| Crying, but my Tears are Far Away By Wwolfe |
| Disclaimer: Characters and situations related to BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER are the property of others. No copyright infringement is intended or implied. But it won't matter if you sue, because Wwolfe isn't some kid that'll fold like a house of cards, he's the legal counsel for the DarkSide, the Devil's Mouthpiece, the real lawyer from Hell. So go ahead. Do your worst. If you dare. Bwa Ha Ha! Archive- Please email request. Feedback- Absolutely. Spoilers for "Grave." ******************* The white satin of the dress was pearlescent, shimmering like early morning light shining through fog. She lost herself in that glow, conscious of the fact that for the first time in two days she was not consumed by grief. For two days, ever since Xander had brought her down from the cliff above the ocean, she had been overwhelmed by the physical sensation of her sadness. It was as if she were being crushed between two large rocks, black and jagged, tearing and rasping at her, without respite. An hour ago, as she mindlessly channel surfed through programs blaring noise that seemed somehow obscene at this moment, she had stumbled across an old movie, one that she and Xander had loved as children. It was "The Adventures of Robin Hood," starring Errol Flynn - "Not Costner as Robin Dude," she could hear Xander saying, with disdain - and suddenly, startlingly, there had been a break in her pain. It would not last, she was well aware, but for the time being she savored each moment that passed without that crushing weight, marveling at it, and giving herself gratefully to the insouciance of Flynn and to that white satin dress of Maid Marion, played by the impossibly pretty Olivia DeHavilland. In two hours, Willow had a funeral to go to. But for a moment, she allowed herself to experience sitting on the bed, the wooden headboard pressing into her back, the table lamp shining on the desk across the room, the static electricity crackling on the face of the television screen, the glorious Technicolor dancing before her eyes, the brave and silly story playing out with all its young, beautiful stars, forever perfect and fearless. Then the moment was over. She put on her black dress - not as bad as the one we buried Buffy in, she thought, but pretty close - and walked stiffly, dully, down the stairs to the living room of the Summers home. The others sat there, too familiar with one another to make the empty small talk that might have filled the silence. All looked up at the sound of Willow descending the stairs, none quite looking directly at her, as if the weight of their gaze might be enough to knock her over. She sat uneasily on the edge of an overstuffed armchair, until - thankfully - Giles cleared his throat and quietly announced that it was time to go. The night before had been the worst night of Willow's life. She hadn't realized how many people Tara had known, at the college and in town. Nearly 400 had filed past the open casket, offering their sympathy, or simply looking at Willow, their eyes brimming with emotion. After an hour, she thought she must certainly fall apart. It was then that Xander came and stood close by her, leaning in to say in a stage whisper, "Let's get the hell out of here." The two friends had wandered the streets of town, without plan or destination, talking about small things - nothing, really - until the evening was past and they returned to the now empty room where the casket stood. That, Willow realized, was the second time in a week that Xander had saved her life. Now the two of them, along with Buffy and Dawn and Giles, sat in the first pew of the Unitarian Church as various speakers did their best to apply a structure of meaning and rationality to an act which refused any such pattern. It was all said with the best of intentions, Willow understood, but she was deaf to it. She pictured the blue water of the Pacific turned to a thick gray paste, and herself walking through that paste, with it grasping and pulling at her every movement, as she trudged from California to China, then turning and re-tracing her steps through the same thick sludge, over and over again, forever. She did not see how she could possibly do it. The group got in the back of the black Cadillac limousine to ride to the cemetery. She thought back to a moment before the service, before the crowds arrived, when a teenage altar boy, clad in a long white hassock with a dark cord tied around the waist, began to complain about the heat and the tedium of the upcoming service. She had wanted to strike him, to knock the smug look off his piggish, dull face, when Giles had leaned in close to him, a small, cold smile on his face, and had said in a voice that purred with the ominous, deadly power of a panther just before it strikes, "You be quiet, right now." The boy had blanched and then not said another word. Now here at the graveside, other people said more well-intended words, but Willow's attention was on a hawk that circled high in the sky, in slow, lazy loops. Far away, echoing across the distance over the hillocks of the cemetery, she heard a faint sound of diesel engines. The semi-trucks were unloading the cargo containers at the docks. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Willow snapped out of the reverie with a jerk so abrupt, she could her the vertebrae in her spine crack from the sudden movement. She dried the moisture from her cheeks, then stood in the half-dark for a few moments to gather what composure she could find. Then she slowly descended the step ladder from the balcony and walked to the counter. Handing the Reflecting Glass to Anya, Willow said softly, "Thank you." Anya's eyes were filled with compassion for her friend, but she accepted the thanks with what she hoped was a respectful silence. She knew that the others would not approve of her aiding Willow in any use of magic, but despite that she had decided this small exercise might help her friend somehow. After Xander had brought Willow down from the cliff, she was so distraught that she had required hospitalization, including heavy sedation. By the time that emergency had passed, Tara was gone. The police had contacted the college after finding her student ID in Tara's wallet, and the college in turn had telephoned her father with the terrible news (Tara had meant to change the name and number of the person to contact in case of an emergency, but it was one of those things that she never quite got around to doing). Because Tara's death was a homicide, the law required that an autopsy be performed on her body, after which Willow would not have wanted to see what was left, Anya was certain. In any case, Tara's father had arranged to have the body shipped back to Tara's hometown, where she had been buried next to her mother. All this had happened before Willow had even returned to any kind of functioning status. Allowing her to use the Reflecting Glass to attend the funeral that her friends here would have held for Tara, had they been able, was something that Anya hoped would do Willow some good. Not that it was an easy or even a pleasant experience. But it might be needed, nonetheless. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Back at the Summers home, Willow was alone. Buffy and Xander were at work, Dawn was at school, and Giles was still in the hospital, recovering from the wounds Willow had given him. She sat on the bed, staring at the object on the chair a few feet away. She'd bought it on sale at the Gap. It was a "medium" - not a snazzy one, but not a grungy one, either. Now it was beyond salvaging. Normally, she would throw away something in a similar condition. But this shirt had a dark plume sprayed across its front, once bright red, but now brown as its iron content oxidized. Willow couldn't throw it away. But she couldn't keep it, either. For the second time today, she was going to break her promise not to use magic any more. Walking out the back door, she stood on the grass and spoke a few words in an ancient dead language. The shirt floated in mid-air. A few more words, and the dried blood floated up off of the shirt and hovered above it for a moment. With a final word from Willow, the phantom scattered. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The next morning, Willow brought Giles home from the hospital. After a light lunch, he sat in a lawn chair in the backyard, the pain from his injuries somehow abating in the warm sun. After a time, he called for Willow, who came from the kitchen to help him back inside the house. Pausing to rest by the flower bed at the base of the steps to the back porch, Giles gazed at the blooms for a moment, before asking, "The roses are new, aren't they?" "Yes, they just went in," Willow answered. "Very nice - a lovely shade of red." The two went into the house, Giles leaning on Willow's shoulder, as the door shut behind them. Main Menu ~ Return to "Other Worlds" Menu |