It was a privilege, she supposed, to be allowed to take the bus into Exeter.
Over the weeks, Willow had been slowly earning the trust of the woman in the coven. Well, not trust exactly, but the knowledge that she wasn't about to end the world or anything as drastic anytime soon. She could cut her own meat at meal times now, got to light her own candles during rituals, and, she kicked at the sidewalk, her sneakers had mysteriously returned next to the lace less brown boots that had replaced them when she'd arrived.
Willow couldn't blame them for their wariness. She had been much too numb when Giles had ushered onto the plane, their carry-ons slung over his shoulder with a grimace, for coherent thought. There had just been pain; all-consuming grief that swallowed her and prevented anything from but two words from penetrating her consciousness.
She's gone.
Eventually that voice had quieted or deafened her to everything else or something else entirely. Whatever it had been, there was nothing but silence those first four days.
Emptiness.
On that fourth day, Willow had swung her legs over the side of her bed, looked down briefly at the clothes she couldn't remember changing into, and strung together her first coherent sentence in days.
They're going to kill me.
She hadn't felt fear then or disgust. It was just a rational statement of facts, something she learned in cemeteries when she was barely sixteen years old; they killed evil things. And that was what Willow had become, an evil thing.
Willow had felt relief then. She wouldn't be going where Tara was. No, not after the things she'd done, she knew that, but she wouldn't have to be here either. She was already dead; there could be no Willow without Tara so why drag things out?
But Giles and Ms. Harkness and the other women of the coven had other plans for her. They wanted to help her. Heal her. And Willow wasn't sure what to think about that.
So she didn't. The first couple of weeks, Willow simply complied. She'd go where she was told, eat what was put in front of her, meditate at the appropriate times, but she would always draw the line at any actual casting. Besides the grief and pain that she was drowning in, fear tugged at her ankles, pulling her down further.
It was hard enough to breathe as it was.
Giles had explained it to her, though, the reason that it was so important for Willow to keep practicing. She'd been right…evil, destructive, mega-bitch Willow had been right.
She was the magicks.
It was as much a part of her as her green eyes.
When she'd stopped, it had been like building a dam. She'd stopped the natural flow of her energy and it had built up. A lot. The tremors and night sweats had all been psychosomatic, the magick had never truly left her system and when she didn't cast, it had nowhere to go.
Until it did.
Willow shoved her hands into her jean's pockets, pulling her elbows close to her body. Even when she had tried to make things better, she had screwed up. And now she had all this power, power she didn't want or deserve, and there was no way for her to get rid of it. No way that Giles would allow.
She kicked at the ground again and something like a smile appeared on her face when she noticed the small hole starting at the toe.
Willow stopped suddenly.
She brought one hand up to her face and, besides the flush from the weather she was unused to, there was nothing there. No tears. One hundred thirty one days later and there were no tears. It was a milestone, wasn't it? Some important step in the healing process? To be able to think about her without crying?
Willow wasn't sure how she felt about that. The not crying thing was good, but that could lead to other things like moving on…or forgetting.
No. Tara was her forever. Her always. Nothing was going to change that.
And, she mused, Tara would want her to be happy. Eventually. Even if Willow didn't deserve it, Tara would want Willow happy.
And for Tara, Willow would do anything.
