Chapter 45
Weight of the World
Ritual bloodletting wasn't exactly a new concept for Willow. If she had Xander and Buffy back, they'd probably all be joking about how the big bad really needed to get a few new ideas. This whole idea of Tara's blood closing the seal was frighteningly similar to Dawn's blood opening the portal to Glory's hell dimension, and the necessity of Buffy's blood to close it. Buffy mouldered in her grave, next to other forgotten and lost souls, until Willow had changed the rules. Only by beguiling Osiris did Willow bring Buffy back to life, and with the Slayer came the opportunity for the greatest evil this world had ever known.
If Willow allowed herself to think about it, she would have gone insane. The weight of the world had never been entirely on her shoulders before.
How was it that she was here again? This geographical spot, where Giles' blood was still on the counter, where a flying hubcap decapitated their prisoner, where Dawn was taken? She was just a sidekick then, valued, yes, but not the one with apocalyptic decisions to make. After Dawn had been taken from this very spot, after Buffy had retreated into the neverland of her subconscious, Willow had followed her, determined to do everything in her power to save those she loved.
You've carried the weight of the world on your shoulders since high school. And I, I know you didn't ask for this, but ... you do it every day, she told Buffy that day.
Now the onus was on her, and the weight of the world upon her shoulders.
Literally.
The magic was coming back, flooding through her shattered bones, cascading through her broken blood vessels, yet the pain of her injuries deadened her, made her weak. Never in all her years of Scoobyage had she been hurt so much in so little time. It was less than an hour ago that she lay on the floor of Tara's bedroom, her back broken.
It was hard to breathe. She was pinned under the rocks of her collapsed tunnel, and with every moment that passed she was aware that Tara was vulnerable. Worries were runaway horses in her mind, and back in her subconscious she questioned and despaired of every decision she had made thus far. Every time she tried to gather the magic it was obliterated by pain and worry. Gritting her teeth, coughing with the thick dust by her mouth, Willow tried to calm herself.
Yes, I know it hurts.
Yes, I know Tara is in trouble.
Now, heal, dammit!
With a shuddering burst of energy, Willow's body broke free of the rubble, her bones knitting, her muscles renewing, life, energy, and vitality streaming through her by the gift of the goddess Panacea.
Why had they not given her the power to stop time?
The gas station was gone, its walls were obliterated. In the distance, Willow saw Tawarick on his knees, his body smoking where Tara was touching him. Bursting through the air like a comet, a supersonic jet, like lightning yet still not fast enough, Willow flew back to Tara, knowing she left Angel behind her, knowing the scythe was still in the enemy's grasp, knowing all these things but knowing that she would die without Tara.
Without Tara, this world meant nothing.
The demon was crisping beneath Tara's hands, and Willow had no time to marvel at it. Rack was advancing through a shattered forcefield, heading inexorably toward the fallen British witch. And Tara was seemingly oblivious to the danger.
"Tara!" Willow screamed, and instantly regretted it.
Her beloved, her eyes the blue of bellflowers in springtime, the blue of hot summer days, the blue of the deep end of the ocean, those eyes turned to her in gladness. A distracted moment, and Tawarick was no fool.
Claws to Tara's chest. The amulet gleamed as it fell from her neck. Skimming over the desert ground, over the oil-stained cement floor, Willow caught the amulet before it touched the ground, and immediately tried to press it into Tara's skin
(It just has to be touching your skin, and the chain has to remain intact. If the chain is broken, or if it leaves your skin even for the tiniest moment, then you'll have to fight Caleb for control of your body.)
because this was her worst nightmare coming true, this was…
Save Althanea from Rack.
A pulse globe, and her eyes never left her girl, whose fair face was screwed up in agony of the worst sort, her eyes swiftly changing from the deepest blue to the darkest…
"Hello, dirty girl."
Tara's eyes were black, the black of a midden pool, the black of oily tar, the black of crusted hate-blood spilt with eager vengeance. The eyes of the preacher.
The knife was in Tara's hands. Willow saw it speed for her chest, knew that if that knife pierced her heart, even she could not heal herself in time. Willow propelled herself backward, the amulet draped in her fist, even as Tara shifted her movement to put the knife to Tawarick's throat.
The great demon could not move. It took two seconds for Tara to heal herself of her most recent grave injury, the slashing of the demon vanishing as if it had never been, both she and the demon screaming all the while.
And then…
Willow could not know if it was Tara's experienced farm-girl hand that drew the knife across Tawarick's throat, slaying him as easily as she would a pig or a chicken. She only knew that it took another two seconds to do, four seconds she had now squandered like a tharn rabbit on the road when she should have been trying to reconnect the amulet with Tara's skin.
Too late.
As Willow lifted the amulet to press into any spot of exposed skin she could find, now seeing an abundance of newly healed pearly white skin, Tara lifted her hand. It would have been a force globe, such as Tawarick would have used.
(The knife takes the power.)
Three-second precognition being what it was, Willow erected a forcefield just as Tara screamed and clutched at her head, dropping the knife, falling to the ground.
Wary of a trap, yet aching for her girl, Willow dropped to her knees beside Tara and pressed the amulet into her skin. Tara's eyes immediately flushed back to blue, and she began weeping, great tearing sobs that ripped at Willow's soul.
Get her home. Get her safe. Get Angel and the scythe. And don't mess up, Rosenberg.
The weight of the world is on your shoulders.
She could not have anticipated it could all go so wrong.
A whispered conversation. Althanea and Tara supporting each other as they teleported away. Niggling worries wormed their way into her brain. Did Tara fight him off in time? Did the amulet actually work? What if it wasn't Tara at all, but Caleb who hugged her, kissed her cheek, wept for her? Could Althanea protect herself if she had to?
She remembered the look on Althanea's face, that day in the hospital. She loved Tara, too. There was no way she would allow Tara to come to harm. With all of Willow's choices gone bad, she had to trust in Althanea, trust in the decades of experience she had as a practicing witch, the same competence that helped her all year, helped her find Potentials, helped her heal her legs.
Now they were gone.
There was no time.
Shut it all out, Willow. Focus on one thing at a time.
Breathe, Willow.
Tawarick was an empty husk at her feet. Her field was down with Althanea's departure, and Bringers advanced over the rubble, stepping over the bodies of their fallen brethren with an ease belied by their star-crossed eyes. The desert yawned with a hungry grin, eager to swallow her whole.
And there was no one in this world who could help her.
Fear fuels rage. It always has.
The scum hurt Tara. A debt of pain was about to be called in.
That lone streetlamp still flickered, drawing moths and flies to its warmth and heat. The air was dry and wounded, reeling from the concussive shocks it had suffered. Willow was too warm in her pink sweater. The sweater she bought yesterday, in the market, where the plump girl was a Slayer without a Watcher. A durian, kisses on the couch, the taste of Tara's mouth. The softness of Tara's breasts. The moonlit glow on Tara's skin. Fingers passing through silky folds, a world of pleasure in Tara's hands. The scent of sandalwood and roses.
Willow could not know why the Bringers suddenly halted in their tracks as they looked upon her.
Blackness crept up the roots of her hair, swam into her eyes.
She walked, stepping over a body here, a cash register there, sidestepping the debris without looking at it. Her gaze was fixed firmly on the horizon where Angel waited. As she walked the Bringers tried to attack her with their knives, but the blades turned on empty air. Crossbow bolts thudded into nothingness. Her every step left a smoking footprint on the ground.
More than human.
Why had she not done this before? Why had she waited, hesitated, chosen to tunnel out beyond the forcefield in order to save Angel? What was she trying to prove?
(We're not killers, Willow. We fight, we protect, but we don't kill.)
Buffy's words, and Willow had gambled everything on that ideal. She played her cards, and only then realized that the other side didn't play by her rules. They never had. If only she had done it like this in the first place. Strong. Hard. Implacable.
Invincible.
They saw her coming, the honour guard about Angel's kneeling form, the ones who stayed beyond Tawarick's destruction. A hive without a mind, it seemed they would follow their demonic mandate to guard the vampire to the grave. They saw the black lightning dance around her fists, her black hair streaming in an impossible wind. They saw the cracks of the earth under her feet, her booted heel crushing a scorpion underfoot. They saw, and they jumped up to attack, knowing that they would be crushed just as casually.
(We don't kill.)
Lightning sped from her fingers; it roared around the mob of Bringers and they opened their mute mouths as if to scream, they held their heads as if they were exploding, they writhed on the ground as if on fire.
But they weren't dead.
The scythe fell to the sun-cracked mud as Angel wearily rose to his feet. His eyes were wary. Why was he looking at her like that?
"It's me, Willow."
Lightning was not enough. Perhaps knives would do. Oh, yes, knives, their own knives, the knives they would have used on her Tara, the knives to pierce her heart, eviscerate her. Or maybe the scythe. Oh, yes, the scythe. It would sear their flesh, burn into the hollowness of their souls.
"Willow, where is Althanea?"
They had no souls. Did it matter if they died, then, like the insects they were?
"She took Tara home."
Tara.
My Tara.
Willow blinked, and let out a long breath. Angel was still looking at her sideways; she could not see the blackness fading from her hair, the wildness from her eyes. She did a double-take as she looked at the bodies strewn about the desert, at the scythe in her hands. She didn't remember picking it up.
"Let's go, then."
He was still looking at her strangely, as if she were the one who had murdered his fish. As if she were the one who broke Jenny Calendar's neck.
Must save Tara.
It was an almost timid pale hand that took hers, and she flinched at the coolness of his flesh. How had Buffy ever loved him? His flesh was not warm like Tara's, wasn't soft and pleasantly scented of roses. He felt cold, and smelled of dust and perspiration.
The fact was Buffy did love him. Buffy would have wanted him to live. Buffy would have done anything to keep him alive. He was Buffy's Tara.
Enough said.
The scythe was heavier than she remembered. Focusing the power of Thespia, Willow conjured a heavy leather scabbard that looped over her shoulder. Awkwardly, she wrestled the scythe into the scabbard, and then held it in her hand. She wouldn't need it at Tara's house. There would be a little time now, to make sure the amulet held, to sleep a little longer in the protective embrace of Tara's arms, to wake in the noonday muted heat of a summer afternoon; a perfect end to a night of demon bashing.
A little Tara-time.
Willow pictured Tara's house as they had left it an hour earlier. The dishes strewn on the table, the kitten-abraded couch, the congealed gravy of the poutine. And Tara, safe.
Tara, alive.
Tara.
Pop.
Willow dropped Angel's hand as they appeared in Tara's kitchen. The floor was sticky; there was a sharp tang in the air that Willow recognized all too well. It reminded her of the butcher shop where she had purchased blood for Spike.
Her eyes dropped down to the floor. Her feet felt heavy – she couldn't lift them out of the pond of blood where Althanea rested like a water lily. She crouched; her head feeling strangely light, unbelieving. A trembling finger touched the side of Althanea's neck. She had once kissed Tara on that same spot and felt the lifeblood of her beloved whooshing through her veins.
Althanea was dead.
And the amulet lay on the floor, its spires covered in slick redness.
The knife was gone.
Angel's soft touch on her shoulder snapped her from her detached contemplation.
"TARA!" Willow screamed, and she leaped from the floor and tore through the house, calling Tara's name, knowing, oh knowing that Tara would not be found. Not here. Not now.
Not ever?
Her strength gone, Willow collapsed on Tara's bed. It was still unmade. She gathered the sheets into her arms and breathed deeply, smelling Tara everywhere, only now noticing that tears were streaming down her cheeks.
A soft knock on the door and Willow looked up. Angel stood there, his face haggard and drawn. "She's not here, Willow."
Willow hiccupped before she responded, her voice shaking. "I know."
"What are you going to do now?"
"I need information. I need to find out where Tara is. I need to find out what the HELL I am supposed to do now!"
There were bloody footprints on the floor. The image of Althanea's face ghosted into her vision. Loss gnawed at her backbone, scraped her insides raw. The witch had been so helpful, so kind. All year long the supplicant of Hecate had provided Willow with information, helped her find Potentials, helped her heal. At least, until Willow had been gifted by the gods.
Willow's head snapped up.
*Thespia, answer me!*
Nothing.
*Maia? Aranaea?*
"Someone answer me!" Willow screamed aloud, her chest shuddering with her broken breath, the emptiness of the ether a void in her soul.
The world was so very heavy.
Where was heaven?
"If the gods won't answer you," Angel said slowly, "then maybe someone else will."
Willow looked at him, pain and fright lancing her breasts. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice watery.
"Beljoxa's Eye."
Willow didn't want to open the demonic portal in Tara's living room, but found she just didn't want to go anywhere else. Here there were the little lights, and the abraded couch, and the smell of bulgogi still in the air. Here Willow could pretend that Tara was just upstairs, just out of sight, just for a moment…
Angel easily drew a kitchen knife down his arm, blood beading upon his pale skin. He flicked the blood in the air as he intoned, "Ek'vola mok't Beljoxa do'kar."
A whirling, fantastical portal appeared in the air, and Willow's mouth turned dry. "Ladies first," he drawled, gesturing to the mystical doorway.
Willow took a deep breath and walked through the portal, Angel on her heels.
They found themselves in a pitch black, windy tunnel, about ten feet away from Beljoxa's Eye. Even though Willow had grilled both Anya and Giles about their experience, she was still taken aback at the sight of all those eyeballs, that hovering mass of mystical energy.
The Eye blinked.
Well, most of the eyes blinked.
"What is this, some kind of freak show?" the Eye bellowed. "Maybe I should charge admission, you think?"
Willow gulped and twisted the hem of her pink sweater. She should have changed back at the house when she had the chance. It was dirty and torn, much like the rest of her.
"I need your help."
"What you need, toots, is to get out of here. Do you think you have time for chit chat? Every second you spend in here a minute goes by in the outside world."
Willow's heart froze. Anya and Giles didn't tell her that part. But come to think of it, it did seem an inordinate amount of time they had spent in the company of the Eye.
"Where is Tara?"
"If you're going to ask questions, you might as well ask the right ones. You want to save your little dimension, your little plane of existence? You want to see your girlfriend alive? Then get out of here. You have no time. You have to save Oz."
