Chapter Twenty Five

The Hollowing

Tara sat alone on her kitten-abraded couch with a cooling cup of tea in her hand. She had tucked a thin knitted blanket about her legs and was staring at the television without seeing what was on. It was far too warm for said blanket, but she needed the comfort it provided, and disconsolately wished it could be something (someone!) else draped over her body, warming her, consoling her. Perhaps that was why the cup of tea cooled in her hand, untouched. Commercials about laundry detergent and anti-depressants flashed on and off and she didn't even budge.

It was all she could do to sit there without screaming. It took every meager resource in her besieged body to remain oh so quiet, oh so still, for any movement at all would shock her nervous system. Perhaps that's why the cup of tea cooled in her hand, why the remote lay lifeless by her side. She found she couldn't even think correctly – the experiences of the day flitted past her mind as if she were a mere observer. She could see her jaunty walk down the hallways of the hospice this morning, she could see her fingers working in the lotion on Willow's dry skin (and oh how intoxicating that was, I could barely think clearly, all I could comprehend was the aching desire that flooded me, how I yearned to hold her, be held by her), she could see Ethan holding up Willow's file folder, she could see the floor rising to meet her cheek with horrendous force as a wall of purple faint overcame her...

She was in darkness.

She was in peril.

She was being chased down long, unfamiliar streets by

(the long preacher, the dark hand, the silent might)

Caleb, and he hunted her with the easy grace of a natural predator, calling out to her, his words poison in her ears, filling her mind with madness. And he would catch her, and he would reave her, and bathe his face in her blood, put her blood on his tongue and shiver in ecstasy. Only as she felt her life drain into the gutter, her consciousness lifting, did she awaken from her faint.

Tara couldn't even blame her collapse (and subsequent torture) on the information Ethan had been sharing. His 'little discussion' with her was no more than a warning that Willow's parents had taken copies of everything in their daughter's file, ostensibly so they could sue them all later. No, she had been calmly sitting, enjoying an egg salad sandwich, enjoying a light conversation with Ethan, regretting the schism that had formed between them, when a vast roaring shut out all sound. Muffled, confused, Tara witnessed a shattering bolt of light rocket through her skull, and she passed out on the floor. She was frantic when she woke, weeping and gnashing her teeth.

Her tea was cold.

Tara could only breathe. A reality show came on and she wanted to change the channel, but she couldn't force her muscles to do more than simply breathe. Survivor Ash Island, indeed. Diaphragm moved up and down. Slowly. Up and down.

The pain was a sword in her side, a crack in her skull, a rip across her abdomen. Not a mischievous gremlin, no, not any more, not even a grinning imp, it was a living, breathing fiend, intent on conquering her body and rearranging it to its will. Would there be anything of her left when the pain was done? Or was it hollowing her, leaving only an empty husk, a shape that looked like a Tara-girl, but was only darkness inside?

Breathe, Tara.

Jeff Probst. Now there was a strange man. Traipsing all over the world, hanging about with stinky, ill-mannered people for 39 days. Ash Island, owned by a lady millionaire from Texas. Tara wished she could have an island. She could picture herself on an island, in a bikini, drinking pina coladas while surf crashed nearby, lazing on a towel with a Willow-girl hovering protectively over her, pouring suntan lotion on her and sensuously rubbing it into her skin. It took every ounce of effort she had to close her eyes and envision this properly.

But even in her bikini (it was green, the sea green of Willow's tempestuous eyes) she had a sword run through her, and a great rip across her abdomen, a fanged bite in her neck and a crack in her skull. And she would be struck by inner lightning, a surge of hatred from her prisoner, and she would fall to the ground, her eyes rolling back, lifeless. What would Willow do then? Cry and clutch frantically at her, call her name? (If I should lose you, my heart would be broken.)Or kick sand over her and lop her head off with a scythe and callously say, "As if I could ever love you"?

As heavy and gummy as they were, Tara opened her eyes. Slowly. Tara breathed. Slowly. Diaphragm up and down. When someone knocked on the door a few minutes later, the shock of it jangling her nerves nearly killed her. "Come in," she croaked, then cleared her throat and called louder. "Come in."

Robbers don't knock, do they? Maybe it was a polite robber, who wanted to knock before taking all her stuff and shooting her in the process. Right now she'd welcome the bullet. Maybe it was Ethan, come to check on her after her fainting spell earlier. It could be Althanea, though she said earlier she was going to go straight to Los Angeles after meeting with Willow.

It was Althanea. She came swiftly through the door, closing it behind her, and took in Tara's appearance in a single glance. The cold cup of tea, the blanket over the knees, the look of absolute deadness in Tara's eyes; Althanea's face creased in vast concern, and she rushed over to Tara.

Please don't touch me, I couldn't bear it if you touch me, Tara thought. Whether by mind-reading magic or by womanly intuition, Althanea did stop, and knelt by Tara's feet and gazed at her, her heart in her eyes. Whatever did I do to deserve her? "What can I do?" Althanea asked.

Tara barely swiveled her head to look at her guest. A single great tear rolled down her cheek, but she couldn't lift her enormously heavy hands to wipe it away. "Nothing," she whispered. "There is nothing."

"There must be something," Althanea disagreed. "You can't take the rabbits, and I can't heal you, but Ethan told me you haven't yet tried a demon. I'll... I'll go get you a demon."

(Believe me, Tara, there's not a single one of us that wouldn't die for you.)

Tara knew she should feel relief, but she was still in the clutches of the pain-fiend, who was still steadily eating chunks of her from the inside out, hollowing her, devouring her. Would there be any Tara left to love when he was finished? Would they all love a corpse?

Althanea could get her a demon. It was the last thing Tara could try. And if a demon didn't work

if my eyes don't turn black and I don't feel a wave of malicious pleasure in turning my gift inside out, harming instead of healing, taking instead of giving

Tara knew, oh Tara knew she was in trouble. "Do you need time off?" Althanea asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor at Tara's feet, still not touching her.

"I can't leave Willow," Tara said softly. Breathe, Tara.

"Tara, you have to take care of yourself, too," Althanea replied.

With every ounce of strength in her body, Tara swiveled her neck to look clearly at her guest. Another tear rolled down her cheek, tickling her, and hung, suspended, on her chin. She didn't have the power to wipe it away. "I need her," Tara tried to explain. "I won't live without her."

Tara wasn't sure if Althanea understood, yet, and Tara couldn't quite find the words. Not when even the heaviness of the thin blanket was suffocating her, when the cup of tea was an anchor in her hand. "I'll feel better after I sleep," Tara promised.

"Doesn't all this nobility hurt?" Althanea asked, getting angrily up off the floor. Tara could barely watch her take a turn about the room, shutting off the TV in the process. Althanea returned to stand in front of Tara, her hands squarely on her hips. "Doesn't it hurt to be superwoman? You don't have to be perfect, Tara. You don't have to always be a damn paragon!"

Tara's throat closed, thickened with grief and tears and pain. "Touch me, please," she croaked, lifting her hand. Althanea looked confused, then sat down next to Tara and took her hand, enfolding it in both of hers. "Close your eyes," Tara asked.

Tara needed no tree now. She didn't need or want a reminder of what bad shape her body was in. She had something to explain to Althanea and she couldn't use words. Not when her jaw was so heavy, so thick. She probed delicately at the membrane of Althanea's consciousness, and lightly pushed in. She tried not to look too deep into the other woman's memories; these were private and she felt like an intruder. But what she could do was this...

(The choice was mine and mine completely)

For only a moment, a mere moment, Tara allowed Althanea to glimpse the horror of her life. In that moment was packed a million frames of violence and incest and hurtful words. The next moment she showed Althanea her desperation to rack up the blood debt, to end a life that was too painful to be borne alone.

"You may not think so, Tara, but I do love you," Donny had yelled at her, the corpse of the cow at their feet. "How many sisters do you think I have?"

And the next instant she showed Althanea the moment beneath the Willow tree, the moment when she was the one cradled, and protected, and loved. In the truth of Willow's mind, it was obvious. Tara was her saviour, but Tara needed to be saved. The only one who could was Willow. Blushing, Tara showed Althanea the kissed blessing, the redhead's fingers upon her cheeks, the words that sealed her fate... (Tara Maclay, I don't even know you. But I love you.)

Tara brought them back out and heavily drew her hand away from Althanea's grip. The woman's face was indecipherable. "I need to be with her," Tara said quietly.

There was silence for a long minute as Tara carefully watched Althanea's face. Though Althanea had known all along that Tara was in love with Willow, and that it was Tara's destiny to heal her with that love, it was quite another thing to blatantly show such intimacy. But Althanea's face melted, her earlier ire quite dissolved, and with a feathery touch Althanea brushed the drying tears from Tara's face. "I think I understand," she whispered. Holding Tara's face carefully in her slightly wrinkled hands, Althanea leaned in and kissed Tara on the forehead. "I'll bring home a demon for you."

Tara's face fell in concern. She opened her mouth to speak useless platitudes of 'be careful' when Althanea chuckled. "Don't worry, dear. Angel is going to help me. I'll be quite safe."

"Thank you," Tara mouthed. She couldn't even force her voice to work now. She had never felt quite this helpless before. As Althanea's gentle fingers pried her hand away from the cup of tea, setting it aside on a coffee table, love for this strange British witch filled Tara's whole soul. She was like a mother, like an older sister, a dear friend. Tara never had dear friends before, but since moving to Los Osos, since accepting her assignment from Aranaea, she had discovered a few. Why was that?

(the sacrifices will be great, but the rewards will be even greater.)

If the pain she was in at this very moment was any indication, then her reward would be spectacular beyond all reason. And Tara recalled the vision Aranaea sent her, the vision that drove her to anger, then finally to acceptance of her fate...

Tara was lying on her side on fresh-mown grass, sunshine filtering softly through green leaves. Soft sounds of laughter, of children playing next door, delicately intruded her little dome of sunshiny delight. She could smell the sharp tang of tomato plants, the soft musk of decaying plant matter, the sandalwood and rose of Willow's hair. She ran her fingers through that gorgeously alluring red hair, smiling at the rising blush in Willow's cheeks.

Willow was lying on her back along Tara's body. Her face was turned invitingly towards Tara, her dimples deep in barely restrained joy. As Tara's one hand gently caressed Willow's hair, her other hand was entwined with one of Willow's, and lay soothingly on Willow's baby-distended belly. As Tara looked into Willow's eyes she saw only the deepest contentment, a love so strong and whole that it turned her insides a-flutter.

And then Willow smiled, a low playful smile, and said, "Come here."

Pulling on Tara's entwined hand, Willow drew Tara over her like a blanket. Their lips met, and Willow pushed against her with familiar insistence, her tongue flicking against Tara's mouth, demanding entry, and Tara more than gladly granted it, feeling her whole soul melt in the abiding sunshine of Willow's love. There on the grass under the tree in their backyard, as Tara heard the bees buzzing around the flowers she had planted, as she smelled the intoxicating aroma of cut grass, as she felt their baby kick underneath her, Tara knew she had found heaven.

Althanea lifted Tara's legs and stretched them out on the couch, then fluffed a pillow and put it under Tara's head. Tara's face was a mask of agony and drops of sweat stood out upon her forehead. Althanea tucked the knitted blanket in tighter, and kissed her once again on the forehead.

"Be well, Tara," her guest called just before exiting the house. Tara could hear the lock click behind her.

Tara could make no reply. For hours she remained in the vise-grip of a master torturer, aching for the sweet oblivion of sleep, but her body screamed and screamed in endless agony, as the pain-fiend continued its relentless hollowing. Even crying hurt too much, but she couldn't stop. A steady and slow leakage of tears wet the pillow beneath her. Too tired to turn on the TV again, even if only for blessed distraction, Tara tried to while away the hours by thinking on her favourite topic.

Willow. Her patient was too clever and intuitive by far. If Tara had known that Willow would deduce so much about her in the first hours of her awakening, she may have held off a bit. The speed of her girl's mind dazzled her. She had no intention of Willow learning so much so fast; she was afraid her girl would go off the deep end, would panic, or would shut down entirely. She hadn't figured on Willow's near-insatiable curiosity, or the quickness of her mind. She should have, though, from what everyone had been telling her. Tara had been blinded by Willow's coma, the helplessness of her girl in her sleep. She realized that she didn't really know Willow at all.

Was she in love with a figment, then? Was this Willow anything like the one who captivated her in her dream? Is she even remotely like the Willow who enchanted her in her mind, who covered her face with kisses, and made her feel whole? Did that Willow even exist?

In the bright of day, sitting at Willow's side, such questions would not have even come to Tara. Only here, manacled by agony, jolted with mental lightnings did her gentle mind go berserk. It was as if Caleb were whispering to her, a voice deep in her mind, whispering of betrayal, and torment, and nonreciprocating love. She was alone here, trembling on the couch as hours of night passed by without sleep. She must have slept, though she didn't recall it. Her eyes were open and red-rimmed when the darkness of night began to abate. Her hands were white-knuckled from clutching at the blanket all night long.

Tara had never been in such pain before, such unrelenting pain. Just when she thought she could feel no more, surely every nerve in her body was already shrieking, there was yet another jangle, another lightning strike, another long purple haze of faint. She fought the faint, terrified of Caleb. She breathed shallowly, in short quick gasps. Her whole world had boiled down to this couch and the conquering of every minute.

Just live, Tara. Just live sixty seconds more. Thirty seconds. Ten seconds. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. One more minute, Tara. Keep breathing. Another minute, Tara.

There were no heaven-threads here to sustain her, no lilies from Peter Whitney. There was no chorus of angelic voices singing a hymn to her devotions. There were no drugs to stand for her in the boxing ring, no narcotics that would allow her to step to the side and lay down the fight, even if only for a while. Round after round Tara boxed with her shadowy adversary, her body weakening, she stumbling, she falling.

And ever and ever Caleb whispered to her, and tried to raise her ire, to blame her misery on her patient. It's all Willow's fault, you wouldn't be feeling like this if it weren't for Willow, you wouldn't be entertaining me if it weren't for her. You could be happy and working and content, Tara, but instead you are lying on the couch, and I'm devouring you...

Even the brief periods of unconsciousness were no relief. She would no sooner sink into unknowing depths of sleep when another twinge, another kick would rouse her once again. Tara hovered on the very edge of the spirit world, dancing with The Reaper. Memories skirted past her, fluttering lightly and quickly like butterflies on flowers, dancing from one to another with no sense of direction. She jumped from her childhood to her careful murder of the rabbits, to plucking apples from the orchard to calmly injecting something into a cancer patient.

Yet she lived. Whatever force it was that caused her body such agony, Tara still lived. The purple curtain still stood, shielding her from eternity and the joys within. Some part of her, the part that was tired beyond all reason, wished she could just step through that curtain and finally rejoin her mother. Finally be free.

It was the hope of glorious green eyes that grounded her. As the dawn came, it was Willow's face in her memory that kept her sane, the sound of Willow's name was her mantra. She intoned it again and again.

There, just there on the kitten-abraded couch, Tara stood at the crossroads of her life. For a moment she could see all her destinies, each stretching out into eternity. A million permutations of death, along with a million instances of love. Which path would she follow? There was a choice here to be made. There was always a choice. Aranaea may not believe so, and may try to force a human's hand, but in the end there is always choice.

Will you submit, Tara? Call the pain-fiend your master? Beg for the narcotics to dull it and give you peace? Will you slide down that slippery slope of narcotic haze, and do everything in your power to fog the pain away?

Or will you fight, Tara? Call upon your anger, and wage war with the pain, curse it, and revile it? Descend into depths of rage, and blame the gods for your anguish?

Or will you understand, Tara? Sink into your cells, allow yourself to feel every twinge, every rocket, every tear? When the pain hollows you will you still bless it?

So she struggled, there in the clear light of dawn. So she gazed down the avenues of her life's choices, and saw them for the truth they bore. So inspired, the ghostly memory of the arms of Maia supporting her, Tara closed all other doors except one.

Understanding.

No fighting. No submitting. Just understanding.

Could she honestly live the rest of her life this way? With unrelenting pain, hour after hour? Clutching feverishly to thin blankets, jaws clenched, sweat streaming, the only outlet of agony through hot tears? If so she could not bear it, not alone.

Could she overcome her martyrdom, her insane desire to keep Willow safe, and let Willow in? She had relented, once, under the willow tree, and allowed herself to be cherished, protected, and loved. That moment became the greatest moment of love and devotion she had ever known, and the memory of it soothed her far more than her thin knitted blanket. Could she finally open up her wall, and let Willow truly see? Did she really have to be alone? How many more instances of love could Willow show her?

Still no choir came. No heavenly voices. No warmth or joy or moment of peace. Nothing but a small and hard knot forming deep within her. Her eyes closed, Tara reflected on this knot, and considered it. It was a tiny thing, covered with a sort of grime. Meditating deeply, Tara mentally took up the little knob and turned it in her hands. With a fingernail, she scratched, and under the surface layer of grit lay a stone of unfathomable beauty. It was a diamond, clear and exquisitely crafted, glittering with every facet of the rainbow.

And Tara considered this diamond, and sunk her awareness inside it.

Just as coal under pressure becomes a diamond, so did Tara's soul amplify. And she beheld a vision of herself as a middle-aged woman, and the vision was almost too extraordinary to be borne. For she stood tall, strong, and humble, three light scars down her cheek and the wind from the sea gently lifting her waist-length golden hair. She stood upon the bluff, and the power of her light was far greater than that of any mere lighthouse, for she was safe harbour, and the light of her soul attracted hundreds, thousands, millions of struggling people. She was a candle lit from within, she was serenity, she was transformation. And her eyes, oh her eyes! Her eyes held no wall yet held no secrets. Within them was found the horrors of her father, the blackened pools, the hateful words. Within them was also found peace, and redemption, and forgiveness. And, most astonishing of all, within them was a love, a love far greater than any seen on earth for thousands of years.

She was built of love, every particle of her being vibrated with it, and the soft luminescence of that love shimmered through the air around her, beckoning all others to come and partake.

And the heart of that love, and the source of that transformation, was Willow.

For there, in the heart of the diamond, there pulsed two colours: green and blue. They resided there in bubbling felicity, in domestic bliss, in unending adoration. They were subsumed; they were two, but now they were one. Now it was obvious to all that Tara, and everything that made Tara wonderful, was really a combination of Tara + Willow. A simple mathematical equation. One plus one equals infinity.

And they wandered the world, and they blessed the world, and together they healed the world of its sorrows.

The hollowing, the most dreadful hollowing, the pain-fiend devouring everything inside her, it was all to her good. That's all pain ever was. To her good. Curse it, fight it, rail against it, deaden it with drugs, and it would corrupt her. But embrace it, and love it, and cherish it, and thank the gods for it?

Hollow no longer. For the gluttonous pain-fiend scraped her soul clean without intending to. Caleb may have sent it, that agony, as just another minion of the First, but the gods sanctified it. The choice, the choice had been made. Understanding. And every cubic inch of her hollowed body was filled with love. Yes, there was pain. There could be pain for every minute of her life that remained to her.

And it was good.

And it came to pass that as the sun crested the lip of the world, painting a highway along the rippling waters of the sea, eagerly entering her house, embossing her living room in light and shadow, Tara finally fell asleep.

Tara dreamed.

And a goddess came unto her, as Tara lay on a yellow blanket on a beach on Ash Island. Her head was broken, and oozing cherry droplets that beaded on the fuzzy surface of the blanket. Her neck was gashed open by sharp incisors. There was a sword sticking out of her side and there was a curved knife thrust in her belly.

Tara watched the goddess approach, and the goddess was the embodiment of youth and beauty. She was clad in a gown of shimmering starlight, of wishes, and her face radiated a love deeper than Tara had ever felt. Her eyes were green, the sea green of tranquil waters. Her hair was white, and cascaded down her shoulders like new-fallen snow. Tara knew if she buried her face in that hair that it would smell of sandalwood and roses.

The goddess lifted her hands and a scythe appeared, burnished silver and red. "What part will you play?" goddess-Willow asked.

And Tara knew, for she had read the script, and seen the ending. She knew she lived, for she stood upon the bluff and there were scars on her face. That meant that the goddess, that Willow would save her. That meant that she was worth saving after all. That meant that every reason for the wall was now gone. She would be the tool, the bridge

(the lamb)

and the light of her conviction shone in her eyes. She stood, careful not to jostle the metal sticking out of her body. She approached her love, her only

(my always)

and said, "I will love you. To the ends of the earth I will love you. Until my body fades into dust I will love you. And beyond the great purple curtain, I will love you."

Willow looked upon Tara, upon her great and vicious wounds, and she despaired. The scythe dropped from her hands and disappeared in a shower of dust. She came upon Tara, and cast her eyes over the sword, the curved knife, the beaded drops like a crown on her head. "The hollowing is almost complete. Once you are empty, be careful of what you choose to put back in," Willow said softly.

And Tara couldn't look at her. She yearned to fall into Willow's arms, but there was a sword, and a knife.

(Tara, why won't you look at me?)

Because my need of you overpowers me.

So Willow approached, and plucked the sword from her side, and wrenched the knife from her belly, and instead of blood there was a flood of celestial flowers. One step, then two, and Tara was pulled into Willow's arms.

"I am close, Tara," Willow whispered, and she faded away.

Tara came awake slowly, reliving her conversation with Willow over and over again. The similarities between this dream and the one she had the day Peter Whitney died astonished her. She woke on the couch, her legs and hands still leaden with fatigue, her head still marching to the beat of the manacle bearing torturer, a sting on her neck and in her side. She allowed her eyes to flutter open. Tara finally understood.

Time to get back to work.