---
The Protecting Veil
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--- Part Three: Arrival ---
She could remember it, looking into Tara's face, with a new and sudden clarity. Waking up, foggy and distant, delirious with nausea on the tower stairs.
"Buffy..." the gentle, masculine voice had floated over her as her head spun and wheeled about her.
The familiar, warm voice. She had heard it through the dim haze around her skull. Her head was throbbing, and she could feel something hard beneath her. She couldn't focus. The light was too bright. There were noises. She wondered if she was imagining them.
"Giles...?"
She opened her eyes, the misty, swooning sensation in her skull compounded by the stinging over her brow.
"Come on sweetheart..." he said softly, "You have to get up."
For a moment she thought it was the high school library. But it was too cold. And he rarely used such endearments with her. Something had to be wrong.
Frosted air chased Giles' breath where he crouched over her. A heavy gash on his jaw was illuminated by piercing, green and white rays.
Suddenly the stairwell lurched and the skyline behind Giles' head twisted sharply sideways. He lunged for her shoulder and held her firm. She pulled herself up on her forearms.
She had tripped... on the stair. The stair. Yes. It came back to her.
"Oh God— Dawn—"
"Buffy—"
But she was lurching up, staggering as the tower began to buck beneath them, trying to crawl forward with grimy hands up the metal, uneven stairs.
"We have to—"
"Buffy come with me," he said calmly as a girder fell behind him, shattering the light around it into shards as it crushed a side rail and toppled into a void beneath. He grasped her arm with a strength she hadn't known in him.
Later she would remember that strange calm, that strength and evenness, and wonder what depths were in him that he was so strong in his conviction.
She toppled forward and he caught her. She was still dazed, still unclear. He pulled her back with him, swiftly swinging her into his arms as he began his decent of the stairs. Her head rolled back on his shoulder, and somewhere below she could remember seeing the crumpled mass of Spike's duster, the shape of his shoulders beneath it, near where the breaks were forming.
"We have to..." she whispered. The structure was bending. She could hear rivets falling like rain to the pavement.
"I know," he said, feet hitting the pavement and pulling away. She felt herself fading out again, into a middling consciousness.
"It's allright my dear. Just come with me right now... we'll go back for her."
He'd saved her life with the lie.
—
"Tara...?" she whispered, eyes wide. Tara was approaching, the light wind in the soft strands of her hair. She was radiant, her warm smile belying any hardship that had ever touched her.
Tara didn't respond. She instead simply approached and embraced her, pulling her close with a strange sense of camaraderie. They had never been close. But they had been there, together at the end. The knowledge and connection that came from that seemed to form a bond in that moment and Buffy could palpably sense it through her shock.
Tara looked over her shoulder, and laughed airily. It was like none of the darkness around them had touched her. She was utterly inviolate.
"I didn't think you'd be together."
Spike stepped out from behind the trailing vines of the arbor, nodded to her carefully. She pulled away from Buffy and turned to him.
"The last time I saw you," she said, "You were chasing after her."
A moment of silence passed between them, and she continued.
"Looks like you caught her..."
He looked at Buffy then, and their eyes met.
"Say it like that," he said dryly, "Makes it sound easy."
—
The heavy doors closed behind them with a ringing, wooden echo, and they entered beneath the carved convent walls. Saint Christopher's. But the sisters had gone in the long ago destruction. The flurry of activity to which they now entered had replaced them.
"It's seems like forever I've been here," Tara said, loudly over the sound of the crowd, "You're both welcome to stay as long as you'd like to."
"And how long exactly have you been here?" Spike asked, raising an eyebrow to her. Someone rushed by them carrying a crate overflowing with wires.
"Has to be twelve years now--" Tara responded, smiling, "They told me I was welcome to stay as long as I liked to... and I did like to..."
Through the vestibule she swung open leaded-glass doors, and they entered a wide circular space of plastered stone, soaring with a spiral staircase up from the ground. The pitched roof was carved, and angels stared down at them from above, with long trumpets of darkly stained oak.
"And besides," she continued, "It's been useful to have the resources..."
"Wow..." Buffy whispered, staring up into the warmly lit expanse. She instinctually kept Spike's flank, hovering there with quiet alertness.
In the tall, arched windows, there were ladders. Scaffolds were cluttering the walls, and crowds of people—all kinds of people, old and young, were working with wiring.
"Tara!" a middle-aged man called down, as he strung a wire against the dark of the woodwork, called down to her,
"Who'd ya have there?"
"Old friends, Peter," she said, turning back to her companions. Spike looked at her and she continued.
"Anyhow-- after a fashion..."
"Well, you two've come to pop up at an exciting time," Peter called down, pulling out a light bulb from a crate at his feet, and carefully bringing it to place. He smiled at them with genuine energy and excitement.
"Cause we've been working on it for years," he said, "And any day now—any day, mind you, the lights are coming up."
—
Tara led them through a maze of stairwells and hallways, stretching into the east wing of the massive building. All around, the activity never stopped, crowds of people—more than they could have imagined the land supporting, moving in and out. They twisted down a curve in a hall, past the open doors of an infirmary and down the shaded corridor.
"Do all these people live here?" Buffy asked, head turning to watch the crowds move by.
"It's summer," Tara responded, "They're visiting, to help."
She gestured for them to follow her up a flight of wide, marble stairs, worn and bowed with use. Above, there were a pair of wooden doors.
"You see," she said, "We're trying to bring it back again..."
She pushed the doors open and let them into the library. It was the heart and soul of her entire world.
The mazes of books were cloaked in night shadows, even as the half-dawn light fell in soft blue shafts through the walls of windows, mixing strangely with the gaslight. Someone was working on the electric lighting across those windows, working in an old fuse box whose metal door had rusted over with misuse, by a radiator.
"Technology-- education. Governance. Order—it's all in the future if we can build it. And we're on the edge of that future. If we embrace it now."
Bookshelves and long tables covered the massive floor space. There was a row of women at those tables, bent over texts, and copying by hand into plain, Mead notebooks.
"You know I knew you were going to come," she said, her voice growing quiet with excitement. It was only then that Buffy noticed she didn't stutter anymore.
"There are witches here—very powerful—and they know how to use that power to its greatest effect..."
Buffy remembered Willow. Tara had run from her. They'd faced her, here, and won.
She continued walking briskly, pulling them down the aisles to a secluded corner of the library, where the shadows clung closer, and the shelves seemed to twist out into darkness.
"They saved me," she said, quietly and with a stark and blunt directness, "And now I'm one of them. And we've been scrying... probing into the Key, tapping it, trying to understand its—trying to understand her nature."
They came to a desk in a nook there, scattered with notes, and old books. Hanging on a hook there, Buffy noticed an amethyst ring she remembered Willow had given Tara on a long ago anniversary. She'd helped Willow pick it out at a vintage jewelers' shop one summer afternoon.
"Did you find anything?" Buffy responded, questioning. But her tone was clipped, and a coldness—and aversion to talk of these, the remnants of the girl rose up in her. Spike had fallen unnaturally silent, simply taking in what he saw as if storing up every detail around him. His eyes were intense with concentration, and inner thoughts.
Tara pulled a key from a chain around her neck, and leaned to a small box on the desk. Turning the lock, it sprung open, and Spike stepped back. Something like awe, or dread passed over his face.
She pulled out a fresh, green notebook, and fanned the pages out for them to see in her hand. The swirling cryptographs twined together on the pages in green ink. Its cover was new, and unblemished. It hadn't even yellowed with its age.
And Tara responded to Buffy's question, her youthful face grave.
"Yes," she replied, "We found something."
—
--- Part Three: Arrival ---
She could remember it, looking into Tara's face, with a new and sudden clarity. Waking up, foggy and distant, delirious with nausea on the tower stairs.
"Buffy..." the gentle, masculine voice had floated over her as her head spun and wheeled about her.
The familiar, warm voice. She had heard it through the dim haze around her skull. Her head was throbbing, and she could feel something hard beneath her. She couldn't focus. The light was too bright. There were noises. She wondered if she was imagining them.
"Giles...?"
She opened her eyes, the misty, swooning sensation in her skull compounded by the stinging over her brow.
"Come on sweetheart..." he said softly, "You have to get up."
For a moment she thought it was the high school library. But it was too cold. And he rarely used such endearments with her. Something had to be wrong.
Frosted air chased Giles' breath where he crouched over her. A heavy gash on his jaw was illuminated by piercing, green and white rays.
Suddenly the stairwell lurched and the skyline behind Giles' head twisted sharply sideways. He lunged for her shoulder and held her firm. She pulled herself up on her forearms.
She had tripped... on the stair. The stair. Yes. It came back to her.
"Oh God— Dawn—"
"Buffy—"
But she was lurching up, staggering as the tower began to buck beneath them, trying to crawl forward with grimy hands up the metal, uneven stairs.
"We have to—"
"Buffy come with me," he said calmly as a girder fell behind him, shattering the light around it into shards as it crushed a side rail and toppled into a void beneath. He grasped her arm with a strength she hadn't known in him.
Later she would remember that strange calm, that strength and evenness, and wonder what depths were in him that he was so strong in his conviction.
She toppled forward and he caught her. She was still dazed, still unclear. He pulled her back with him, swiftly swinging her into his arms as he began his decent of the stairs. Her head rolled back on his shoulder, and somewhere below she could remember seeing the crumpled mass of Spike's duster, the shape of his shoulders beneath it, near where the breaks were forming.
"We have to..." she whispered. The structure was bending. She could hear rivets falling like rain to the pavement.
"I know," he said, feet hitting the pavement and pulling away. She felt herself fading out again, into a middling consciousness.
"It's allright my dear. Just come with me right now... we'll go back for her."
He'd saved her life with the lie.
—
"Tara...?" she whispered, eyes wide. Tara was approaching, the light wind in the soft strands of her hair. She was radiant, her warm smile belying any hardship that had ever touched her.
Tara didn't respond. She instead simply approached and embraced her, pulling her close with a strange sense of camaraderie. They had never been close. But they had been there, together at the end. The knowledge and connection that came from that seemed to form a bond in that moment and Buffy could palpably sense it through her shock.
Tara looked over her shoulder, and laughed airily. It was like none of the darkness around them had touched her. She was utterly inviolate.
"I didn't think you'd be together."
Spike stepped out from behind the trailing vines of the arbor, nodded to her carefully. She pulled away from Buffy and turned to him.
"The last time I saw you," she said, "You were chasing after her."
A moment of silence passed between them, and she continued.
"Looks like you caught her..."
He looked at Buffy then, and their eyes met.
"Say it like that," he said dryly, "Makes it sound easy."
—
The heavy doors closed behind them with a ringing, wooden echo, and they entered beneath the carved convent walls. Saint Christopher's. But the sisters had gone in the long ago destruction. The flurry of activity to which they now entered had replaced them.
"It's seems like forever I've been here," Tara said, loudly over the sound of the crowd, "You're both welcome to stay as long as you'd like to."
"And how long exactly have you been here?" Spike asked, raising an eyebrow to her. Someone rushed by them carrying a crate overflowing with wires.
"Has to be twelve years now--" Tara responded, smiling, "They told me I was welcome to stay as long as I liked to... and I did like to..."
Through the vestibule she swung open leaded-glass doors, and they entered a wide circular space of plastered stone, soaring with a spiral staircase up from the ground. The pitched roof was carved, and angels stared down at them from above, with long trumpets of darkly stained oak.
"And besides," she continued, "It's been useful to have the resources..."
"Wow..." Buffy whispered, staring up into the warmly lit expanse. She instinctually kept Spike's flank, hovering there with quiet alertness.
In the tall, arched windows, there were ladders. Scaffolds were cluttering the walls, and crowds of people—all kinds of people, old and young, were working with wiring.
"Tara!" a middle-aged man called down, as he strung a wire against the dark of the woodwork, called down to her,
"Who'd ya have there?"
"Old friends, Peter," she said, turning back to her companions. Spike looked at her and she continued.
"Anyhow-- after a fashion..."
"Well, you two've come to pop up at an exciting time," Peter called down, pulling out a light bulb from a crate at his feet, and carefully bringing it to place. He smiled at them with genuine energy and excitement.
"Cause we've been working on it for years," he said, "And any day now—any day, mind you, the lights are coming up."
—
Tara led them through a maze of stairwells and hallways, stretching into the east wing of the massive building. All around, the activity never stopped, crowds of people—more than they could have imagined the land supporting, moving in and out. They twisted down a curve in a hall, past the open doors of an infirmary and down the shaded corridor.
"Do all these people live here?" Buffy asked, head turning to watch the crowds move by.
"It's summer," Tara responded, "They're visiting, to help."
She gestured for them to follow her up a flight of wide, marble stairs, worn and bowed with use. Above, there were a pair of wooden doors.
"You see," she said, "We're trying to bring it back again..."
She pushed the doors open and let them into the library. It was the heart and soul of her entire world.
The mazes of books were cloaked in night shadows, even as the half-dawn light fell in soft blue shafts through the walls of windows, mixing strangely with the gaslight. Someone was working on the electric lighting across those windows, working in an old fuse box whose metal door had rusted over with misuse, by a radiator.
"Technology-- education. Governance. Order—it's all in the future if we can build it. And we're on the edge of that future. If we embrace it now."
Bookshelves and long tables covered the massive floor space. There was a row of women at those tables, bent over texts, and copying by hand into plain, Mead notebooks.
"You know I knew you were going to come," she said, her voice growing quiet with excitement. It was only then that Buffy noticed she didn't stutter anymore.
"There are witches here—very powerful—and they know how to use that power to its greatest effect..."
Buffy remembered Willow. Tara had run from her. They'd faced her, here, and won.
She continued walking briskly, pulling them down the aisles to a secluded corner of the library, where the shadows clung closer, and the shelves seemed to twist out into darkness.
"They saved me," she said, quietly and with a stark and blunt directness, "And now I'm one of them. And we've been scrying... probing into the Key, tapping it, trying to understand its—trying to understand her nature."
They came to a desk in a nook there, scattered with notes, and old books. Hanging on a hook there, Buffy noticed an amethyst ring she remembered Willow had given Tara on a long ago anniversary. She'd helped Willow pick it out at a vintage jewelers' shop one summer afternoon.
"Did you find anything?" Buffy responded, questioning. But her tone was clipped, and a coldness—and aversion to talk of these, the remnants of the girl rose up in her. Spike had fallen unnaturally silent, simply taking in what he saw as if storing up every detail around him. His eyes were intense with concentration, and inner thoughts.
Tara pulled a key from a chain around her neck, and leaned to a small box on the desk. Turning the lock, it sprung open, and Spike stepped back. Something like awe, or dread passed over his face.
She pulled out a fresh, green notebook, and fanned the pages out for them to see in her hand. The swirling cryptographs twined together on the pages in green ink. Its cover was new, and unblemished. It hadn't even yellowed with its age.
And Tara responded to Buffy's question, her youthful face grave.
"Yes," she replied, "We found something."
—