Giles
Willow is broken.
Her mind has all but shattered under the weight of her lover's death and her own subsequent actions. No longer is she the bright, sparkling presence she once was. Willow is a shadow of her former self, a reflection in a shattered mirror.
Although she has recovered from her catatonia, I fear she will never recover from her brokenness. I wanted her humbled—she needed to be humbled—and I imagined that the spectacular botching of the memory spell she attempted and losing the woman she loved might have done exactly that. I never wanted her broken. If I'd had any idea of what would become of her, I would never have left when I did.
Buffy and Xander have told me the whole story now: how Tara left her, and Willow delved into dark magicks until she nearly killed Dawn. How Willow gave up doing spells, vowing that she was done with magic. According to Buffy and Xander, she was doing well, staying away from magic even under stress and great temptation, and Tara was encouraged enough by this that she decided to resume their relationship. Willow, it seemed, had risen above her addiction.
But how she fell, and now Willow is broken.
She has barely spoken since coming out of her catatonia, and the words she has said have been addressed mostly to Xander. She will not look anyone else in the eye. When Buffy or I speak to her, she answers us in one, perhaps two words, keeping her eyes downcast. The most disturbing part of it is the fact that she reminds me of no one so much as Angel after he'd returned from hell. He was much the same with me: the submissive posture, the reluctance to speak directly to me, the utterly deferential manner, and the guilt in his face and eyes every time he was near me. Does Willow place herself in the same category as he?
The one full sentence she has addressed to me is: "I can still feel it inside of me—the magic."
It was at that point that I knew I had to take her to England, to the only people who would be able to help her. Her parents, much to my surprise, objected not at all when I spoke to them of my intentions. They may have been willfully ignorant of most of the goings-on in this town, but they know in their hearts that what has happened to Willow is far beyond what ordinary medicine can fix. She and I are off today.
Xander pulls his borrowed car up outside the Summers house. I am in the passenger seat, and Willow sits in the back, staring out the window. Not the one facing the house; she cannot look at it.
"Do you want to go in?" I ask her, knowing what her answer will be.
"No," she murmurs. She cannot face the house she lived in with her lover, who is dead, and her friends, whom she betrayed.
"I'll wait out front," says Xander. I make myself leave the vehicle and go to the house.
Dawn and Buffy are inside, and Dawn comes immediately into my arms. She is crying. I hold her close, in agony for her tears, but knowing I'm leaving her in good hands.
"I love you," she whispers.
"And I love you, Dawn." It's easy to say it to Dawn, perhaps because it is such a simple thing to love her.
When I let go of Dawn, Buffy is waiting, a slight, sad smile on her face, and a suitcase beside her.
She is strong again, my Slayer. Her own brokenness has been healed somewhat, although I'm not foolish enough to believe she will ever be quite as she was before. I cannot believe anyone called back from a heavenly realm ever would be. But the worst seems to be behind her, and I am so proud of her. Demons from within are far more frightening than ones from without, and it's the internal battles that leave the worst scars. Buffy still struggles, but she has regained her belief that she can conquer.
"It's just some of Willow's things," she says. "I know she didn't want to come back here, so I packed up some things I thought she'd miss while she's in England."
"A good thought," I say, and it is. "I-I'm sure she'll be grateful."
"Keep us posted, okay?"
"I shall."
And Buffy is in my arms now. It is a complex thing to love Buffy. Dawn is transparent; her emotions can be read in her face, in her eyes. Buffy, however, had walls built behind her eyes before I even met her. Every expectation one could have of her is instantly turned on its head. She is a confounding, frustrating creature.
Yet it is this girl that I love more than anything else in my life.
She says nothing, and I say nothing, and finally, the embrace is broken. Buffy takes a moment to press her nose against my chest.
"I love the way you smell," she says, and her smile is blinding.
I touch her face, memorizing her. "Do take care, Buffy." I look at Dawn. "Take care of each other."
"We will," says Dawn, swallowing her tears, and as I turn to leave, taking the suitcase with me, the sisters are side-by-side, their arms around each other's waists.
I am at peace as I leave them this time.
The drive to Sunnydale's small airport is silent. Once there, Xander helps us in with our bags and accompanies us as far as the security gate. There, he holds out his hand to me.
"See you whenever," he says, his voice a little husky as he attempts to get through this goodbye without breaking down.
Something has changed in Xander, something ineffable. There is a new look in his eyes, a new way he holds himself. It is as though he has passed some rite of passage and now declares himself to be a man in this world. I am unutterably proud of him.
Of all the men who have been in and out of Buffy's life, Xander is the constant. Nothing has ever been able to drive him from her side. Perhaps it's simply a vestige of Western male chauvinism, but I feel better somehow knowing that he'll be with her while I'm gone.
Of course, the situation with Anya is somewhat appalling. I took my leave of her earlier today and found myself in the unique position of having a demon crying all over me. There is much to her that I do not understand. If I am given the time, I must remember to research Vengeance Demons while I am in England.
I have also seen the grief in Xander's eyes over what has become of her. Part of me wants to slap him silly for being so foolish with her, but the more sensible part notes that he's already doing a fine job of punishing himself. I can only hope for the best for both of them.
"I'll call and let you know how things are periodically," I promise.
Xander turns to Willow, who is weeping again. Gently, he takes her in his arms and whispers in her ear. I don't even try to hear what he's saying; it is in their private language, for them only to know. Instead, I look away, giving them privacy.
"You can do this," I finally hear him say, and I turn to find him holding her face in his hands, making her look at him. "Hey, I love you. Just get better." He kisses her forehead and turns to me. "Take care of her, okay?" His voice cracks, and he hurries away, placing Willow in my charge.
Willow and I go through security, and I remember that the last time I was here was also the last time I saw Tara. There is a sudden pang in my heart as I think of her.
Tara and I sang together. Mere words cannot describe the experience, for it was more than just singing: it was sharing, complete sharing, of emotion. During the time the musical demon was in Sunnydale, Tara and I shared a duet. I cannot remember the words. It is all I can do to pick out the melody on my guitar. But I remember vividly her lovely voice and the sense of shared pain as we both knew we would have to leave the ones we loved.
It was that shared pain that brought Tara here the night I left. She caught up with me just as I reached the security gate. No words were exchanged. She just ran into my arms and clung to me, crying softly. I knew she had decided to leave Willow, knew it without being told, and as much as I ached for Tara, I knew it was for the best.
Dear Tara. It is a mad world indeed in which such a gentle creature should meet such a violent and senseless end.
And now Willow is broken. She must be rebuilt from the ground up, from the soul out. It will not be an easy task, and I can only hope that the strength she exhibited as a sixteen-year-old "Slayerette" is still buried within her. I reflect on my own past, on wild, hungry days and nights, on the rush of forbidden magicks, on the knife-edge relationships I engaged in with people like Ethan Rayne, and I know what it is Willow will face in the days and months, and even the years ahead.
How I wish I could have kept her from it. It was my mistake, never seeing what could happen, always believing that as she was a better person than I, she would somehow avoid the traps I could not. Regrets, however, are useless now.
As we board the plane, I'm sure we look incongruous: a tall, older man beside a small, pale, grieving young woman. Perhaps the other passengers will think we are a father and daughter. Strangely, I don't believe it would be much of a misconception. For a man who has never procreated (at least to my knowledge), I seem to have a great many children. And God help me, I love them all.
Willow is broken. I pray the pieces can be put back together.