Chapter Forty One

Stardust

(I am a descendant of Aranaea.)

Dusty afternoon sunlight and the discarded bag of groceries on the peeling porch floor. Donny's face, filled with chagrin, Willow's invisible hands on her waist. For Tara, these things existed, but only in the minutest way. With her mother's last secret reverberating in her head (I am a descendant of a goddess) Tara stood up to her father for the first time, and wondered what price she would pay.

Whatever it was, she would pay it. Not for herself, her time was up. She would pay it for Donny.

She would buy his freedom. He would see just how powerful she is, to take it, and not give it away. She would take it, and he would get away.

(Could he have been an uncle?)

No more time, not with the pain-fiend hollowing her head, not with a broken slab and a scythe waiting for her on the top of a lonely (stone) mountain.

For you, Donny.

The fist formed, drew back. Tara would not back down, cower away as she had so many times before. And her father could see it.

There, in dusty sunlight, a discarded bag of groceries at their feet, the burning city that was Tara in all her glory met

(the dark hand, the silent might, the first evil)

the murderous gaze of her own father, their eyes communicating in ways no words ever could, and Tara exulted. She would take it, and take it bravely, and in so doing would take his power away.

I am not afraid.

A gasp, Willow's hands suddenly tight around her waist, and the blow never landed. Between one blink of her eyes and the next, Tara found herself falling into her kitten-abraded couch on top of Willow. Willow, who crumpled beneath her, shaking with fury and fear. Trying to disentangle herself, Tara turned just enough so that Willow could hold her, fearsome and tight, Willow's face somewhere around her neck. "Tara, how do you stand it?" she heard Willow growl, as Willow's hands pressed even tighter against her back, as if by holding Tara she could prove that she was still alive.

"Ssh, darling, we're okay now," Tara soothed, patting Willow's hair before laying back, pulling the slender redhead on top of her. Willow curled easily on top of her, her head still lying on Tara's breast, still shaking in outrage and despair.

It took several minutes for Willow to calm down, and Tara tried to ease her own breathing, to ease the pounding of her head. Finally Willow looked up, her eyes rimmed red. "Tara, I have seen a whole lot of ugly these past seven years. Monsters with horns and slavering demon dogs at my prom and giant… worm… things. But I've never seen anything like your father."

Her jaw rippling with taut fury, Willow continued, "In fact, kinda wished I had put my demon slayer on." Tara lifted her eyebrow in a clear expression of oh-really and Willow commiserated with, "Well, I would have set Buffy on him anyhow. Is he afraid of durians?"

Looking into Willow's eyes, Tara could hardly believe the gift she had been given. Only Willow could turn a situation as volatile as that into one to make her laugh. Her chuckle died in her throat, though, as Willow returned her gaze, blazing hot.

Tara nearly yanked Willow's mouth down on to her own, bruising her with the intensity of her feeling. Lips frantic now, moving against each other with desperation, hands pulling at each other as if they could somehow meld their bodies together as one.

Breathless, Tara finally broke the kiss, feeling a purple wall of faint creeping upon her. Panting a little in pain, Tara closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing, even as Willow slid off the couch to sit by her side. The comfort of Willow's hand on her waist, Tara waited for the wall to pass, for the world to stop careening about, and finally opened her eyes again.

"Are you okay, or are you being all brave little toaster?" Willow asked quietly, twirling the edge of Tara's shirt around her finger.

Tara's breath seemed to hitch around a lump of love caught in her throat.

"Because you don't have to be brave little toaster all the time," Willow continued, her voice soft yet determined. "It used to drive me bonkers when Buffy would go all I-gotta-save-the-world-by-myself on us."

The world shrank around them, and Tara could only see Willow's elfin face, her perfect nose, clear cheekbones, eyes the silken colour of evergreens in twilight.

"Brave little toaster, a wall to keep out the world, keep in the pain," Willow said, her fingers now inching underneath Tara's shirt, stroking her stomach. "Stay hard. Stay strong. Buffy used to think the same way.

"Rocks would melt and seas would burn before she would ask for help. It took a whole year of monster bashing and vamp trashing for her to learn otherwise. To learn that Xander and I were in it for the long run."

Willow's hand on her stomach, now still. Eyes boring into her own, sunlight on leaves in Peter Whitney's garden of hope. "How long will it take for you to learn, Tara?" Willow asked softly, leaning into her, her other hand stroking the soft hair at Tara's temple. Tara leaned into that questing hand, closing her eyes against the light and truth in Willow's gaze. "Tara, how long?"

(In saving the world, have you ever discovered how to save yourself?)

Tara finally caught the note of desperation in Willow's voice. She opened her eyes. Yet there was still a boulder in her throat, the words welling up behind it. So she leaned forward enough to kiss Willow, hoping it would be answer enough for now.

Long moments later, Willow drew away, but there was still worry in her eyes. "What is it?" Tara croaked, forcing words through her throat.

"We have a big fight coming," Willow began. Tara nodded, and Willow continued. "I'm going to be using a lot of magic." Tara nodded again, wondering why Willow was so tentative. After a moment of silence, Willow went on, "I'm afraid, I'm afraid I'll like it too much, use it too much. It almost destroyed me, once. I almost killed Dawn."

"I don't think you have cause to worry, Will," Tara softly said, the safer topic melting the boulder in her throat, and she turned on the armrest to see Willow better. Her girl was sitting on her knees next to the couch, her face pale with emotion. "These magical gifts were granted by the gods, in preparation for this fight. You don't have to worry about the power seducing you – the only seducing around here will be done by me."

Willow granted Tara a small, wan smile, but Tara could see there was still something else. "My motives are good now," Willow said. "But anyone with the right spells can access the gods, and the gods are bound by the spell, right?"

"It's true," Tara agreed, finally seeing what Willow was talking about. "Whether the petition comes from a person with good or evil intent, the gods must answer."

"I feel nervous about using these powers for anything less than an emergency."

Tara slowly touched Willow's face, and Willow took that hand and pressed it against her own. "We've barely tapped into the gifts given to you. We don't know when the battle is coming; it could be tonight, it could be next week. And, as silly as it sounds, I think you should practice. The magic."

"Work out any kinks, huh?" Willow surmised.

"Better now than in the middle of… what did you call them… slavering demon dogs?" Tara said, yawning.

"You should have a nap, Tara. You barely got any sleep at all last night."

"Hmm. Neither did you." Tara shot a knowing and seductive glance at her red-haired girlfriend and was rewarded with a blush.

Willow bit the tip of her tongue between her teeth and smiled. "Vixen. You need the rest more than I do." Her face fell a little at these words, and Tara knew their truth. She felt Caleb banging around her skull this very minute, making her head throb. Fingers of pain had also embraced her abdomen, crept into her chest. Willow was right. She needed sleep.

"I'll nap here on the couch, then," Tara decided, not wanting to be further away from Willow than was absolutely necessary. "Wake me in a few hours?"

Willow nodded, kissing her again, softly, then rose from her spot on the floor. Tara watched her walk into the kitchen, but as soon as she closed her eyes she was asleep.

Dreams kissed her with the soft touch of butterfly wings and just as beautiful. Stretching through

(the tunnel, the purple)

the universe was a cord of adamant, connecting her to the wilful child-goddess. A scent of crushed grass, shards of a chalice, and whispered chords of a grand melody. This was her final number before she exited the stage; her whole life had been preparation for this last task, and an exulting audience awaited her in the wings. Her mother was there, as was the Scooby Gang, and a multitude of others, waiting for her final breath, her last hurrah, the curtain finally closing.

Tara rose slowly to consciousness through honeyed depths, refreshed and renewed, only to find that night had fallen, and her girl was sitting on the floor, resting her back against the couch, fast asleep. Tara smiled, and looked at her in the dim light. Willow's face was exquisitely perfect, small yet generous, pale still from too little sunlight and too much hospital bed. At Tara's slight movement, Willow woke, her head shooting up in consternation.

"I fell asleep, didn't I?" she asked ruefully, rubbing the back of her neck.

"It's all right, Will," Tara said, her voice low. "You didn't get much sleep last night either." Tara noted yet another blush, and then Willow helped Tara get to her feet. Only then did Tara notice the exquisite scents arising from the kitchen. "Did you make dinner?" she asked, her stomach rumbling. She had barely eaten earlier, under the tree, even after fasting for her tests. She felt as if her stomach were scraping her backbone.

"Not exactly," Willow replied, holding Tara's hand as she led her into the kitchen. The room was generously lit with lamps, and the table held a surprising array of food. "Not knowing what you would be in the mood for, and needing some… practice… I went out and about to get you some dinner."

"Out and about?" Tara asked, sitting down in the chair Willow held out for her. Willow plunked herself down next to her and began naming the dishes. "I brought you some dukbaegi bulgogi straight from Korea, see it comes cooked in its own earthenware pot, and thought I'd check out Romania seeing as that's where Faith is, not that I ran into her or anything, but I brought back some sarmale, smells a little funky, but hopefully it tastes good, and you wouldn't believe how far American money goes in that place. Next stop was Montreal for some poutine, and a quick jaunt to Argentina for ice cream."

Tara blinked.

"Oh, and in case all of this was too much for your stomach, I also got some takeout rice from Wing's, down the street. Want your fortune cookie?"

Tara blinked again. "You went to four different countries in three hours?"

Willow was breaking open her cookie, and Tara could see the smile that quirked mischievously on her face. "Eat your vegetables, they are good for you?" Willow read out, indignant.

Tara had never enjoyed dinner so much before. They giggled over chopsticks and fed each other glass noodles from the bulgogi. The sarmale was delightful, and the cheese in the poutine had just the right tang of salt. The ice cream stayed cold, thanks to one of Willow's spells, and they laughed over it, thinking that Willy Wonka finally had some real competition.

What a far cry it was from the tortuous dinners of her past, forced to stand in the corner and wait on her father and brother, fill their glasses, fetch whatever they wished, eating only when they were finished and knowing she would do all the cleaning as well as the cooking.

The hour grew late, music streamed from her neighbour's house

(sunshine of your love)

and Willow was glowing. Tara could practically feel the vital energy streaming from her, and she drank it in like a flower drinks in the sun. Comfortable silence here and there, Willow's hand occasionally touching her thigh. Summer evening heat, sticky and exciting. Tara thought of the bedroom upstairs.

Yet upon rising from her chair, Tara felt her knees buckle and a cloud of shadow pass over her eyes. Willing herself not to faint, she gripped the chair and closed her eyes. It was not enough, the faint took her, held her in cords of iron, yet the blackness she slid into held no horrors or demons.

Tara woke to the sensation of being carried, of soft steps on the treads of the stairs. She kept her eyes closed, tightening her hands that were around Willow's neck, her head lying against Willow's shoulder. The slight redheaded witch should not have been able to carry her so effortlessly, and Tara was reminded yet again of the gifts she had been granted. Thin streamers of scent wafting about, sandalwood and rose, caressing her skin, the darkness familiar and electrifying.

Tara kept her eyes closed, her eyelids leaden with the weight of the world

(I am the lamb, the pawn, the sacrifice)

upon them. She felt Willow lay her on her bed, felt Willow crawl beside her. Willow's soft fingers in her hair, Willow's lips close to her ear. "My brave little toaster, open your eyes," Willow whispered.

Tara opened them, expecting to see the boring white expanse of her bedroom ceiling, and her mouth stood agape in wonder.

It seemed as if they were in a place devoid of walls and boundaries. The sounds of the neighbourhood didn't merely recede – it was as if they didn't exist. No other sight, no other sound, save for this dark womb of space. Tara felt her brave little toaster world fall away, the hurts and slights of the past dissolving into nothingness. Darkness licked the unseen corners of the room and hanging suspended in the air were hundreds of thousands of pinpricks of light. They floated about like dust motes in sunlight and when she raised her free hand to wave it through the air, they ebbed and swirled in the eddies. Yet the light they gave was slim, just enough to see and be comfortable, see and still be swathed in darkness. "It's like stardust," Tara breathed.

"There is one for every second of my life since I met you, and another appearing every single moment," Willow said, stroking Tara's hair. "Six hundred and twenty seven thousand, seven hundred and ninety four…ninety five…ninety six…"

Tara turned to her love, the soft glow alighting upon her skin like moths, her heated glance evaporating Willow's voice. Quiet now under the blazing heat of Tara's eyes, Willow looked transcendent, verily the goddess from her dream, and Tara's heart swelled so she could scarcely breathe. This was her gift, to experience such total devotion, to taste it in her mouth, feel it on her skin, breathe it through every pore. Willow looked upon her, and Tara's turbulent and painful life made sense.

A constellation of Willow's devising, Tara had never felt more comfortable, more safe. In this space, this moment, the future of blood, scythe, and seal vanished as if it never existed at all. Only this woman existed, this precious woman, this woman who ran hot fingers down the three-pronged slim scars on her cheek. Willow's lips, kissing the corner of her eye that Donny had blackened, following the course of her fingers, sanctifying Tara's sacrifice.

"I can't shield you from this world," Willow said softly, her voice thick. She used her fingers to tilt Tara's head up, planting kisses along Tara's jawbone, down her creamy throat. "I can't heal you, keep you from fainting," a small sob erupting from her now, and Tara felt the boulder of love form again in her own throat.

Willow lifted her face, stardust reflected in her dark eyes. Her mouth was a rosebud, her cheeks pale as the moon. And there was joy. Not merely happiness, or contentment, but life-changing, soul-saving, universe-shaping joy. "I just want to give you a moment, a single moment when the world is not in peril," Willow continued, and Tara remembered that day in the hospital she had said exactly the same thing. Knowing that Willow remembered that exchange, those first heady moments together brought tears welling against the lump in her throat. "Tonight the world doesn't exist. For tonight, there is only you. Only me. And stardust."

Tara pulled Willow's lips on hers, took them frantically, again and again until she was out of breath and heaving with latent desire. Only then did she fall back on the pillow, watched as Willow leaned over her, her pupils dilated, a universe of hope within them. Watched as Willow's fingers went to the buttons of her blouse, starting at the bottom. One by one Willow opened them, laying bare Tara's creamy skin to the dancing pinpricks of light. Tara shifted on her side enough for Willow to pull the fabric away, and then rotated on her other side, Willow behind her.

Hot fingers stroking her bare back, stardust flowing over them. Long strokes of her fingers, from Tara's waist, up her ribcage, to the thin strap of bra fabric. Willow's fingers skirting over them, caressing Tara's shoulder blades, pressing now softer, now harder in the firm muscles of Tara's back. Willow paused; Tara knew she must have been staring at an old scar between her neck and shoulder blade. Then Willow's mouth pressed softly on that scar, touching it with the tip of her tongue, sanctifying it.

Tara looked over her shoulder at her love, softly lit in the glow of the fairy light. Willow smiled at her, her fingers closing over Tara's bra strap. Tara smiled back; Willow smoothly undid the clasp. As she drew the fabric over Tara's arms, up and away, Tara felt Willow snuggle even closer to her back. As Willow's hand skirted the soft mound of Tara's breast, she felt a warm ball of energy coruscating within her like an inferno. She was maddeningly aware of Willow's hand cupping her breast, softly squeezing, lightly pinching the nipple.

Needing to feel Willow's lips, needing to be closer, Tara began to fall on her back, pulling her girlfriend on top of her. Willow's lips immediately descended, covering her own with ferocious need. Their mouths opened, tilted, canted from side to side as their tongues shared unimaginable bliss. Kissing Willow, now hard, now soft, Tara never knew her soul could be so fertile, could grow such abiding love and devotion. She had always thought herself as

(the dark one, the shadow, the left)

small, insignificant, unworthy. She needed the pain to define her, needed her talent to shape her. Could it be possible for such a metamorphosis to occur for one such as she? Her ground was sowed with despair, laden with rocky burdens, and grew only thorns.

Yet what was this?

This woman was her lover. This stunning, dynamic woman who had the power of whole suns, this woman loved her.

(there could be joy)

With easy grace, Willow pulled away from the kiss, her breath short and ragged. Eyes twinkling, she straddled Tara's hips and gazed on Tara's bare chest with all the attention of a predator. The amulet was heavy between Tara's breasts. Tara looked up, watched as Willow's hands went to the hem of her own shirt, watched as Willow began lifting it higher, higher

(there could be love, Tara)

Nothing else existed. Nothing save the ivory skin of her precious girl, stardust breathing on her nipples, making them hard.

Long, lazy strokes of Willow's tongue, following the fell swoop of the newly healed demon grooves.

A hot mouth fastened around a coral nipple, gently sucking, teasing.

Fingers at the edge of her shorts, tugging, tugging.

For Tara, all these things existed, yet there was something more.

A sense of belonging, at long last. A sense of family. Beauty, in this darkest of spaces. And love, enough love to fill every corner of the globe and then some. Love, in the form of lips that thrust and reared. Love, in the form of fingers that touched and probed. Love, in a tongue that swirled and plunged. Love.

There, in the womb of darkness, the ever-expanding constellation of Willow's devotion about them both, they discovered each other. With fingers, mouth and tongue they mapped each other's bodies, discovered new vistas of beauty, reached heights never before experienced. And when sleep finally claimed them, when the stardust finally dissolved, they were at peace.

For a moment.