Chapter Nineteen
Yom Dmaot (Day of Tears)
It was night again in Willow's tortured mind. She was standing in the doorway to her consciousness that she had so painstakingly created in the hours since the angel's departure, and she had created it in the very spot she had been enfolded in the angel's arms. In memory of the divine beauty of the angel, Willow's doorway was no mere closet door (no dirty laundry here), but an exquisitely crafted archway of marble and gilded gold, entwined with leaves and softly blooming night-flowers. After the moment of its creation, Willow had straightened her clothing and opened the doors, only to find the same unremitting landscape of night-ridden Sunnydale on the other side. Hours of intense concentration had now brought her to this point; she stood on the cusp of the doorway, and through it she could see an unfamiliar space, bright beyond imagining.
Willow knew that all she had to do was step through that brilliant door to be reunited with her body, but something held her back. Suddenly a face swam into her view, and Willow gasped. Those eyes, those bellflower in springtime eyes, eyes of crystal mountain lakes, eyes of jewelled loveliness, she recognized those exquisite eyes. They were undeniably the eyes of the angel, yet what was this? There were leaden weights in them, millstones of pain and private despair, and one was surrounded by the remnants of a black eye, and that clear and wondrous face was hideously marred by three long slashes extending from eyebrow to ear and down to the mouth.
Willow almost stepped through the doorway then, so she could cup that face in her hands, to kiss it and make it better. Yet there was an anchor on her soul, for all of Sunnydale howled behind her, and the groanings and moanings of the unburied dead were a wind on her face, dashing her hot tears away. Could she sacrifice these horribly familiar streets of Sunnydale for that uncertain future beyond the doorway? Could she just leave the moldering bodies of her friends, abandon them in the dust of Caleb's ruination, even for the sake of those crystal blue eyes? No, not yet. So Willow grasped the ornate handles of the doors, and softly, regretfully, pulled them shut, aching at the last glance of anguish clearly written on the angel's face as she did so.
And Willow stood then, with the ghostly wind whipping her crimson hair, her eyes closed against the onslaught of voices in the wind, her heart burning in torment. She lifted her flawless face up to the night sky, her throat creamy in the evanescent light of the softly glowing doorway, tears glistening on her cheeks. For long moments she stood there, torn. Part of her wished to go through that doorway and leave this horror far behind, buried in the black hole of the coma, a malignant blackness forgotten if unseen. But a stronger part remembered the outside world, and was overwhelmed by its potential emptiness. She knew she had escaped the implosion; Faith had rescued her and a few other potentials. Could that mean that everyone else died? She had stumbled over their bodies often enough while being stalked by Caleb.
There was no Buffy out there anymore, no Xander, no Giles. Oz had already left her, long ago. What was there on the outside that could possibly make her life worth living? Far better to remain here, a hell dimension of her own devising, her punishment for always pushing too far too fast, for who would mourn her loss? She could stay in the coma forever, always walking the familiar if devastated streets, stumbling over the places she had hallowed with her blood and tears, cycling herself ever downwards until she could release herself into the same sweet oblivion as all of her friends. Could there be anything on the outside as sickeningly fulfilling?
(The angel)
Don't think it, Rosenberg. It was a mistake. The most beautiful, luscious, time-stopping mistake of your life.
She knew nothing of that mysterious woman. Willow supposed that the woman did, in fact, exist in the outside world; her brief glance into her consciousness had shown it. Could this woman possibly mean something to her? If she was real, how did she come into Willow's mind, to fight and defeat Caleb, to suck up his dust in such an enigmatic manner, and brand Willow's lips with her unspoken name?
Useless suppositions for now. No time for the living, for the dead cannot wait.
So Willow turned her back on the pearly gateway, wiped the tears from her face, and turned to face the wreckage of Sunnydale, ever the sibilant whispers of the unhallowed dead floating up to her ears, turning her mad. She managed only a dozen steps away from the focal point of her happiness, now represented by the pearly gate, before she sank to the ground, sobbing. The thought of facing those damned streets filled her with despair. Not just the chunks of concrete everywhere, but the teddy bears left behind by their little mistresses, and the cars that ran into light posts to become so much scrap, and the fires that yet burned within homes and without. Not to mention the buckets of her own blood, shed over and over again in her torture, and the bodies of the townspeople which were waxy and stagnant yet they would explode with so little as a stray touch, showering her in vileness.
This was her town. And Willow tried to remember it as it had been, before Buffy had come to turn her world upside down. But it was impossible, for they had fought demons on every street corner, had encountered vampires in every inch of the sewer, and had broken their bones and spilt their blood and shed their tears and lost their eyes... Willow crumpled even further. Nothing was left for her. She began to sob in great hiccups now, watery gasps of pain as she clutched herself around her waist and listened to the dead howl in her ears.
She was barely aware of the change it was so subtle. It began as a low glow on the horizon, the first fiery streams of crimson like sunrise over water, followed by raging rapids of blinding white light that blessed every thing in its path. The daystar, the lifegiver, Willow basked in its glow and lifted her tear-stricken face to it as if to kiss it and possess it, never realizing what the true source of that light was. Willow opened her tear-filled eyes, the glow refracting from her tears to create dancing prisms of light, and she stared with heartfelt gratitude at the sunlight. What was it that brought the sun to her nightmare world? Was that woman the source of this unearthly delightful light? "Oh, my G-d," Willow whispered, her heart melting in gratitude, and then she raised her eyes to the lightening sky and continued, "Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech Ha Olam, oseh ma'aseh v'reishit." The Hebrew tumbled from her mouth easily though she hadn't spoken it in years, and the words were Praised Are You, Lord our G-d, King of the Universe, Source of Creation.
And there. Just there. The sun crested the bowl of the ground and paved a highway to Willow. It was a single iconic image that she prayed would stay with her the rest of her life. This magnificent highway to the sun was framed by her glorious gateway on one side and a tremendous willow tree on the other. Willow's heart leaped in her chest, a joyous bubble that eased her most recent pain. This healing light lit a road for her, a road that led into the very heart of the sun
(the woman).
She knew that if she could just tread that highway, if she could just merge her heart with the heart of the woman, she could meet all those she had ever loved and lost. She could understand all things that were now shrouded in mystery. She could dwell in the source of that light in peace and happiness until the very planet under her feet crumbled into dust and became as one with the universe. A scent of celestial flowers began to waft through her consciousness, and all eternity echoed about her.
A light rippling sensation began to cascade through her muscles. It was a tingling, like the sense of standing on a rooftop just before a terrific thunderstorm, dark clouds on the horizon like great black beasts charging over the land, who come with champing bits of lightning and stamping hooves of thunder. That sense of power, of being connected to the earth and every living thing upon it filled her with a raging exultation and also with a great unfulfilled ache.
What was this new lifeblood? What force soothed her broken spirit and shed light on her pain? Could it possibly be her? Was she a woman of power? Whatever it was, it calmed the sibilant voices and eased them away, replacing their shrill discordant cries with a steady beat. Willow listened to this beat for long moments before realizing it was a heartbeat, but not her own, and the grasses bent to it like a dancer with a familiar partner. This beat, this dance, the zephyr wind was part of it, and the grasses too, and the water in her stream and the gophers in their burrows, and the gulls in their sky, they all danced to the beat. So Willow overcame her shame, and placed her feet carefully on the ground and let the wind turn her and the water whisper to her, her body turning gracefully in her own dance of life.
Only then did Willow start to walk back into the ruined streets of Sunnydale, the light sustaining her, feeding her, giving her hope. The tingling ripples in her skin coalesced about her body, and as she approached her private hell her very aspect shifted and changed. Her tattered and bloody clothing fell away from her, and she became enrobed in tight blue jeans, a black fringed shirt, with a single sapphire pendant hanging gently between her breasts.
Feeling young, strong, powerful
(alive!)
Willow implacably strode down the streets, suddenly sure of her destination. The sun continued to rise behind her, imbuing her with a golden aura. And as she walked, her footsteps gentle in her red Converse sneakers, every footprint shivered in the dust and sent out rays of healing energy. Under her implacable advance the streets began to heal, the chunks of concrete and jagged gaps in the roads seamed together once again, the blood stains dissolving from them effortlessly. Lawns were set aright, fires were extinguished, green grass began to grow under her feet, and flowers began to bloom, and she walked without understanding it at all, no idea of the sacrifice given for such healing. She only knew that she would have been desolate without the healing, would not have been able to enact her most important plan if she had to casually stroll through the damnation of the First.
As Willow drew nearer her destination, her courage began to flag. Then she turned a street corner and beheld the source of her nightmares, and the only place she could go for closure. She must face her demons, and this time it was much harder than fighting in cemeteries and splashing through sewers, because her demons were now the dead bodies of her friends, lying in un-consecrated ground. Their voices were the whispers on the wind, now calmed by the sure knowledge of her arrival and the healing rays of that sun that continued to beat on her with a gentle force.
Sunnydale High. It lay ruined, imploded, all the walls crumpled into a vast pit. Willow carefully advanced as close to the edge of that maw as she could, her heart both troubled that she couldn't complete her task, and jubilant that she wouldn't have to. She had an excuse. She could just turn away, leave them crushed under concrete, reaved with swords, bitten by uber-vamps, and return to the glorious gateway and an uncertain future.
But her footsteps. They continued to quiver with golden light, and yet another vast wave of powerful ethereal energy rippled from her very body, convulsing her in shock, and before her bemused eyes Willow saw the walls of the school aright themselves, and the pit reformed into its catacombs, and the steel girders seamed themselves together with medical precision. It took only a few minutes before the school once again looked as it had when Dawn had started attending, as if their most terrible battle against the First had never happened.
And Willow thought of the blue eyes, and was deepened in wonder. She knew that this power didn't come from her. Could that enigmatic woman, the angel, the Slayer, be the source of this miracle? And at what price? She closed her eyes and concentrated fiercely, desperately. With her hand, Willow made a violent hooking gesture, as if grabbing something, and when she opened her eyes again her gateway stood beside her, translocated from near the willow tree.
Feeling her heart bathed in icy fear, Willow swiftly opened the door. First she just looked out through her eyes, but she couldn't see the woman. So she extended a hand through the doorway, and clenched her fist, and was surprised by the amount of pain she felt in her body. Willow retreated once more back into her own mind, sad that she hadn't seen the woman, and a little worried about coming out of her coma completely. How bad would it be?
(You have no comprehension of pain, Willow)
(not yet, anyway)
Banishing back her gate with another wave of her fist, Willow squared off against the school. Wherever this power came from, she wasn't going to abuse it. With full knowledge of what she would find inside, Willow walked through the inner courtyard and entered the empty, echoing hallways.
There were bodies everywhere, humans, Bringers, and ubervamps alike, and the first she came upon was that of Anya. Due to that curious healing magic, Anya wasn't cradled on stone, but lay simply on the tiled floor, her entire torso reaved almost in two. Willow sank to the floor next to her, and took her hand. "Oh Anya," she choked. "I hated you for so long. You were so crass, and rude, and tactless!" Willow brushed Anya's golden hair away from her face with her other hand as she continued, "But you did love Xander, and you made him happy. And your thousand years of demon knowledge sure came in handy for the Scooby gang."
Willow looked at the young woman then, and suddenly made up her mind. Getting off the floor, Willow walked back out of the school and started hunting for the maintenance shed around the back. It was filled with fertilizer and shovels and the wheelbarrow she was looking for. Inexplicably, it also held a large stack of white sheets, and Willow quirked her eyebrow as she took them from the shelf. It was as if the shed knew what she was needing, and gave her what she most desired. Hmm. Magic shed, but again not her own magic.
She wheeled the barrow back to the school entrance and brought it to Anya. Taking one of the white sheets, she carefully wrapped Anya's lifeless body, then grunted as she hoisted it into the wheelbarrow.
Think, Rosenberg. Which of Sunnydale's twelve cemeteries is closest?
Willow turned the barrow around and started out the school. Once outside she lifted her face to the sun, which continued to beam gently, not fiercely, and smiled wistfully. She began to walk Anya's body to the nearest cemetery, Sangrevida Cemetery, which was five blocks away. As she entered through the gateway, Willow couldn't help but remember the times she had spent in this cemetery; almost kissing Xander that first summer when Buffy was gone, eating potato chips while watching Riley doing his commando thing, taking the potentials out for Spike-hunting. The terrain was familiar, and she unerringly pushed the wheelbarrow to a secluded corner. She rounded a privet hedge and beheld a spot that was empty of headstones. Coming to a stop, Willow carefully pulled out Anya's body and laid her in repose on the ground, straightening the white sheet around her.
Rolling her shoulders a bit against the ache, Willow picked up the barrow and returned to the school. Her next trip into the school she found Chao-Ahn, wrapped her up in a sheet, and took her to the cemetery next to Anya. As she entered the school for a third time, she noticed with a little trepidation that the sunlight was wavering a bit. Not that the sun was setting, but the light wasn't as clear, as if the connection had been lost. Her mind whirled in speculation, and she thought again of how she had looked through the doorway and not seen her blue-eyed saviour. No matter. Lots to do, Rosenberg.
Hours passed in this painful labour, and Willow was glad it was so difficult physically. As she came upon the bodies of the potentials she would wrap them and cart them away, not yet allowing herself to think about them, about their lives cut short by this madness. It grew infinitely more difficult when she came upon the atrium and the broken bodies of Dawn and Xander. She ignored Xander for a moment, knowing his would be the most painful of all, and wishing to prolong the inevitable. She crouched next to Dawn, and touched her face, and whispered, "Little Dawnie."
But Xander was too close, his body was right next to Dawn's, cut down protecting her with his last breath. Willow forced herself to look at him, her part-time lover, her closest friend. With a watery gulp, Willow realized that the blow that killed him came from his blind side. "I guess there is no parrot for you, Xander," she said softly, sitting next to him and taking his cold hand in hers. "Buffy wanted you to take Dawn away, she just wanted to save you. Why didn't you go?" Willow choked out this last line, and suddenly she felt angry. "Why do you always have to be the selfish one? Why couldn't you just run away, and give me a place to come home to?" She thumped her hand on his lifeless shoulder, and then buried her face on his chest, sobbing. "Anyplace you were was home to me," she whispered.
No home for Willow, now. No family, no town. Willow straightened again, and angrily wiped the tears from her eyes. To work, Willow. Tears later.
So Willow wrapped up those bodies as well, and one by one took them to the secluded corner of the cemetery. And there was Giles, dear dear fussy glasses-cleaning Giles, Giles whom she had a crush on, Giles of the lovely voice and sensual guitar, Giles her teacher, her mentor, and her friend. There was Robin Wood, and Vi and Rona, and finally, in the pit beneath the school there was Buffy.
A little light-headed from the continuous effort of pushing the wheelbarrow, her body burning with exhaustion, Willow sat down next to Buffy's body. "Hey Buffy," she said a little whimsically. "It wasn't supposed to turn out like this, you know." She stopped for a moment, getting her breathing under control, looking down at Buffy's body lying upright in repose, her clothes surprisingly clean, and she wondered if that remarkable healing magic did that as well. "Why do you always have to wear such impractical shoes to battles, Buffy?" she asked aloud. "I mean, we're trying to save the world, yet you have to wear your high-heeled boots. I always thought that combat boots were the real fightin' boots."
Willow sighed, and straightened the collar of Buffy's shirt, and smoothed the hair over her face. "We were supposed to grow old together, Buffy. We were supposed to live next door to each other, and cheat at bingo together, and forget to take our pills. We weren't going to end like this, with you and Xander and Giles gone and me all alone..."
She began to cry softly, and almost wished for a tempest of tears to prove her loyalty, but her body was too exhausted for anything but a slow and terrible leak. All too soon she got up again, wrapped Buffy's body in a white sheet, and slung her over her shoulder to lurch up the stone steps to the basement. She had left the wheelbarrow just outside the room that had held the Seal of Danthalzar (thank goodness whatever magic had recreated this place had left it out), and her knees were threatening to turn to unsupportive goo by the time she got there.
Willow felt a lot odd as she wheeled the barrow into the elevator, but at least there was no instrumental version of 'Don't Worry, Be Happy' playing in the background. That would have shattered her sanity for sure. When the elevator doors opened, Willow continued pushing the wheelbarrow through the now nearly deserted hallways, steering around the leftover bodies of Bringers and vamps, glad that she was nearly finished this ordeal.
When she finally emerged from the school she stopped in surprise. It was twilight, and whatever golden energy had imbued the place was fading. Not that the spell was reverting, but Willow could sense a great exhaustion, and knew it didn't only come from her. There was still enough light to see where she was going, but she missed the ethereal sunlight from earlier; that gentle, loving light that had given her strength for her most important task.
Pushed to the very point of exhaustion, Willow had to stop half a dozen times to rest while wheeling Buffy's body to the cemetery. As she rounded the corner of the privet hedge, Willow stopped cold, and very carefully put the wheelbarrow to the ground. Joy leaped in her heart, a bittersweet ache that hurt down in the stomach, yet filled the heart with so much gladness it left no room for any other emotion.
The angel's back was to Willow, her faintly glowing wings tucked in by her body. Her brown hair was intricately braided with long ropes of seed pearls that glistened in the twilight sun, and her hands were extended out to the long rows of bodies. Through the pounding of her heart, Willow heard the angel say, "Oh, my darling."
Willow was transfixed, she could not move. The whole world was suddenly silent and still, no grasses bending, no gophers burrowing, no gulls crying; just herself and the unknown saviour who was enveloped in a halo of lustrous light. And all Willow could do was look at her, her heart aching as if to break, her muscles burning in fatigue, a deep longing in the pit of her stomach, the memory of those angel's arms, throat
(lips)
coming back to haunt her with beauty. And in a simple burst, the hideous cocoon of self-loathing shattered, and Willow's soul emerged triumphant; a butterfly of unutterable loveliness. Tears began to trickle anew down Willow's cheeks. She couldn't move, only stand frozen in this surreal moment that held her in a tight grip. How long Willow watched the angel she could never after say, only that time froze in that exquisite moment, a wild and desperate love springing up from Willow's soul.
She came back for me.
Willow looked at the angel, the blessed angel who now unfurled her wings as she crouched on the ground to touch the shrouded bodies, her white gown trailing on the ground like new-fallen snow. Love began to sweep through her soul, cleaning out the desolate places, filling her with heavy warmth until her limbs were aching to feel the angel once more, to touch those perfect rounded arms, to linger on the pulse-point in the angel's neck, to feel the smoothness of the lips against hers. How much did the angel risk by returning to her? This woman, this Slayer, this angel, she was Willow's hope, her salvation. Her very hands touched the bones of Willow's soul, and shaped them anew.
She loves me.
Oh, my angel.
Willow wondered if she said that last part aloud, because she watched as the angel slowly got to her feet and turned until her brilliant blue eyes were riveted on hers. Still Willow was rooted, unable to move, scarce able to breathe.
"Willow?"
Her name from the angel's lips sounded like exquisite music, despite the open sob in the angel's throat. The angel's face narrowed in concern, and then she held out her bare arms wide. The spell broken, Willow let out a low cry, and rushed into the angel's arms. Willow melted into the embrace, feeling the angel's arms come about her so strong, and her throat constricted in the delicious pain of seeing her again, smelling her sweet familiar scent, being so close. Her own arms were wrapped about the angel's waist and there, surrounded by the angel's strong protection, Willow began to sob. At the sound of Willow's tears, the angel also began to weep, her grip tightening convulsively. Her hands tangled in Willow's hair, and Willow felt their tears mingling on their cheeks, and they drank each other's breath.
They stood there for a long time, neither willing to let go, neither of them wanting or needing more than this close communion. Love for this unknown woman raged through Willow as if she had never felt love before. And swift upon that realization came another; that she and the angel would never be parted again.
"You came back for me," Willow finally sobbed.
The angel cupped the back of Willow's neck to lift her face from the hollow of her throat. Willow looked deeply into sapphire eyes, astonished by the depth of devotion written so very plainly there. "If you wish it, I'll never leave you again," the angel replied, before pulling Willow in for a tender kiss.
Willow nearly swooned in delight and fatigue, letting this angel kiss her again and again, her lips now firm, now soft, always giving, giving the one thing that no boy had ever given her before. The angel finally, regretfully, pulled her lips away, then held Willow at arm's length away from her. "My dearest, you are exhausted," she said, wiping Willow's tears away with a graceful hand. "You've been very busy," she continued, waving her hand at the rows of bodies laying on the ground. "Will you come and rest with me?"
Willow looked around her, at the twilight cemetery, and the angel correctly answered her unspoken need. "Not here, dearest. I've prepared a special place for you. Now close your eyes and take my hands. This may feel a little weird."
"I trust you," Willow said confidently, allowing her eyes to close, her fingers thrilling at the angel's touch. She felt a pin-prickling in her scalp, a careful shudder in her head, and then a faint whooshing noise overcame them both. Exhilarated and a trifle apprehensive, Willow waited until the world calmed around her once more.
"Open your eyes, Willow," the angel said.
