Chapter Thirty Six
Jertfa
Willow wasn't sure what woke her. It was late; almost four in the morning. The heat had broken in the night and Willow had pulled a sheet over herself and her sleeping lover. Blinking, she looked at the slender form in her arms, the sheet rising and falling with Tara's breath. One hand was on Tara's stomach; her crooked arm perilously close to Tara's breast. She desperately wanted to peek and see if the salve was working, but didn't dare violate Tara's privacy while she was sleeping. She could wait until morning, and then see.
She settled back into her pillow, nuzzling Tara's bare shoulder. Willow loved Tara's skin. It was clear and smooth and in all respects delightful. The crinkle of her eyes as she smiled, the tightening of her jaw when she was in pain, the shivering ripple that cascaded as Willow touched her just there...
How was it possible that she could fall in love so quickly? In many respects, Willow felt like she'd always been waiting for Tara. There was a special little section of her heart with a place card saying "Reserved", just waiting for that moment that Tara swept into her life. And once she did, Willow had no more fear or shame; loving Tara came as naturally to her as breathing, as magic.
Now there was fear. Fear of losing her. In the bright light of day it was easier for Willow to be all stiff-upper-lippy; confident and outspoken in the face of evil. But in the dark of night, demons wandered the ghostly corridors of Willow's mind, seeking out her weaknesses. At night Willow's oft overactive mind would conjure a million deaths for her brown-haired lover, moments when she would arrive just seconds late. What would this tawdry world hold for her then?
Intolerable. Willow planted a soft kiss on Tara's bare shoulder, tucked her body even closer, thinking dark thoughts until sleep claimed her.
Between one breath and the next, Willow dreamed.
And found herself in the graveyard in the dark hours of night. She was standing in front of a large mausoleum, one she didn't recognize. Standing there on the marble steps leading into the vast building was Faith. Willow strode slowly up to her; Faith had a small trickle of blood falling from her lip down her chin. Willow noticed Faith's favourite knife thrust in her belly, just the way Buffy had once stabbed her. Faith looked down on it as well, as if surprised to see it jutting from her.
"Faith?" Willow asked tremulously.
"It's the name of the game, Red," Faith said, pointing with a finger to a single word imprinted on the door above the mausoleum. Willow looked up, compelled.
Jertfa.
"But what does it mean?" she asked. But Faith had vanished. Willow opened the doors and a whiff of celestial flowers emerged; a far cry from most mausoleums or crypts she had visited in life. The building was even larger than she first had imagined; there were three wings, but only one was lit. She passed through an atrium where grew an enormous Willow tree then entered an echoing hallway filled with the dead.
On gleaming marble slabs rested the bodies of her friends and loved ones, their names neatly inscribed into the stone. Jessie was there, and she saw the puncture wounds on his neck. Jenny Calendar was there as well, and Willow's throat clogged up when she saw her favourite teacher. Yet right next to her was Angel, stick pricked with the sword that Buffy had to thrust through his side. Her eyes slid past Harmony and other students butchered during graduation. Ben was there, but Glory wasn't.
Willow marched on, aching sorrow building within her, knowing what was coming next. And there they were. Little Dawnie, and Anya. Caridad and Rona. Vi and Eve and a dozen more Slayers, cut down just as they came into their own.
(That's what I did, Tara. That's what Buffy and the others died to do. Make Slayers.)
Wait. Three slabs here were empty. Willow looked at the names, her eyes pricking with tears. Xander Harris. Rupert Giles. Buffy Summers.
Sound from the far end of the mausoleum, and Willow hoped it was a vampire, a demon, anything with blood that she could spill as penance for her living while these all lay dead. The door opened, and through it came Giles and Xander, bearing a new marble slab between them. They didn't look up or speak as they set down the tomb. Willow rushed up to them, knowing she was dreaming, yet still drinking in their faces, delighted to see them again, even if only like this.
A choral hum, from dozens, maybe hundreds of hushed voices. She couldn't see who they belonged to. Staring fiercely at the door, Willow waited. Finally the door opened again, soundlessly, as if by magic, and Buffy walked through, cradling Tara's body in her strong arms. One of Tara's hands fell lifeless by her side, jolted by Buffy's slow and even steps.
Willow knew who the empty tomb was for, even as she finally began to weep.
Xander and Giles bowed as Buffy passed by them, carrying the last best hope of the world. Willow fell on her knees before the empty tomb, watched through stinging eyes as Buffy tenderly laid Tara's body on the cold marble slab, crossing Tara's arms over her chest, pooling Tara's hair to one side. Willow saw Buffy bow to Tara as well before retreating from the still form to kneel next to Willow on the floor. The unseen choir hushed, then faded away entirely.
"The choice was yours, and no one else's," Buffy whispered.
"How can it be possible?" Willow sobbed. "I love her."
"Could she be in better company?" Buffy asked. "We can care for her here, for she is one of us."
(Jertfa)
"You can have any prize you desire," Buffy continued. "Remember, you are very young. When the time comes, what will you choose?"
Flash. Tara's creamy throat. Sheen of sweat. Lips are open. A cry. Eyes are closed. Breasts are heaving, taut, hard, erect. Mine. All mine.
"It's never been my choice!" Willow cried out. "Do you think I would choose this? For me to live while you are dead?"
Flash. Tongue thrusting. Panting. Moonlight on skin. Tara's skin. Head flings back, hair pools. Eyes open, pupils dilated. A cry, "Willow!" Fingers questing.
"I hurt myself, Willow," Buffy explained. "My choice. Don't presume to choose for me. Don't presume to choose for her." She gestured to the newest body in the Jertfa mausoleum.
Flash. Lower. Hotter. Sheen of sweat. Wiry curls. Softness like a rose petal. Slick. An opening, so very small but holds the universe within. A cry. Almost there.
Willow was assaulted by latent desire, an image juxtaposed in front of her. Tara dead. Tara alive, and hot, and wet. Tara dead. Tara alive, and close, so very close.
"When the time comes, Willow, will you let her choose?"
(Jertfa)
My heart burns.
And the unseen choir emerged. Willow recognized a few of the faces as some of the doctors and nurses from the hospice, but most were unfamiliar to her. Softly they walked up to the tomb bearing Tara, the light of the world, and then they laid gifts about her. Small, large, gaudily and expertly wrapped, each person came with a gift, a whispered phrase, a touch on the still and cold skin. Then they would vanish back out of sight.
The mound of gifts grew. Buffy held Willow's hand. Lastly came the triumvirate; Thespia, Maia, and Aranaea. As they bowed to her love, and laid their gifts by her, Willow trembled.
A cold draught, the scent of celestial flowers fading, rotting. A smog, eddying and curling about his pristine shoes. The white spot at his throat was cloying, false sweetness, false hope. The gift he bore was black, and all Willow wished was to tear his throat out where he stood.
Flash. Scythe immaculate. Moonlight sharp. Pine resin. Stone Mountain. A goat's head. Cordial of blood. Sweet on the tongue. Succulent flesh. Doubly sweet. Night forever.
Yet she was held in stasis, her voice similarly locked. Caleb looked neither right nor left as he approached Tara with his malevolent gift in his hands. He set it by her, stroked her cheek with one pale finger, then looked straight at Willow.
"It is said that even the powerful die," he said, all friendly-like.
"And the meek shall inherit the earth," responded Buffy.
Flash. A durian. Tea. Kitten-abraded couch. Floating. Tara's creamy throat. Lips are open. Eyes are closed. Tongues thrusting, fingers questing. The answer.
It was Tara. It was always Tara.
Willow was Serenity Incarnate. Willow was Divinity Immaculate.
Willow was pissed.
And Caleb took one look at her blazing eyes, and he immolated from within, and the power of Willow's love reduced him to ash, and he was borne away on the wind.
"I love her," Willow said, looking at Buffy.
"Is this where you intended to be?" Buffy asked.
"How else do I keep the dream alive?" Willow responded.
Willow stood then, and walked through the ashy remnants of the long preacher, approaching the cool marble slab upon which laid the light of the world.
(Can I be any use to you now, Willow?)
(JERTFA)
No more words.
Willow touched the cold skin, ran her fingers through Tara's, entwining their hands. With her other hand she caressed Tara's hair. She bent over and kissed cold lips, and it wasn't about desire, or hunger, or lust. The kiss was a key to a lock, a lock never opened before, stiff and rusty with time.
Yet underneath her lips Willow could actually feel the warmth returning. And after long moments, when she finally lifted her face, Tara's bellflower eyes were open, and crinkled in a smile. Her beloved form sat up, swung her legs from off the tomb, and caught Willow in a rough embrace.
"I made my choice long ago," Tara whispered, her lips brushing Willow's ear lobe.
Then Tara took Willow's face in her soft hands, wiping Willow's tears with her thumbs, before placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, then on her mouth. Another, and another, and Willow tightened her grip on Tara's body, realizing with befuddled shock that she was no longer dreaming.
For she felt Tara's bare breasts against hers for the very first time, slightly crusty from the dried paste, and Tara's mouth was on hers, her tongue flicking against her lips, begging for access. Willow tilted her head, felt the pillow beneath her shift, and Tara dove inside her. Already the dream began to fade, but in the distance Willow could still feel the stab of agony she felt as Buffy bore Tara's lifeless body to the slab, and the unknown word rolled over and over again in her mind.
Jertfa.
...
A/N: From here, things get pretty exciting. Come back next week for three more chapters!