Note: This chapter takes place in 'Never Leave Me', Episode 9 of Season 7. They're sort of like scenes in-between what we, the viewers, saw. Think about them logistically and place them chronologically. Any questions, please feel free to ask!
"Alright, that's twice you've tried to kill me since last night. I'm starting to think you might not appreciate my hospitality," Buffy grunts as she ties the restraints tighter for the third time.
Tara hovers in the doorway, arms crossed nervously. "I'm worried about him."
Giving the last knot a strong yank for good measure, Buffy steps back to survey her work. Fully vamped, Spike gnashes at her mindlessly, struggling against the ropes, giving no sign of having heard her. "Me too," she says with a frown. "He's getting worse."
"Well you're the ones who thought keeping a psychotic murderer as a houseguest was a good idea," Anya huffs from under a pile of bedding.
Buffy rolls her eyes. "Not helping, Anya."
Tara bites her lip. "Even in the basement he was never this bad. Even when he was crazy, he was still . . ."
"Himself," Buffy finishes for her.
Tara nods. "It's like he's not even there anymore."
"Sorry about the rope," Tara apologized while Spike thrashed, gnashing at her wildly, without any recognition. He flickers back and forth with no warning; it was worse than it'd ever been before. She held herself back from holding his hand as it only served to tempt him with warm flesh. She sits as close as she can without him trying to bite her. "We'll figure this out, Spike, I promise. Come back," she pleads.
"He needs blood," Anya dumps a stack of sheets into Tara's hands. "Stat. If he's been killing, no wonder he's going wild without it."
Buffy makes a movement to go but Tara stops her. "I'll go," she volunteers. Buffy opens her mouth to argue, but Tara interjects. "He's calmer when you're around. Stay with him." To Willow, she adds, "I'll be back before you know it. Promise."
As much Willow and Tara had been avoiding each other before, now they're barely apart, taking comfort in a low, chaste closeness, as if making up for the months of separation all at once. Willow looks as if she's going to protest, but closes her mouth and relents with a nod. Tearing herself away, Tara leaves with a last lingering look at Spike, just as Anya offers to go back to her place to grab a pair of handcuffs. She shakes her head against the visual.
It's not that far to the butcher shop, but with Spike in the state he is, Tara wants to be back as quickly as possible. She reaches for the car keys in the dish next to the front door but pauses halfway, remembering she doesn't have her license. Presumably it's somewhere, though she's not about to use identification for someone with a date of death in their record. She frowns, filing it away as yet another complication of her existence to reconcile before grabbing the house keys and hurrying out the door.
The journey is longer by foot, but with every block traveled, Tara feels more at peace. Everything looks the same as it did in Limboland, but it couldn't be more different. Tara roamed these streets a thousand times over those months, but never like this; never so full of life.
Women push strollers, kids whiz past on bicycles and skateboards, cars honk, and people walk, part of a blissfully, magical regular day. Tara inhales deeply, basking in connectivity, letting the fabric of humanity slowly stitch her back together.
The walk continues pleasantly, until she senses a strange, dark energy as she gets closer to the butcher shop. She concentrates as she enters, scanning quickly to see if any clientele are demons, but everyone appears to be human. It's midday, too early for vampires, so what is this energy she feels, so cold and deep? She turns in time to catch a figure in a familiar looking black cloak at the corner of her eye, but by the time Tara rounds the entryway the person is gone. She frowns, pushing the possibility from her mind. There's no way it can be Spike. The way he's tied up at the house and the sun shining makes sure of that.
So why does something seem so eerily recognizable?
Paying for the blood, she makes her way out as quickly as possible and hurries home.
Everyone, not just Willow, is parked in front of the table, texts spread open. They decide, given the strange apparitions haunting and preying on them, that safety is better in numbers. When there are multiple witnesses. And fewer opportunities for manipulative ghosts to prey on them. An exception has been made for Xander to go out and make a quick snack run before settling at the table with everyone else. Though neither Buffy, Tara, or Willow have much of an appetite.
She berates herself for not thinking about it earlier. She's been so focused on alternate dimensions, portals between worlds, realms beyond death, those sorts of things. How could she have not looked into the very spell Tara used to escape in the first place? That spell must be the key, and Willow's been completely blind to it.
Of course she has, she thought bitterly. When's the last time she'd done research like this? Sure, she's been back for a month or two . . . But serious research mode? She'd turned to magic for every shortcut, last year and at every turn she'd gotten lost. How can she have missed it? Research is the thing she's supposed to be good at, from before the magic even came into her life. This should have come to her as naturally as breathing.
She shakes her head, squeezing her eyes tight against that trail of thought. She takes a slow, deep breath, finds her center the way the Coven has taught her and with renewed determination, grabs a book on deities. Tara's spell invoked Isis, the feminine archetype of creation, Egyptian goddess of rebirth, Giver of Life, Goddess of Magic, Wife of. . . .
Ice fills her veins. She hears screaming in her ears from far away. It's only when Xander shakes her gently that she realizes it's only a memory. It rises up like bile—the Blackness. Her vision swims and she squeezes her eyes tight against it, taking a sharp breath.
Everyone looks at her in concern.
"Will?"
It takes everything to stay grounded and awake—to find the hum that Ms. Hartness has taught her, and let the earth cradle instead of swallow her. She can't afford to lose it, now. The stakes are too high—Tara is on the line. "Osiris," she breathes.
"Who?" asks Dawn.
Xander squints, "Wasn't he the guy we used last year to bring Buffy back?"
"You don't 'use' a god, Xander," Anya retorts peevishly. "He's not a kleenex."
Willow can feel Tara eyeing her curiously. She can feel Tara with every fiber of her being, and panic rises. The bile turns to sludge.
He had come to her so easily, after. Barely holding onto Tara, fingers clutching desperately at her neck, already starting to let the rage and pain and unfairness of it all roll over her like a storm. Tara's body was still warm in her arms and she was already starting to let go.
"How? How is this natural?" she had asked, childlike and peevish with the powers of a god. To a god.
Gunshots and shattering glass echo in her ears. The hum is slipping away and she feels the Blackness tug. "It was me," she whispers. "It's my fault. I did this to you," Willow says desperately, trying to make them understand. "To Tara." Urgency propels her every movement, she taps an impatient finger at an open book. "Osiris."
Everyone looks at her blankly.
"I summoned him, right after . . ." her eyes flick guiltily towards Tara.
Giles takes off his glasses and regards Willow curiously. "You used Osiris to resurrect Buffy," he says quietly, putting the pieces together, "And thought to do the same with Tara." Willow nods miserably, the disgust and self-loathing palpable. They all sit for a moment, absorbing Giles' words.
Anya eventually breaks the silence. "So what happened?" she asks matter-of-factly. "I mean, it clearly didn't work or else you wouldn't have gone all evil and tried to kill us and end the world." Xander looks at her sharply, but she either doesn't notice or doesn't care. "So what happened?"
"He said, 'No.'"
"He said, 'No'?"
"He said it wasn't a mystical death so nothing could be done, that it was the natural order of things."
Tara squirms uncomfortably in her seat.
"Will . . ." Buffy comforts, eyeing Tara's reaction but saying nothing. "I get the guilt, but if nothing happened, what could have possibly been your fault?"
"I did something, after. When he wouldn't help, I—" Willow swallows hard and closes her eyes with a frown, remembering. "Didn't take it so well. I remember screaming and lightning and then he—" she gulps, "He disappeared."
"If he left, how is that a bad thing?"
Willow frowns, trying to describe what happened, "I think . . . I think I made him disappear."
"You can't make a god disappear," Anya clarifies with exasperation. "Trust me, I've tried. There were plenty of times a deity or two got involved at work after some vengeance wishes got messy, and it took ages to deal with the paperwork."
"Anya's right, Willow," Giles looks at her kindly. "Despite how powerful you've become, it's not possible to summon a god by sheer force of will."
"But Giles—" she immediately protests, before being cut off by a wave of his hand.
"There's simply no way to communicate without the magical ingredients necessary to amplify spiritual energies in order to bridge the mystical and physical realms."
Willow's jaw works silently, trying to process, still doubtful. "But the magics—"
"Are only a tool. They cannot overcome law."
Buffy chimes in. "If she didn't summon him, how did he go all Thor in my bedroom? And where did he go? Playing hide-and-seek with a god once wasn't fun the first time around, and I'm not too psyched for an encore performance."
"That is an excellent question, Buffy. One I suggest we continue to research."
"You could just ask him," Anya blurts out casually.
It's clear this is an option no one has considered—or even knows is a possibility—and everyone stares at her like she's crazy. "What?" she defends herself. "Why waste time looking for answers when we can just go to the source itself?"
All eyes turn to Giles, who considers it for a moment. "Well, yes, I suppose we could—"
"See?" Anya interrupts, beaming triumphantly.
"So what, we just call up a god and say 'Hey, remember us? Have any more snakes for us to puke up?' Or—"
"Xander . . ." Tara chides, with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
He stands abruptly, the chair making an awful scraping noise against the floor. "No! No 'Xander'. That was some messed up stuff we dealt with last year. And we never talked about it. So excuse me for not being too thrilled at the thought of bringing back the god of Nightmare on Elm Street for a fireside chat."
"It wouldn't be like that," Tara explains patiently.
"How do you know?" he demands, spinning towards her. Xander looks haunted, the faint scars on his cheek catch the light and seem to glow. That day, that year, is reflected tenfold in this moment.
"There's no desire to transfer mystical or magical energies. Merely communication," Giles offers. "It would be more akin to a long-distance phone call."
Xander crosses his arms, slightly less antagonistic, but still not pleased at being outnumbered. "Fine," he says finally, "But if any snakes show up, I'm hangin' up," and storms out of the room.