Chapter Seven
Sitting and starring at a colorless world filled with empty, vapid people that lived a ceaseless cycle of death and grief Willow knew the dusty air she breathed and the barrenness she dreamt was real. The pallidness of her flesh, the apathy of her being, the solitude of her heart, the ignorance of her eyes. There was no laughter, no love, no joy, no hope. Nothing. There was nothing but cruel, monotonous eternity painted by demise and sealed in grim inevitability. Memories became nightmares and dreams a monstrous torture. Days slipped by, one after another, indistinguishable and tedious. The same emotionless faces and meaningless conversation. The same blank places and sunless sky.
No strength. No purpose. No self.
"Willow?"
Prying her gaze away from the ashen horizon Willow looked into hollow eyes. Head tilted and lips thin the woman held out her arms to Willow, her hands concealing a softly glowing orb of sullied color. Blinking, Willow starred at the woman.
"Willow, sweetie you're breaking etiquette."
"I'm sorry," Willow murmured, clutching the small orb between her own hands. "I didn't mean to, Mrs. Summers."
Against her skin the orb was cold as ice but it burned like flames in a fire – a pain welcomed as a distraction from a world devoid of sensation. Captivated once more with the changeless horizon Willow diffidently allowed the pulsing orb to consume what lingering remnants of defiance remained buried deep in her mind; allowed it to drain her very essence of self and life until she lay withered and spent. Weakened and lost Willow simply starred at the lividness surrounding her.
Obscured. Decaying. Vacant.
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Buffy had refused to be in the same room as Drusilla but she had also refused to leave Willow's side. Drusilla, on the other hand, demanded to be left alone with Willow and claimed that what she was asked to do required physical contact. In the end it was Angel that convinced Buffy to leave Willow's room.
"I don't trust her, Angel."
Looking at his ex-lover Angel replied with finality, "I do."
Tears welled in Buffy's eyes and she quickly covered her face in her hands. She was the Slayer. She was supposed to be strong and in-control. She was supposed to be able to help her friend. At the moment Buffy was none of that. She was scared.
"Cordelia," standing Angel moved to stand at the ex-cheerleader's side. Cordy looked pale and tired, her hair was plastered to her face and she was slowly massaging her temples.
"I'm fine," she waved away Angel's concern before he could even speak. "But we need to talk," gripping his wrist Cordelia urged Angel towards the hallway.
Nodding, Angel ushered the brunette into the hall, where Wesley stood waiting. "What's going on?"
"Cordy had a vision," Wesley answered.
"And not one I ever want to have again."
Angel grew worried. "What?"
"It's Willow," Cordelia answered. "She's dying."
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Finger's prodding at her mind, searching, clawing, destroying. Lying motionless atop a blanket of sand that burned and tore at her flesh Willow watched the sky flash in shades of crimson and gold. Flames leapt into the air, smoke billowing higher and higher. Gray swallowed by black and decay. Pain drowned in death. The world burned before her eyes, slowing dying and sinking beneath the earth, and Willow could do nothing but watch. Stripped from her was any strength she once held, any sense of anything at all.
Willow was a piece of the abstract. She was tumbling down a tower of pure absence where nothing existed except nothingness itself. Life and death were one and the same: torture, cruelty, utter solitude, cold and dank. Flames crawled up her body and slowly consumed her but she couldn't scream or flee. She was trapped and Death took its hold once more but where there was death there was life and with life came tarnished agony.