Anodyne
by Mistral Amara
His hands shook as he laid out the spell components in the casting circle. Rue, tansy, poppy, bitterwort. The pickled heart of a fire newt. He checked and rechecked their positions, first with his compass, then with a pendulum. Months of research, of planning, of screwing his courage to the sticking place--it all came down to this.
She died helping to save the world, Giles. Let her rest. She's earned it.
It's not like where you were, Buffy. I know which dimension she's in. It's . . . not pleasant. She's in pain. Terrified. Alone.
He marked the points of the circle with carefully drawn sigils. If it were not oriented precisely to the desired dimension . . . well, in any case, there would be no second chance.
No, Giles, I can't. It's wrong. You know it's wrong. I won't do it again.
It's so much easier to follow the rules when it's not someone you love, isn't it, Willow?
He laid a dagger in the circle. She had died with a sword, but on consideration he'd decided that a dagger was better for this. It wouldn't make a difference. It wouldn't.
There is a natural order to the universe. Water flows downhill. Time flows forward. We're born, we live, we die. A Watcher does not interfere with these things. Do you hear me, Rupert?
Yes, Father. Dying is natural. Coming back isn't.
He ran through the ritual one last time in his head, but the spell was brutal in its simplicity. He would reach her, or he wouldn't. He drained his scotch and stepped into the circle.
Don't worry, darling, not long now.
He lit the candles; burned the herbs; swallowed the newt's heart. He picked up the dagger and set it against his breast, grabbed his determination with both hands, and shoved.
I'm coming, my love.
They found him in the morning, a smile on his face.
---End---