Chapter 8: What Dreams May Come

This time, Buffy didn't land with a thump.

Instead, the spinning blackness around her gradually faded away, replaced by a soft, glowing white light. She felt no pain. No forces trying to pull her apart. She was whole and full and warm. Weightless.

She wasn't breathing, exactly, but she sensed a calm rhythm, like waves caressing the shore and sliding back again. And with each pulse, she grew more and more sure that everything would be OK. Her worries receded and receded until they just didn't exist.

There wasn't anything to be upset about. It would all work itself out. She didn't need to do anything but...be. Everyone loved her and she loved everyone and nothing could ever go wrong again.

All that existed was light. There was no need for hope, no need for faith, because every answer to every question was part of her. She was connected to all of it. Her soul was aglow with it.

She knew this place.

It was heaven.

Or what she thought of as heaven. The place she had been. Before.

Had she died again?

It didn't matter. It wasn't important. She was happy. Everyone she had ever known was being taken care of.

She stopped trying to think. She just was.

†††

There was no time, so time didn't pass.

A second, an hour, a year later, and yet before she ever arrived, before she was, and also now, right now, a thought slithered up from some unknowable depth and coiled in her consciousness.

Angel's soul will be destroyed.

Destroyed.

He will not be OK.

The gentle rhythm of the waves around her grew louder until they crashed like thunder, drowning everything else out.

All will be as it should be.

There is only light. Only light.

The serpentine thought had wriggled away from her, but she dug in hard with all the self she had left and pulled. Somehow, she knew.

This isn't real.

Pinpricks of black pierced the light around her. All at once, she was aware of her body. Her limbs were heavy. Cold. She felt the thought again.

This isn't real.

The punctured light ebbed away from her on all sides. She wasn't just cold. She was wet and shivering. Still, she hugged the thought close.

This isn't real.

The light was gone — gone — leaving only an echo in her ears.

You are not worthy.

There is nothing good or clean in you.

Now you are dead inside.

The despondent blackness rushed in to devour her. She hurt. All over, she hurt. And she was all alone.

What had she done?

She pulled her knees to her chest and ducked her head down against them. All she could think of was the light. She had lost it. Again. How had she let this happen?

Her throat ached with longing for the light. It had been only a trick. Angel was in danger. But none of that mattered. Nothing mattered, the evil darkness murmured. She was forsaken.

She was here. She must deserve to be here.

In hell.

†††

For so long, there was nothing.

She was nothing, tiny and alone, curled around herself. There was only darkness around her, only darkness inside her head.

She knew time passed quickly here — it always seemed to in hell dimensions. Angel had spent 100 years in Acathla's dimension in the space of a few months.

Angel.

Somewhere he was out there. She was supposed to be helping him.

But it couldn't possibly matter, could it? She couldn't save him. No one could be saved. Everyone ended up here, in the dark. Alone.

All that existed was the blackness. There was no need for faith here, no need for hope, because every answer to every question was a part of her. And the answer was a blank.

For so long, there was nothing.

But then, somehow, there was a scream.

She wasn't screaming. She had to actually check, lifting her hands to her mouth and her ears.

She tried to stand up, but she couldn't get her bearings in the total blackout. She curled back into a ball, leaning her forehead onto her knees.

Again, a scream. A woman screaming.

This time, when she lifted her face, she could see. Not much. Everything around her was still dark, but now a part was less-dark. She scrambled to her feet, guiding herself into the less-dark.

She was afraid of what she would find. But being afraid was better than being nothing.

The feel of her body moving broke through some of the icy despair that had crept inside her, the despair that permeated every molecule of this place. She had been to hell before, though briefly, but it had never felt like this. So far, no demons had appeared to beat or enslave her, but she was more in danger of losing herself alone in the dark.

Buffy Summers, Buffy Summers, Buffy Summers, she chanted with each step.

"Buffy!" the woman screamed, joining the chorus.

Willow.

Willow was in hell? Why would Willow be in hell?

But she was. Buffy could see her now, running with a michianius demon on her heels. The demon caught up to Willow as Buffy ran headlong in her direction. Just the demon's claws closed around Willow's arm, Buffy bounced hard against some kind of invisible barrier and was sent sprawling onto her back.

"Willow!" she yelled.

The demon lifted Willow into the air. Before he could deliver a killing blow, she managed to wriggle out of her jacket and run away. The demon gave chase, but Buffy couldn't see them anymore. She could only hear Willow's continued cries for her help.

Amid them, Willow appeared calmly at her side, sitting cross-legged and looking like her high school self in a fuzzy pink sweater.

"You won't save me, y'know," she said conspiratorially. "If you really wanted to help me, you could."

"No," Buffy said. "There's some kind of barrier. I can't get through to...you. The other you."

"And who's responsible for that, mister?"

"I don't know." Buffy closed her eyes and reopened them. Willow was still there. And another Willow was still yelling for her, somewhere farther away.

"You do know. You won't save me because I flipped the switch," Willow said sagely.

"You what?"

"Turned off the light, dummy. Took you away from your communion with the cosmos. The first time, I mean."

"No. We've been over this."

"Have we?" Willow raised an eyebrow. "When's the last time you really talked to me when you didn't need some mojo? 'Hey, Wil, find a way to bring me back from my interdimensional walkabout.' 'Hey, Wil, make me an army of slayers.' Blah, blah. You get the not-so-pretty picture. You cut me out, Buffy."

Her words burned. This couldn't really be Willow. But that didn't mean what she was saying wasn't true.

"It's not like you make it easy," Buffy said, unable to resist defending herself. "You — well, the you you are now, not this you — you're always off on some magical mystery tour. South America, the astral plane, anywhere you can find as long as it's far away."

"Maybe I can't stand the way you look at me."

"Willow..." Buffy got to her feet. "No, this isn't you. There can't be two yous. And you're not even here. I'm in hell."

"Being with me is being in hell. Yeah, that's how you felt about all of us, isn't it?"

"No..." Buffy shook her head. "That's not what I meant. I love you. You're my best friend."

"And yet you knew you were heading off on some impossible quest and you didn't call. You didn't even tuck a letter in your hotel room for me, like you did for Giles."

"I wanted to talk to you. I didn't know how to reach you."

"Oh, that's handy. You didn't try." Willow stood up, too. She looked exasperated. "What is all this even for, anyway? You've come all the way to hell because Angel's soul needs saving again? Are you sure it's even worth it at this point? I mean, look at him."

Willow's eyes were focused on something behind Buffy. She swiveled, hope jumping into her bruised heart. Was Ghost Angel back to help her again?

She saw a man standing nearby, hunched over, but it took a moment for Buffy to register that it was Angel. His hair was longer than she'd ever seen it, matted and unkempt. His face and clothes were dirty. He looked like he hadn't eaten in months.

Buffy turned back to Willow, but she was gone. Buffy realized she could no longer hear any screaming.

She took a few steps toward the strange vision before her, tingles prickling up her back. "Angel?"

His startled eyes met hers for a moment. He seemed to size her up, as if she might be a threat. When she didn't attack, he turned away without acknowledging her.

"Angel!" she said more insistently. He didn't bother to even glance her way this time. She inched closer, a queasy feeling in her stomach. "Look, I know you're not real," she said softly. "But I was hoping you could help me."

He didn't answer, just stared off blankly into space. Now that she was closer, she could smell him. It wasn't a pleasant experience. "Angel, please."

Something in her tone must have gotten through to him, because he finally turned his head back to face her. He swallowed as he stared at her. "Do I know you?" he rumbled at last, his voice trickling out like brown water from a rusty faucet.

"It's me," she said. "Buffy."

"I'm sorry," he answered hoarsely, shaking his head slightly. "I can't help you."

His face betrayed not even a flicker of recognition. She was a stranger to him. She began to back away, her heart thumping in her ears.

She looked around her wildly, but Willow was still nowhere in sight. All she could see was an Angel who didn't know her, certainly didn't love her and apparently wasn't going to help her.

Of course. It was hell.