t up to the task, but Althanea hadn’t wanted Tara in danger. The nurse had become so weak, so fragile, like blown glass and every bit as treasured.
Choices became slim. So she called. And waited. And bled.
What was happening at Tara’s house?
*Althanea.*
*Merciful heavens, Willow, what took you so long?*
*I’ll explain when we get there. You have to drop the forcefield just as Tara and I teleport in. We’ll talk then.*
*We had best time it carefully. There are a few enemies just outside.* Althanea hoped that Willow could sense the undercurrent in her voice. She had no time to explain everything – better to wait until Willow and Tara arrived.
*Once I pop in, I’ll take over the forcefield. Are you ready?*
(Oh, I am very ready.)*I’ll count down from five.*
Maggie had loved the ocean. She would listen to the shells and pretend to predict the future. Splashing in the waves, hooting in glee at every little thing. The world lost no lustre for such children.
*Four.*
Dust motes swirled in the air, light desert breeze stirring through the boarded windows. Moths batted endlessly against the windows. The place smelled of dirt, oil, and violence. Althanea pressed her hand deeper to her side.
*Three.*
Yet she was not alone. The coven blazed within her. She was connected to them, in bonds far tighter than mere sisterhood. Their faith sustained her, made her strong, even as her blood wept.
*Two.*
With their power she had erected this forcefield, in a blaze of force that had tumbled the Bringers back. She imagined the coven now, sitting cross-legged in Bronwen’s den, holding hands and praying to the gods. Now she had to relinquish them all in favour of one single witch, who always managed to avert the apocalypse.
*One.*
Eyes closed, Althanea severed the spell.
*****
They say that smell can evoke the strongest memories. As Willow teleported to the gas station, she was more than peripherally aware of the scent of Tara’s hair. The nurse felt so right in her arms, and Willow smelled the sultry scent of sandalwood mixed with roses – it was the smell of hope. Materialising in the darkened station brought other memories back, all horrific. Could violence leave a scent? Why else would she be drawn back to this place where so much blood was shed?
The moment her feet touched the cool gritty cement floor, Willow tightened her grip on Tara, breathed deeply in her hair, even as she chanted, “Saepio impedimentum!”
It was not a physical ripple that spun through the air, but the results were the same. Althanea’s field had been down for only seconds, yet Rack and the other Bringers had lunged forward only to be thrown violently back by a shimmering field of blue energy.
Opening her eyes, she and Tara turned simultaneously to the downed witch. Tara was skirting the knife, urging Althanea to lay back. Nodding once to her girlfriend, Willow turned to the window, trusting Tara to take the first look at Althanea’s wound and tell her what needed doing.
“Ssh, Althanea, you’ve been so strong,” Tara murmured from behind her. Willow tried to look beyond the field, out into the desert where Tawarick waited. Could they possibly get out fast enough to escape his ire? Why wouldn’t he make his move?
“Willow,” Tara called softly.
Willow turned back, her gorge rising at the wound in Althanea’s side. Althanea seemed to be wilting now, panting with the pain of the deep cut that scored perilously close to her ribs.
“Let’s take care of that, shall we?” Willow said, forcing an unnatural gaiety into her voice.
Willow knelt by Althanea’s other side and looked at her beloved. Tara’s face was pale, but Willow sure as shootin’ knew it wasn’t because of all the blood. Blinking, Willow looked down at Althanea, wrapped her hand around Althanea’s hand, surprised as always by the lines in her palm that proclaimed she was older than she would have people believe. With her other hand Willow touched the cut.
Oh, gods!
She suppressed the bile that rose in her throat, stinging. Madness and evil foamed from that cut, seeking to invade every part of the British witch’s body. Willow closed her eyes and called upon Panacea for the second time in twenty minutes. Power arose within her, cresting through her outstretched fingers, and while she heard Althanea gasp, Willow didn’t open her eyes until she felt the skin close underneath her bloodied fingers.
When she finally did open her eyes, she saw an angry red scar, thick and raised. Tara reached over and squeezed Willow’s hand. “You did your best, Will,” she said, correctly interpreting the worried frown on Willow’s face.
All three of them looked at the weapon on the ground. It still had Althanea’s blood on it.
Willow looked out in the direction of the desert, of Rack. She had so little time to do what had to be done.
There was no way she could teleport out of her own forcefield. Willow didn’t dare release the field for a single moment – notwithstanding the danger Tara and Althanea would be in, it would be an all too obvious ‘Willow has left the building’ sign to all of their enemies.
“Make a tunnel,” Tara suggested. “If you make it long enough, you can bypass the Bringers without them even knowing.”
Willow smiled at her love. How was it possible for Tara to know her thoughts so intimately? Rack may have been a powerful warlock once, but even Willow could see that he lacked the magical strength to create one himself, or to counter her own efforts. “It will take a little while,” Willow conceded.
“We’ll be here,” Tara vowed, holding Althanea’s hand.
Willow leaned over Althanea’s body to kiss Tara. The nurse was intoxicating as always, and Willow wished she had nothing better in this life to do than sit and kiss Tara.
Ice cream. Bubble baths. And durians.
Save Angel. For Buffy’s sake.
Pulling away, Willow walked to the other side of the room, her eyes on Tara the entire time. Just before she began the spell to carve a tunnel through the cement and desert rock, she mouthed, “I love you.”
Tara smiled. “I love you, too,” she whispered.
Willow stared at the ground and thought of Hephaestus, the god of industry, and her gift of transmutation. Under her concentrated gaze, the cement transformed into dust, which she immediately siphoned away to land on an ever-increasing pile in the corner of the room. Levitating over the tunnel that was furiously being excised from the bedrock beneath her, Willow looked at Tara and Althanea one last time before dropping into the smooth walls of the tunnel.
*Please take care of her, Althanea.*
*Always, Willow. Stay in touch.*
Remembering the layout of the land from her scry earlier, Willow kept extending the tunnel, always feeling the power of the forcefield radiating from within her. Of the hundreds of worries that assaulted her, Willow thought of the scores of Bringers surrounding the gas station. She didn’t exactly relish the thought of burrowing up right next to them.
Some fifteen minutes later. *Are you still all right, Willow?* Althanea asked.
*Wish I knew where I was,* Willow lamented. The walls were close.
This is no time for claustrophobia, Willow. You’ve been in worse tight spots than this. Crypts, tunnels, sewers, any of this ring a bell? You’ve been in dirtier places, too.
In the stories, the heroes never had to do so much laundry.
*Can you scry for a look?*
Willow hesitated. She had not mentioned Tawarick to Althanea, playing the absolutely useless, out of sight, out of mind card. She was worried he would see her scrying again. Worry four hundred and thirty one, far behind every worry surrounding her precious girl just up through the tons of rock.
Worries really shouldn’t be saved. They should be spent immediately, because there’s always another worry right behind. For fifteen long tunnelling minutes, Willow worried about Tara, Tawarick, and the blood on the knife.
So she hesitated, looking back down the length of the tunnel, then looking up, feeling a twinge in her chest as she thought of kissing her girlfriend.
*WILLOW!* Althanea screamed.
Willow was too busy screaming herself to notice.
The shock of her forcefield being punctured was like a direct blow to her chest. Willow slumped to the ground, holding her splitting head together, desperately trying to catch the magic that slipped through her fingers. A destroyed spell always hurt, the power rebounding on the user, and Willow began to stumble back through her burrowed tunnel, knowing there was only one thing alive that could have broken her barrier.
Tawarick.
Worry four hundred and thirty two. Willow tried to gather the magic, but the destruction of her powerful spell had temporarily anesthetised her. Sobbing with pain and worry Willow stumbled, a lance of pain through her eye, and she vomited on the ground as she continued to stumble back. Why had she made the tunnel so freaking long?
Would the magic never come back?
Tara and Althanea were helpless and alone, facing a demon raised straight from the cabal of hell.
Hecate, I beg! Let me teleport!
Pain embraced her in vise-like fingers. A hollow boom shook the ground. Willow cowered, looking at the ceiling, the tons of rock above her. She took a quavering breath and advanced three more steps before there was an even greater hammer-stroke.
The tunnel collapsed.
*****
The wound was closed, but Althanea had lost a lot of blood. Tara was sitting in it. The scent of it rose up to her, but it wasn’t the sharp scent of hospice blood, tinged with antiseptic and competence, it was an oily scent of hatred and despair. It had been years since she blanched at the sight of blood; now she could barely understand her body’s wretched response – perhaps it was because Althanea was so beloved.
The ground was hard, and Tara wished she had thought to ask Willow to conjure a pillow. Instead, Tara cradled Althanea’s head in her lap, stroking the caramel coloured hair at her temples, humming softly.
This was what she was reduced to.
Sitting.
Willow was off saving the world, and Tara sat.
Tara looked down. Althanea had her eyes closed. Her cheek was grimy. Tara rubbed the mark with the edge of her sweater.
Just a nurse.
This was surely a deathspace far less nurturing than Peter Whitney’s room. There were no heaven-threads here. Tara didn’t want to deceive herself, imagine that she felt something she could not feel without the magic inside her, but the place still gave her the willies. So much terror, so much blood. If there was ever a place where hell reached up through the ground with long and greedy fingers, this was it.
A tear rolled down Althanea’s cheek.
“What is it, dear heart?” Tara softly asked.
“I never really expected to be here,” the witch replied. “I thought I was only a messenger. I don’t really understand how I got pulled in to all of this.”
(We all got opportunities to provide comic relief. We had to, or we would have gone insane.)“What’s green and red and goes a hundred miles an hour?” Tara asked, softly rubbing Althanea’s temples. Yet Tara knew how important Althanea’s last statement was; she just needed a little time to process before answering.
The witch lifted an eyebrow and looked at Tara as if to see if she could possibly be telling jokes at a time like this. “I don’t know,” the witch conceded.
“Froggie in a blender,” Tara replied lightly. “What do you get when you add milk to it?”
Althanea snickered. “What?” she asked.
“Frog nog. What happens when you drink it?”
Althanea was genuinely laughing now, a tear escaping her eye. “Tell me!”
“You croak!”
Althanea got up, snickering, until she faced Tara, knee to knee. She looked at Tara then, with a gaze that pierced her very soul. “You remind me so much of my daughter.”
Tara’s breath caught in her throat, and she waited for Althanea to continue. “You see, she died fifteen years ago, and I didn’t save her. I should have saved her.”
This is it, Tara. This is what you do best. Sit. And listen.
“You can’t save everyone,” Tara admitted.
“You and I may both know that to be true, but our hearts speak otherwise, do they not?” Althanea reached over and touched Tara’s face. “In the face of such evil, what do you trust? Your head, or your heart?”
“I’m sorry about your daughter,” Tara whispered.
“She made her choice, as I did,” Althanea replied, dropping her hand. “As you will.”
“Choice seems pretty irrelevant about now,” Tara said wryly, looking down at her chest. The amulet was hidden beneath her sweater, but she could always feel it there, heavy and pricking.
“You may think you are chained,” Althanea admitted, “but you will see. Sooner or later everyone is backed up to the wall. Do you submit, or do you fight?”
Tara looked into the darkness and felt the heaviness of Caleb behind her eyes. “Not even the poet knows the end from the beginning,” she whispered, thinking of Anna of the golden hair, Anna of the golden sunny afternoon.
She looked back in time to see Althanea’s far-off expression. The witch was probably talking to Willow, and Tara felt a deep pang in her chest. They couldn’t even share this simple thing, something even Buffy and Xander had learned before the end.
Clearing her throat of all envy, she asked, “Is Willow all right?”
“She’s about done the tunnel and is going to pop up for a look see.”
If by the strength of her love alone she could cause Willow to hear her, Tara silently thought, *Willow, be careful.*
A rustling outside, the timbre of voices changed and Tara rose ponderously to her feet to look out the window and see what had happened. Althanea followed, and they stepped around the mass of dirt Willow had excavated to look through the boarded slats.
Walking through the mass of Bringers that parted before him like the waves of the Red Sea strode Tawarick the demon, the smoking mirror in his palm, tendrils of flame streaming from the horns atop his head.
“WILLOW!” Althanea screamed, just as Tawarick raised the mirror to his head. A bolt of black lightning struck the forcefield and it shattered like so much glass. The concussion of the forcefield falling was an immense hollow clap; Tara knelt on the ground and covered her ears, barely aware she was screaming.
The walls of the gas station, weary by so much magic and age, exploded outwards with enough force to pierce Bringer bodies – the front rank was again decimated.
Tara looked up through watery eyes. Nothing stood between her and the demon.
“Saepio impedimentum,” Althanea weakly called from somewhere behind her. A thin watery field sprung up, but Tawarick walked through it as if it were nothing. From the corner of her eye, Tara could see Althanea stumbling on the ground, her hand to her side.
The gaze of the demon went to the pile of dirt, then on the ground. Tara’s eyes widened in sudden and terrible fear. Tawarick lifted one foot, and then slammed it on the ground, earth actually rippling around his feet in the concussive force.
“NO!” Tara screamed as she saw a thin line of earth cave in, a line that stretched with arrow-like precision out into the desert in the direction of the fallen Angel. The rumbling and groaning of rocks continued as the earth heaved, clouds of dust arising from the tumbling boulders of desert stone.
Willow was under there, under a ton of rock, and Tara was chained.
Tawarick grinned.
What will you choose, Tara?
What are you without the magic? Just a nurse? Just a girl? A drifting mite?
Hell no.
I have always been the Kraken.
Donny would have rejoiced to see it. Tara faced Tawarick with the amulet hidden on her breast, and she felt lit up inside with power. She was a burning city, alight with no magical power, no gift from the gods, just the strength of a dying girl afire with love.
Love, the antidote to all evil.
And every experience of her wretched life, all the pain she took, all she had suffered at the hands of father and brother, had but deepened her capacity to love. A coin turning, a shadow exposed to light, her dark hollow spaces sanctified and ready.
You have no idea, do you? The goddess had once accused.
Do you really think so little of yourself?Not anymore.
It was never about the magic.
It was never even about Willow.
It was always about Tara.
(When the time comes, what will you choose?)Tara faced Tawarick, her gaze all the more terrible for the pure light that radiated within. When he looked upon her, he did not see a scarred little nurse, fainting and diseased.
He saw the Kraken.
And he was sore afraid.
TBC with Chapter 44 "Even the powerful die"
Phoenix
Many thanks to Foo for the spectacular banner above. You're the greatest!
by taraslove » Tue Jun 10, 2008 7:51 pm 
fest...
I don't know, I think we all already have a big Tara-shaped hole in our hearts and seeing her like this only makes me realise that more. All the suffering, the brain tumor, the fights against the First... it's not looking pretty and I am dreading the angst to come - yet welcoming it cause it's such a great story.
Not sure what just happened there, and not sure I feel safe with the tilte for the next chapter!
