CHAPTER 8: VISITATIONS

"I think it's dark and it looks like rain"
You said
"And the wind is blowing like it's the end of the world"
You said
"And it's so cold
It's like the cold if you were dead"
And then you smiled
For a second


            ~Plainsong, The Cure
________________________________________________

Faith lay dreaming; gazing at the portal in her mind's eye through calm eyes, the wind rushing in her ears and through her hair, conscious of every breath she drew, aware of the very beating of her heart. This was a moment outside of time, outside of space, and she existed not just here, but in a thousand other worlds, with a thousand other names and a thousand other lives, and in that moment, she knew them all, each of them converging, meshing, overlapping until they were one. As reality warped and twisted around her, she realized that the axis of all possible worlds spun upon this moment, and the Gods themselves trembled as they pondered its significance, holding their collective breath as they waited for the balance of Fate's scales to tip.

She leaped into the center of the portal's roaring brightness… and as she fell she felt the years of heartache and suffering strip and peel away from her like soiled garments, dispersing the confusion that crowded her mind and clouded her heart, discarding them on the wind until she was stripped to the very core of her essence and awareness. Her thoughts were like quicksilver, bright and shining rainbows of color and sound, so clear and beautiful now, reduced to their purest, lightest form. Everything was so clear, so crisp, the lines and curves of the world around her standing out with sharp detail, the colors swirling with vivid hues no human eye could ever perceive.

And then the portal took her.

The world exploded with brilliant white light, and it was as it had been every time before, the portal embracing her essence like a lover, insistently demanding and insatiable… but this time, the dream did not end there. This time, she felt the portal release her, falling away behind her as she spiraled toward the earth like an angel cast from the heavens. She hit solid ground with bone crunching impact… but she couldn't feel it… she couldn't feel anything anymore. Her thoughts were set free, adrift as if on the wind, and she let it carry her away.

There was peace here, warmth, and silence. Slowly she became aware again, as if her thoughts gathered themselves into form, and she lay on her back, arms crossed over her chest, eyes closed. Inside her form, her thoughts drifted like smoke on a hazy summer afternoon, languid and random, gentle and sweet, and she thought she might let them carry her away again. She could hear voices in the distance, singing in beautiful chorus, calling her to them…

"Return!" a voice shouted, and she felt a hard snap inside herself as if the voice had made her solid by its very command, jolting awake, eyes flying open.

She was standing in a white marble room that seemed both large and small all at once, lit by a strange glow that emanated from the walls themselves, somehow dim and blinding at the same time, as if the whole world had been captured on film that was over-exposed. The floor felt smooth and warm against her feet, which were bare, and she looked down, seeing herself wrapped in gauzy black material that stood out in such sharp contrast to everything else that it almost hurt her eyes to look at it. She blinked to clear the pain and looked up—and the world flickered like the flash bulb of a camera, cascading in a riot of images so fast she couldn't comprehend them.

She blinked again and the room returned to normal, as normal as these four white walls could look, and she thought that it seemed very like a tomb in here, as devoid of life and even more silent. It was so silent that the silence itself seemed a sound; a dull roaring in her ears that reminded her of the wind from the portal.

"Return!" the voice shouted again, this time much closer.

Startled, she blinked and turned—

The world seemed to shift, shimmering, sliding, edges overlapping and finally clicking into place. In the center of the room there was now a high marble slab, and atop it lay a delicate woman, her features pale and still as the stone she rested against, flaxen hair shining like a halo surrounding her face.

Buffy.

Mesmerized, Faith took a shuffling step toward her. Swathed in white gauze that streamed from the altar, Buffy looked like a fragile china doll, posed with her arms folded over her chest, eyes closed as if in sleep. Faith took another step closer, unable to help herself, feet treading upon polished stone without so much as a whisper. She reached Buffy's side, and stretched out one hand, at once fascinated and saddened as she touched the cold, unyielding skin. Faith could see that Buffy's chest did not rise or fall with breath, and she was as white, as silent and as solemn as everything else in the room.

Quiet… so very quiet…

A chill passed through her body and she shuddered with foreboding. Buffy's skin felt like ice beneath her fingertips, the cold numbing her fingers and spreading up her forearm with prickly tendrils, snaking through her muscles and digging into bone. She tried to pull her hand away, but she was moving so slow—too slow—as if her hand were a leaden weight she could barely lift. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, pumping fear and sudden adrenaline—

Buffy's eyes popped open, and they were as cold and dead as her body appeared, their hazel depths now black as night. She sat up mechanically; unnaturally smooth, as if she were a puppet pulled by a string, and turned her white, empty face toward Faith.

Frantic, Faith tried to back away, but her legs would not obey, and she stood rooted to the spot, frozen by her terror. Buffy's arms shot out, grabbing Faith roughly by the shoulders, and Faith could feel the numbing cold of those fingers sink into her flesh like icicles, freezing her in place, sapping her of her will to move, seeming to drain her of her very life. With flat, forsaken eyes, Buffy looked at Faith, and Faith could see nothing in those empty black holes except her own reflection.

"It was me. I was the one," Buffy said, her voice as distant and cold as her eyes. "My blood." As Faith watched in horror, the twin puncture scars on Buffy's neck opened like tiny mouths and began to bleed, rich vibrant red against pale white flesh.

Unable to tear her gaze from the horrible visage, Faith squeezed her eyes shut—and the world shifted, sliding sideways again, the hands on her shoulders simply ceasing to exist.

She blinked. Buffy sat atop the marble slab, her hands pressed against her chest, head bowed. She was still swathed in gauze—but now her skin was vibrant, her eyes alive with emotion.

"You missed the party," she said sadly, looking up at Faith with doe-eyes. Then she looked back down at herself and shook her head. "They left this." Her hands trembled as she lifted them, and cupped in her palms was a human heart, still steaming, still beating, blood pumping uselessly into her hands and down her wrists in crimson rivulets. Faith could see the blood pouring through the pale, flimsy cloth covering Buffy's chest, the dark stain spreading rapidly, could see the gaping wound so black and harsh against the pink of her flesh. She pushed the bloody trophy out toward Faith as if offering it in supplication.

"Please. You take it," she said almost desperately.

No! Faith wanted to scream, to shout, to push this away, but she had no voice, no words, and she could only shut her eyes and shake her head in denial.

"Return!" the voice commanded, so loudly that her eardrums recoiled from the sound.

She spun in surprise—

Buffy stood there, her face twisted in a mask of animal rage and hatred so potent that Faith stumbled backward. Buffy reached out and grabbed her shoulders again, and Faith could feel the bones snap and splinter beneath the crushing grip. Buffy pulled her up eye-to-eye, and grinned, her incisors lengthening into razor sharp points, mouth stretching inhumanly wide, eyes brightening with a sickly yellow glow. Her features ran and melted as if they had been cast in wax, trading one mask for another, this one all too familiar.

"You should have killed me," Buffy said, laughing, and then she crushed Faith against her in a ruthless hug.

Faith tried to cry out, but her throat locked against the scream, and there was nothing she could do as she felt sharp teeth pierce the tender skin of her neck, burning like fire. At first there was nothing but the pain, and then, slowly, the sensation of being drained, her consciousness fading as her mind spun like leaves tossed on the wind. At last she fell to the smooth marble floor and lay there, paralyzed, feeling the last of her lifeblood spill from her neck as death enveloped her in its final embrace.

The last thing she saw was Buffy's hideous vampire face thrown back in maniacal laughter.

Gasping, Faith woke, sitting bolt upright in her bed. Disoriented, she grabbed at her throat, feeling for the wounds she still sensed were there, so panicked that it took her almost a full minute before she realized the skin was smooth and unbroken. At length, her breathing slowed, and she became aware of her surroundings, of the afternoon sunshine that filtered in through the old windows, filling her with a sense of comfort and reality.

At last, she fell back against her pillow and sighed, pressing her hands against her face. She closed her eyes, trying to push the dream from her mind, and saw nothing except Buffy's face, contorted with vampiric hunger.

So much for sleep, she thought, and pushed herself up from the bed.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

"Faith?" Beatrice's voice stopped her on her way out the door.

She felt her stomach tighten with apprehension, a sinking feeling of dread filling her. They'd gotten on okay since their argument after her first night of patrol—mostly through lack of communication beyond Slayer/Watcher necessity—but she had a feeling this wasn't going to go well. Raising her shoulders and bracing herself, she turned to see the petite Watcher emerge from the hall, fresh and immaculate looking as always, icy blue eyes inquisitive as she regarded her charge.

"It's a little early for patrol, isn't it?" she asked dubiously, pointedly looking out the half-open door up at the sunny sky.

"I thought I'd... ya know, make a few stops," Faith said off-handedly, shrugging with one shoulder.

"Without letting me know?" Beatrice asked, her expression making her displeasure clear, though her voice was polite enough.

"I don't have to report my every move to you, do I?" Faith asked sharply, her voice rising in challenge.

"Actually," the Watcher smiled slightly, "you do."

Faith raised her brows at the older woman, as if impressed and surprised by her reply. "Really?" She shifted her weight from one hip to the other, straightening her stance and planting her feet, folding her arms over her chest. "Gonna make me?"

Beatrice smirked, shaking her head. "If you were as tough as you pretend, you would've walked out the door already."

Faith dropped her arms and blinked in true surprise this time.

"I can't make you do anything," Beatrice continued, her smirk still lingering. "But I can tell you that it's probably in your best interest to be on my side... I am your Watcher, after all, and we do have to work together. It's imperative that I know where you are, in case something should happen."

"Whatever."

Unimpressed, Faith turned as if to walk away and Beatrice spoke up more loudly. "Don't make the mistake of thinking 'Angel' will be around forever. You can't depend on that."

Faith stopped.

"Of course I know," she replied to Faith's unasked question. "You don't really think me so daft, do you?"

She walked around Faith onto the porch, turning to face her.

"Eventually he's going to go back to his life, such as it may be, and then who will you turn to? Who will be on your side then?"

Faith turned her face aside, jaw set angrily. "Angel won't leave."

"Why not?" Beatrice asked reasonably. "Is he in love with you?" She studied Faith's expression and shook her head once, answering her own question aloud. "No…" Frowning, she considered, and asked, "Sleeping together, then?"

Faith snapped her head around, looking at the older woman in surprise, not quite believing she'd had the audacity to ask. They weren't, of course, but still… "Go Ms. H!" she commented in appreciation.

"You've had so many men… haven't you learned yet?" she asked softly, as if to herself. Then, more severely, "I would think you'd know better than that, Faith. Men are nothing but a distraction in your line of work. I can understand the occasional dalliance, but really, what do you think could come of it? It's not as if he could ever make you happy, even if you had the time to spare for such indulgences."

Faith laughed bitterly and shook her head. "You really don't have a clue, do you?"

"I know that you've been hurt before, Faith. I know that there's no one who has stood by your side in your whole life—no one who was good for you," she corrected, cutting off Faith's nasty reply. "And I know that eventually, Angel will leave… with or without his soul intact. It can't end any other way."

Faith looked down and said nothing.

"You need to make some decisions about your allegiances, now. You've barely been back on patrol for two weeks, and only two and a half out of prison. You have your whole life ahead of you… now is the time to ground yourself and get things in order."

"Why do you care?" Faith spat angrily, eyes flashing.

"Have you asked yourself why Angel cares?"

"That's what he does! He helps people!"

"Yes. People. I help the Slayer. That's what I do."

"I thought you weren't into the 'touchy-feely' stuff?" Faith mocked.

"I don't believe we have to have a 'Kodak moment' for me to be an excellent teacher, or to back you up when you need help. I will always be here for you to rely on, Faith. That is the nature of the relationship between Watcher and Slayer."

Faith looked at her uncertainly, eyes flickering to Beatrice's face and away, torn. Finally she ran a hand through her hair and shouldered her way around the smaller woman, striding angrily past.

Beatrice turned to watch her go, saying nothing further.

Faith hesitated on the walkway from the house, and without turning, she called back, "I'll be back after patrol." Then, with more certainty, she resumed her fast, angry pace away from the house.

Beatrice supposed it was a start.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

She passed the day mindlessly browsing the downtown Sunnydale shops, hardly seeing the items she passed. Everything Ms. H had said reflected her own fears about Angel, and she didn't really want to think about it all too closely.

On a whim, she decided to check out some of the obscure bookstores in town, thinking she might find out some information about the recent thefts. It would be something to pass the time, anyway.

There were a truly staggering number of "rare" and "antique" bookstores in Sunnydale, and given most of these stores written content, plus the fact that most of them stocked odd items in jars, like sulfur, mushrooms and crow's feet, one had to wonder how the locals remained ignorant of their proximity to mystical badness. After browsing a few of them, it seemed wicked obvious to her, but then, she was on the inside track.

She had found one shop that seemed more interesting and diverse than the others, and was perusing a shelf filled with spell books, pondering them with rapt curiosity, when she heard a familiar voice beyond the cover of the shelves.

"You're sure you don't have one?" the voice asked, sounding desperate.

Faith instantly backed further down the aisle she was browsing, her posture defensive, animal-like, reacting on pure instinct. Reaching out, she grabbed hold of one of the shelves to steady herself and squeezed, the wood crackling beneath her hand.

"No," she heard the shopkeeper answer. "In fact, I think you'll be pretty hard pressed to find one of those anywhere. Pretty obscure item, considering that one has to break it to complete the spell."

"It's really important," the familiar voice pressed, almost begging.

Faith felt sudden hatred rise up like fire, clenching in a vise-like grip around her stomach, so intense that for a moment she thought she might vomit right there on the worn carpet. Every neuron in her brain screamed at her to move, to run away, to get out of there, but there was no way she could leave without passing in sight of the counter.

She breathed deep, trying to calm herself, and slowly, ever so slowly, she crept forward to the edge of the shelf, her heart thundering in her ears. She blocked out the insistent pounding, focusing her super-human hearing on the voices beyond, and eased her head around the shelf.

"I'm sure it is," the shopkeeper was saying, sounding very apologetic, and now Faith could see her, a woman in her mid-forties or so, thin and pretty for her age, dressed in new-age flowing clothing.

She eased her head a little further out, and slowly, the customer came into view over the plane of the bookshelf. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment, then thudded explosively in a rapid beat, adrenaline rushing through her.

Willow.

"Is there anywhere else I can try?" the witch asked, and even from where Faith stood, over twenty feet away, she could see she was distressed.

She ducked back into the aisle and stood, pressing her back against the bookshelf, forcing herself to breathe quietly.

Just Willow, her brain insisted. No big. She's not even that powerful of a witch. But her heart hammered insistently, and she knew it was more than worry of whether or not she could take the girl in a fight.

All the sins of her past loomed up before her, threatening to crush her in a shattering tidal wave. Dimly, she could hear the shopkeeper's voice responding, but she was beyond hearing the words.

Willow, pinned in her grasp with Faith's knife to her throat. Willow, who'd told her off righteously when she should have been begging for her life. Willow, who'd made it completely clear just how far Faith had fallen from the Scoobies grace. Willow, who'd hated her more than any of them.

She closed her eyes against the images that paraded through her mind, hand going instinctively to the stake at the small of her back. Pulling it free, she clenched it in her hand, the weapon providing her with a small sense of comfort that served to help clear her mind a little. At least she wasn't completely defenseless.

But then… it wasn't really physical offense she was worried about, was it?

She gritted her teeth and squeezed the stake so hard that it might have snapped had it not been so well crafted. What the hell was wrong with her, anyway? What was she afraid of? She was the Slayer, after all, imbued with supernatural strength and power far beyond other humans. Even with her spells, Faith doubted Willow could be a match for her… so what was it then?

The answers came, and their truth hurt far more than any physical pain she'd ever endured.

Hatred. Judgment. The fear that everything Willow believed about her might be true. Maybe the world would be better off if she'd stayed in her coma, or if she'd died when Buffy stabbed her, or rotted in prison forever. Isn't that why Faith had wanted to kill her, after all? If you kill the judge and jury, then there can't be a verdict. Somehow, Willow represented everything that had been evil and wrong in Faith, even more than Buffy had, and the urge to take her out was so overwhelming, she could scarcely see beyond it.

She forced her teeth apart and wedged her tongue between, biting down hard. The blood came, coppery and thin, the pain like needles in her mind, and she forced herself to focus, to think, dammit, think!

What were her options?

Her impulse was so strong she could see it vividly… stepping from behind the bookshelf and launching her stake at Willow, Slayer strength driving it deep into her breast. Willow gasping for air on the floor of the shop, blood frothing at her lips, her eyes imploring Faith for mercy as she stood over her, watching her die with cold delight. Willow, breathing her last as the horrified shopkeeper looked on, one hand plastered over her mouth in silent horror. Then with calm eyes, she would turn on the shopkeeper with her bare hands and choke the life from her—

No! She couldn't. She wouldn't.

Think!

She saw herself stepping from behind the shelf, calling a greeting to the witch, presenting herself peacefully. She saw herself trying to speak of change and understanding, of truth and humility, of forgiveness and second chances… of hope and dreams. She saw Willow raise her hands and call out to whatever gods or goddesses she needed, and felt herself torn and shattered, a broken bag of bones thrown against the wall of the shop, Willow's triumphant, mocking expression the last thing she saw with her dimming vision…

Or…

She could stand here like a frightened deer in headlights forever, and wait for the moment to pass.

Maybe Willow would understand… and she wouldn't really try to kill Faith… would she? When all was said and done, she was still Willow, still one of the good guys. Most likely Willow would throw a defensive spell and run for it while Faith was down. But suppose there was the off chance that Willow actually would listen to her… what would she say? What did she expect? Understanding? Forgiveness?

She wavered on the edge of the cliff, struggling against her better judgment, against her need to survive. It didn't matter, she decided at last. Whatever the outcome, she had to face this.

She shoved the stake back into its resting place, clenching her hands into fists, and stepped around the bookshelf, steeling herself—

The shopkeeper looked up at her inquisitively. "Can I help you?"

Willow was gone.

Lost, Faith focused on the shopkeeper, her expression caught somewhere between frustration and relief. "No," she answered after a long pause. Turning, she made her way out of the shop. "I don't think anyone can help me," she muttered under her breath, pushing out the door.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

She killed three vampires that night, her battles fueled by her impotent anger against the day.

Curious, calculating eyes watched it all from a distance.

She didn't go to see Angel that night. Or the next.