Answering Darkness by Sassette

When Tara closed the door, Willow didn't have the luxury of crying, not really. Even so, silent tears tracked down her face as she climbed out of bed. Mechanically, she opened the dresser, pulling forth a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Stiffly, she dressed.

By accident, she caught her reflection in the mirror, and she paused, staring for a moment at the reflection there. Was that really her? Who was this girl, she wondered, with the gaunt features, the dark circles under her eyes, and the clear mark of tears running down her face?

It was, without a doubt, Willow Rosenberg, but who was that? A student? A friend? A lover?

No, none of those. Not anymore. She was throwing that all away – no, she was jamming it into a cannon and lighting the fuse, sending it off as far as it would fly with a great boom and flash.

As Willow grabbed her bag from underneath the bed, stowing the box of baking soda and her laptop carefully, Tara's last words to her, 'Ani ohevet otach' were still ringing in her ears. They played through her mind in a never-ending loop, mocking her with their sweetness. She had longed to say 'Ani l'dodi v'dodi li' instead, the words expressing what she wished she had.

But it would have been wrong, and untrue. She was Tara's, no doubt about it, but Tara wasn't hers. They had made up, talked through some things, but there was a part of her that was still amazed that someone like Tara could love a geeky awkward girl like her. More importantly, that someone like Tara could love someone who had hurt her as badly as Willow had.

Really, Tara belonged to all the Scoobies now. She didn't have the right to ask Tara to stay with her through the worst – through the darkness and death that would follow. She didn't want Tara to, not for her own sake, but for Tara's. If she didn't say it, then Tara was free – free to find someone else after she was gone.

But if this was the least selfish thing she had ever done, why did it feel so wrong?

She had her bag of clothes and her laptop. What else did she need? Willow looked around the room, surveying it. With a little frown, she went to a chest at the foot of the bed, throwing it open and grabbing a stake, a vial of holy water, and a cross. It was just past sunset now, and she needed to be prepared.

With one last look in the chest, she almost closed it, then paused, her hand coming to rest on a little drawer. She slid it open, looking inside, her heart heavy.

She took a deep breath then withdrew the small necklace there, then slipped it over her neck. She had almost forgotten – a part of her had wanted to forget – that Tara could always find her. She slipped the necklace under her shirt, letting the cool metal warm against her skin. She had made the charm long ago – a defense against magick – and it would thwart any attempt Tara made to find her with spells.

The window opened easily, and Willow glanced down. It would be easy to climb out, and yet the hardest thing she had ever done.

She knew leaving would hurt Tara, and she regretted the necessity for it. Willow shook her head, easing one leg out the window carefully. That was certainly an understatement. The necessity of it ripped her open, leaving her emotionally bloodied and raw, but that didn't change the facts.

She swung the other leg over, her bag on her back, and carefully climbed down the trellis, her feet hitting the earth with an all-too-real thud.

"Going somewhere?" a familiar voice asked in the darkness, a light flaring up briefly, outlining sharp features, then settling into the dull orange glow of a cigarette.

"I'd wager a couple of blonde's wouldn't be too happy with your late night stroll. Am I right?" Spike asked, stepping from the shadows.

"I won't have to," Spike said, taking a few steps towards the house. "Buffy and Tara will do it for me."

He only got a few steps before he was stopped, a cross thrust into his face. He recoiled with a snarl, his game face appearing, and he glared at the redhead.

"You're not going anywhere Spike, and don't you dare yell," she said, making him pause.

"And what will you do if I yell? Burn me with a cross? You're not the torturing kind," he scoffed, but his tone wasn't as sure as he would have liked.

"Don't push me, Spike," Willow warned again. "If I stay, The Trickster wins, so I have to go."

"Fine, then. Bloody well go, but take your friends with you," Spike shot back, his features resolving into the more familiar human form. "Don't go haring off by yourself like some kind of martyr. This is just stupid."

"No, it's not," Willow ground out. "They're in danger if they're near me. The Trickster won't give up that easily."

"Bugger this," Spike said, trying to rush around her, only to be brought up short by the cross again. "This is crazy," he insisted.

"I can't leave you here," Willow said, her voice almost sad. "They... they can't know. They can't know I'm gone," she went on.

Spike backed up several paces, not liking Willow's tone one bit. If he didn't know better, he'd say she was completely off her beam. "Now, let's not be hasty here, all right? Defenseless vampire, shouldn't be dusted."

"I'm not going to dust you, Spike," Willow said exasperatedly. "You're coming with me."

"Oh, no," Spike said, shaking his head. "Buffy'll stake me for sure if I help you get away, and I don't need that kind of grief."

"Spike, you have two choices. You come with me, or I incinerate you on the spot," Willow said, her head dropping as she stared unblinkingly at the vampire, her eyes darkening. "I'd probably live longer if I did."

"Whoa, now," Spike said, raising his hands. "Stop it with the dark magick eyes, all right? I'll go. Just... don't cast anything."

Willow's expression cleared, her eyes turning back to green, then gestured with the cross for Spike to start walking. Spike nodded, bracing himself, then turning his back on Willow, heading to the street.

"Right," Willow instructed, and Spike complied. Turning to the right and walking, trying to act as casually as he could considering there was a woman behind him with a cross, dark mojo he didn't want to mess with, and presumably several other things that were at least painful for vampires if not downright lethal.

"So why, exactly, are you taking off all by your lonesome?" he asked, lighting a cigarette and walking.

"I already told you," Willow said wearily. This certainly wasn't going according to plan. And Spike really wouldn't like where they were going. "I'm dangerous. At some point I might not be able to control my actions, and I don't want any of them hurt."

"That the only reason?" he pressed, knowing Willow well enough to know that she rarely, if ever, did anything for just one reason. Once she decided on a course of action, she rationalized it to herself, coming up with a million different justifications, even if she never shared them with anyone.

"I'm not going to let them watch me die," Willow whispered, only Spike's supernatural hearing allowing him to make out the words.

"I still think you're making a mistake," Spike said, shaking his head. "Where are we going, anyway?" he finally asked.

"Train station," Willow said shortly. With each step, she told herself over and over that this was for the best. That she was doing this for Tara. That she it was dangerous for everyone if she stayed. But still, she felt like she was walking away from the very best part of herself.

"And where to from there?" Spike asked again, wondering if he would make it if he made a run for a pay phone.

"I haven't decided yet," Willow said simply, knowing that Spike would be able to tell she was lying, but figuring it was the safest answer. All it told him was that she had a final destination in mind.

Spike sighed. Red really was a terrible liar. She got a little hitch in her voice, almost a hiccup, whenever she said anything that was blatantly untrue. "I still think you're being a stupid git," Spike muttered disgustedly. "This is going to hurt a lot of people."

"Like you care?" Willow shot back. "Well, yeah, maybe about Buffy. Maybe even Dawn – but the rest? You hate us, remember? You were all 'Grr, I'm gonna' kill you', and now you're all 'Gee, Willow, that's not nice'?"

"Oh, don't be dredging up the past," Spike said exasperatedly. "You're not still sore about that night in your dorm room, are you?"

"What?" Willow blurted out incredulously. "Gee, why in a million years would I be mad about that? You only tried to kill me. And then there was that time you kidnapped me and tried to make me cast a spell, and it was scary, and you were drunk and weepy and that was just disturbing."

Spike sighed, a wave of nostalgia washing over him. "Those were good times, weren't they?" he asked softly. "We all knew who the good guys were and who the bad guys were. There was none of this 'causing pain to save pain' nonsense, and no shadowy villain who manipulates behind the scenes."

"You're nuts," Willow said with a frown, finally stepping up until she and Spike were walking side by side, sure that he wouldn't try to run. No, wait, this was Spike. "And don't forget the incineration thing. You can't run fast enough, and don't think I won't do it," she said sternly, glaring at him.

Spike bit back a snort of amusement, disguising it in a cough. There was something so endearingly earnest about Red, even for an evil soulless vampire like himself. Even threatening him with immolation, she couldn't glare worth a damn – not unless someone she loved was in danger, or had been hurt. She had certainly developed a glare out of nowhere to level at Glory during that whole thing, but in normal situations – if he could call being force marched down the streets of Sunnydale by a human half his size normal – she just couldn't muster any heat behind it.

"I won't run," he said with a shake of his head. "I'll go where you go, make sure you get wherever in one piece. But I still think you shouldn't do this."

Willow said nothing, and they lapsed into silence. Spike's mind turned round and round as he tried to come up with something – anything – he could say that would make her stay.

"Hey, wait a minute," Spike said after a moment, stopping short and looking at Willow. "Weren't you and your bird going to do some spell that would get rid of the dark stuff? For good?" he questioned, looking at Willow curiously.

"It didn't work," Willow said simply, gesturing with her cross for Spike to keep walking.

"Didn't work?" Spike asked aloud, confusion coloring his tone as he started walking again. "You do love her, don't you?"

"Of course I do," Willow snapped. Spike internally corrected himself. Apparently, Willow could glare.

"I guess I just don't understand," he said with a little shake of his head. "You love her, God knows she loves you – I don't understand why you'd walk away from that."

"Of course you don't understand," Willow said bitterly. "Self-sacrifice isn't in your nature."

"Not – not in my nature?" Spike demanded, his own glare stealing over his features. "I would have given anything – anything – to have kept Buffy and Dawn safe. I still would. Don't you dare lecture me about self-sacrifice."

"Then how can you not understand?" Willow shot back. "Tara isn't safe with me."

"That's where you're being an idiot. Big powerful white witch, and you think she couldn't handle you?" Spike demanded. "I've got news for you, Red. Your bird knows what she's about. And it's her choice to be around you or not. You're bloody well making decisions for her again and treating her like a child."

"I am not treating her like a child," Willow insisted. "I just... I just need her to be safe. I need her to be okay."

"She's not gonna' be okay," Spike returned. "This is going to hurt her more than anything you have ever done to her. Because this isn't about safety, or saving the world – this is about Tara, and the love you two share. This is about you rejecting her love. You won't let her love you, that's your problem."

"Why? Because I'm right?" he shouted. "You're walking away because you can't handle the idea of her watching you die, aren't you? You can't let her love you enough to be there with you in the end."

"I said, shut up," Willow growled, surprising both herself and the vampire with a solid right cross to the jaw. Spike staggered back under the strength of the blow, lifting a hand gingerly to his lip. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry," Willow said, her eyes widening as big as saucers.

"It's all right," Spike said, carefully shifting his jaw from side to side. He frowned, then looked around. He certainly hoped no one had seen that. Getting defeated by the slayer was one thing. Letting her pet hacker take a potshot was quite another, and he had a reputation to maintain. "Truth hurts, doesn't it?" he couldn't resist adding.

"Just... don't say anything else," Willow said after a moment of staring at her hand. How much of that little outburst was the darkness rising within her, and how much was just her own temper? She really didn't know. She liked to think she wasn't a violent person, but Spike was pushing all of her buttons, poking and prodding at her when she really wasn't in a good place emotionally.

Spike nodded, but said nothing. He knew when to keep his mouth shut. He usually ignored the knowing and spoke up anyway, because that was more fun, but he always knew. And pissing off the woman who could incinerate him with a thought wasn't really on his list of things to do that night.

The Sunnydale Train Station loomed before them, and Spike stepped up, pulling the door open and holding it gallantly. Willow glared again, grabbing the door and jerking her chin, motioning Spike inside.

"Fine, see if I do anything polite for you again," Spike muttered, brushing past the redhead and into the building.

Willow made no comment, instead heading straight for the ticket line. The station was mostly deserted, it's high ceiling and pew-like seating reminding Willow ridiculously of a cathedral. This certainly wasn't a holy place, not by any means, and yet the atmosphere and vaguely gothic architecture lent itself to introspection – which was the last thing she wanted right now.

She tried to avoid looking at her surroundings, instead focusing on the task. "Just buy the tickets," she told herself quietly, keeping an eye on Spike out of the corner of her eye, and moving to the window.

"Two for Los Angeles, please," Willow said, reaching into her bag and pulling out her money.

"Los Angeles?" Spike asked, his eyebrows raising. "Why Los Angeles?" he wondered, afraid that he knew.

"It's easy to get lost there," Willow said simply, paying for the tickets, then handing one to Spike.

Spike let out a relieved breath, despite the fact he didn't need to breath. At least Willow hadn't said the 'Angel' word, even if he still inwardly feared that that was exactly where she was planning on going. Still, Angel, he knew, would call Buffy immediately, and that would take care of at least one problem.

"Come on," Willow said. "Platform three, and the train is leaving in fifteen minutes. I bet they're boarding already."

Spike nodded, wondering how he got himself into these situations. He had just planned on having one more smoke before heading in to help with the research and to catch up on what was going on when he had heard a noise around the side of the house. Curious, he had checked, and now he was kicking himself for not running in for back-up. Sure, that hadn't even occurred to him, but it should have. And now here he was with Red, who shouldn't be anywhere but at Buffy's house, about to get on a train to LA.

The platform was sporadically lit, cones of orange light breaking up the inky shadows. He knew from experience that the trains were a popular form of vampire travel. The windows all had curtains, and sunlight could be avoided, even during the daytime. He was tense and alert as they walked onto the platform, tugging Willow into the shadows, and placing a finger over his lips to silence her protests.

Willow just nodded, looking around, her eyes straining to pierce the gloom around the bits of light. The light, she found, was destroying any scrap of night vision she possessed, and she realized how dangerous the set-up was, despite the fact the light probably made most people more comfortable. Most people were stupid.

For just a moment, she let the idea of stepping into the light and letting some vampire have her bounce around her brain. But no, she couldn't do that. Even though it would be quicker and less painful, she couldn't give up outright. Not yet. There was still a smidgen of hope that refused to die inside of her, and she clung to it. Any possibility of returning to Tara was one she wouldn't throw away. Not without a fight.

Spike nodded and looked around, motioning her forward and staying at her back. From there, he could see any threat that came at Willow from the front, and he would take any hit that came from behind. If he were being honest with himself, and he tried not to be whenever possible, he would admit to a sort of reluctant fondness for the Scoobies, and Willow was no exception. He had fought all summer by their sides, and though he told himself he didn't care – couldn't care – there was a piece of him that did, if for no other reason than Buffy loved the ragtag group of misfits.

A light scuffing noise alerted Spike and he tensed, turning to the right, moving Willow behind him. A low rumble emerged from the darkness, and then a shadowy form stepped forward, resolving itself in Spike's vision. Of course this couldn't be simple, he groused inwardly. Nothing involving the Scoobies was ever simple.

"Run," he yelled, pushing Willow towards the train as The Construct stepped up, a heavy fist flying for Spike's head.

It never connected as Spike ducked out of the way, kicking the construct back a few steps. He grinned, eager for a chance to release some of his pent-up frustration at his situation when he remembered Willow. "I said run," Spike growled, turning to Willow who still stood where he had left her. He scooped her up and ran for the train, The Construct just a step behind.

A heavy blow landed against his back and he cursed as he stumbled, losing his grip on Willow who tumbled to the ground.

Willow fell heavily, her mind racing. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to get away. She was supposed to keep everyone safe, and now The Construct was there, and he would drag her into Hell where The Trickster would get her to perform the ceremony to free him.

She was afraid her resolve wouldn't be enough. She was afraid she wouldn't be strong enough – that he would trick her or coerce her, and she would cooperate despite herself.

Spike got to his feet in time to take another blow, this time to the face, sending him back a few steps. He blinked to clear his vision, then leapt forward as the Construct connected with Willow's prone form, its cruel claws raking down her arm and tearing a good portion of her sleeve away, and opening several long gashes.

He snarled as he connected, tackling the Construct to the ground, landing on top of him and slamming his fist into its face again and again. His game face fully in place, Spike snarled with fury, not bothering with finesse and just hitting the Construct as hard as he could as many times as he could manage.

Far too soon for Spike's taste, the Construct shoved him off, getting to its feet and moving after Willow again. Thrusting out a leg, Spike tripped up the creature, then got to his feet, grabbing an injured Red off the ground and tossing her bodily onto the train, taking up position at the entrance.

With a roar, it rushed him, attempting to bowl him over and move past, but Spike braced himself, getting a grip on the things arms and shoving back with all of his supernatural strength. The Construct seemed surprised, then gathered itself, attempting to dislodge the creature in front of it, its gaze intent on Willow.

Willow could only watch as Spike stopped the Construct cold, its yellow eyes seeming to bore into her as it pushed back at the vampire, trying to move Spike.

Spike heard the train start to move, and he shifted his weight, pulling the Construct instead of pushing, and throwing him into the side of the moving train with a loud and satisfying crunch. With one last kick to the things head, he jumped into the doorway where Willow still stood, and watched the dazed creature attempt to stand, the train gaining speed as it pulled out of the station.

"Gone? What do you mean, 'gone'?" Dawn asked, joining Giles, Buffy and Tara at the foot of the stairs, Xander and Anya right behind her.

"Giles, you got her?" Buffy asked, passing Tara's shaking body to the Watcher. "I'm going to check upstairs," she said, then turned, taking the steps three at a time, then disappearing around the corner.

Only Giles' grip around Tara's waist kept her upright, her legs too weak to hold her up. Giles was at something of a loss as to what to do as silent sobs wracked her frame.

Dawn could only stare. She had never seen Tara like this. Tara was always so strong and so understanding, and now she just seemed broken. It ripped Dawn up in side to see it, about a million times worse than how she had felt that night Tara had walked away.

Xander broke out of his stupor at the push, getting an arm around Tara's shoulders and helping her to stand upright as his mind turned in circles. Gone? Willow couldn't be gone. She was upstairs doing the computer thing, and any second now Buffy would come downstairs and tell them it was all a mistake.

No one expected it when Anya marched up and slapped Tara soundly across the face, yelling, "snap out of it!"

Everyone froze. They stopped and stared as Tara's sobs halted, her head snapping up to look at Anya with wide eyes.

"You slapped me," she said in a wondering tone, as if she couldn't really believe it.

"Yeah, well, if Willow's gone, you have to find her," Anya said, grabbing Tara's arm and pulling her away from Giles and Xander, who were still goggling at Anya like they'd never seen her before.

"Dawn, if those two don't snap out of it, slap them," Anya instructed, pulling Tara back into the living room and carelessly shoving her previous inventory off the table. She turned to the witch, who had raised a hand to cover her face where Anya had struck her.

"I really am sorry," Anya said sincerely, her expression softening. Then she pointed at the table, and she was all business again, indicating the newly cleared space. "But you have to do the yoga thing, and you can't do it when you're all hyperventilating and about to pass out."

Tara looked from Anya to the table, then back again, her mind settling on the fact that her friend had slapped her, focusing on something that was safe – something that wasn't the fact that Willow wasn't in the house. Anya had hit her. Her brow furrowed. Why had Anya hit her? Anya wouldn't hit her – they were friends. And she wanted her to do yoga?

"Do I have to slap you again?" Anya asked warily. "Because I didn't like it. In fact, I hated it, and I never want to have to do it again. It was unpleasant," she complained.

"Why is everyone so hung up on that?" Anya asked. "That's not the issue – the issue is Willow. Y'know? Willow? Redhead who isn't here where she's supposed to be? And Tara was hysterical. I slapped her. Now she's not hysterical." Anya turned and glared at her friend. "But she's not helpful, either. Tara, do the yoga to find Willow, and do it now!" she demanded.

Tara watched all this unfold as if from a great distance, everyone's words faint and echo=y around her.

Tara gasped. "Oh, God, I have to find Willow," she said quickly, a determined look crossing her face. She climbed onto the table, crossing her legs and attempting to settle herself.

Tara just nodded in response, then reached out to touch Anya's arm. "Thank you," she said, the corner of her mouth quirking up.

An answering little smile appeared on Anya's face. "Just don't ever make me do it again," she said emphatically, nodding to stress her point.

Tara nodded her agreement, then rested her wrists on her knees, her eyes sliding shut. Her breathing deepened and steadied as she let her surrounding fade away and she centered herself.

A picture of Willow appeared before her mind's eye, and she focused on it, willing herself to find her – to be with her. She felt a slight tugging in her chest, then a sense of freedom – of flying. She left the house, taking in the surrounding area outside. To the left she sensed the streets of Sunnydale, and to the right Sunnydale was shrouded in mist and shadow. A masking spell. No, not a spell. A charm. She remembered Willow showing it to her.

A small pang of hurt echoed through her being as she realized Willow was hiding from her, but she crushed it as she felt the emotion pulling her back towards her body. It didn't matter. She would find Willow anyway – she would always find Willow.

She flew higher above the mists and looked down at it swirling and growing in some areas, receding in others. She could tell in which general direction Willow had gone, but the random movements of the mist made it impossible to pinpoint a specific location. The twinkling blue light that was Tara's essence descended into the fog, illuminating a small area around itself. She couldn't see, couldn't tell, where Willow had gone, and a wave of frustration washed over her.

Again, she felt herself pulled back towards her body as her emotions surfaced. The spell required calm, and letting her feelings of worry interfere would only work against her purpose, so she quieted herself, willing herself to just be.

Her love for Willow welled up inside of her, and she felt herself move again, but away from her body, speeding surely through the mists. This puzzled her for a moment, then far away, her body smiled, and her light twinkled with understanding – her love for Willow wasn't something she felt, but rather something she was. She let her love guide her blindly through the mists, trusting in her connection to her love.

She came upon a cone of orange light, brilliant in the gray shadowy fog. A shape lumbered through it, then she saw a flash of red in the shadows.

She moved closer, hovering near, and Willow looked right at her, seeming to freeze in place. Tara twinkled, begging Willow to return to her, when that lumbering shadow stepped between them.

The Construct – Tara recognized it immediately, but could not intervene when it pulled back its angry claws, looming over Willow's prone form and catching her in the arm.

Tara felt Willow's pain and terror as if they were her own, and she screamed. Her eyes popped open, sweat covering her body and her breathing quick and intense.

"Dear lord, are you all right?" Giles asked worriedly. Tara blinked twice, trying to catch her breath, calm her heart, and find her voice. Her mind replayed what she had seen, picking up details she hadn't known she'd noticed, so focused on Willow she had been.

"Train station," she managed to gasp out, unfolding her legs and stretching them gingerly, each muscle in her body tight and cramped with tension. "We have to hurry. The Construct is there," she said tersely, getting to her feet.

"Buffy," Giles yelled, and immediately, the slayer hurried down the stairs, having searched Willow and Tara's room.

Willow's computer was missing, as was the box of baking soda left in the room. A cross, some holy water, and a stake were also missing. Wherever Willow had gone, she had gone willingly.

"What do we have?" Buffy asked, her body rigid with tension, giving the impression that she was ready to spring into violence at a moment's notice.

"She's at the train station – The Construct is there," Giles said. Buffy just nodded, opening the hall closet and pulling out a duffel bag.

"Dawn," Buffy said, turner to her sister as she unzipped the bag and began handing out weapons. "I don't have time to argue with you about you going. This is easy to use." Buffy handed over a mace, and Dawn took it gingerly, looking at her sister with wide eyes. "You stay out of any fighting. No arguments. But if something comes at you and you can't run away, swing that really hard. Eyes, throat, or groin. Everyone ready?" she asked, looking at her friends, who all nodded. "Then let's go," she finished, and they all filed out, Xander, Anya, and Tara piling into Xander's car as Dawn, Buffy and Giles got into Giles' rental.

"Can't you drive faster?" Tara asked after they had left Buffy's street, her eyes meeting Xander's in the rearview mirror.

"And with that attack on my fragile male ego, watch as I fold like a little girl," Xander muttered, his foot pressing down on the accelerator. "We need one of those little sirens. How many times have we saved the world? We SO deserve one of those sirens."

He had already been going well over the speed limit, but the car with the slayer in it was being driven by a staid British guy. But Tara was right – this was Willow, and he would take on something much scarier than the Construct with his bare hands to keep Willow safe. Glancing in the rearview mirror and seeing Tara's worried expression, he knew she felt the same. Only more so.

He looked back at the road, barely noting the homes and businesses he passed in a blur. He had never thought that Willow could possibly date someone who was good enough for her. He had liked Oz, yeah, but good enough for Willow? He had never though so. Of course, he had never told Willow that, but that would have been... awkward. But Tara was something else – and not only good enough for Willow in his estimation, but perfect for her.

"Hey, ladies," Xander said, casually taking a corner on two wheels. "When we get through this mess, how about the four of us go on a double date? We've never really done the double date thing."

"I've never understood the purpose of a double date," Anya observed. "Unless it's a thinly veiled prelude to group sex? That, at least, would make sense."

Tara broke out of her reverie where her mind had turned over far too many horrible scenarios. They were, in fact, too horrible to contemplate, but she had anyway, her brain calling up possibility after possibility, each more horrific than the last. She looked at Xander and Anya, the confidence and ease of their voices bolstering her own flagging hopes, giving her courage.

"You see, Anya, it's like this," Xander began, taking another corner far too fast. "Tara's your best friend, and Willow's my best friend, so you like spending time with Tara and I like spending time with Willow. Now, the double date means we all get to spend time with each other, and then the next day, you and Tara would get together and talk about Willow and me behind our backs, and Willow and I would talk about you two. Then we'd all go home and spill the details. See?"

"Oh, that does sound like fun. It's both intriguing and underhanded, yet allows for non-orgasmic bonding," Anya said with an eager nod. "Doesn't that sound like fun?" Anya asked, turning in her seat and looking at Tara.

"It sounds perfect," Tara said hoarsely. And suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to take Willow and that double date with Xander and Anya. She wanted to spend time with her girl and these two people who had come to mean so much to her.

Xander pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the train station. "We'll discuss details later," he said, bringing the car to a screeching halt. Giles pulled in moments later, and the Scooby Gang grabbed their weapons, going into the train station.

They strode surely through the waiting area, grim looks on their faces as Tara went to the ticket count.

"Did a redhead come in here awhile ago? Green eyes – this tall, wearing a striped shirt?" she questioned, glaring at the man and silently daring him not to answer.

The man looked at the small blonde, and then the give visibly armed people behind her. He gulped. "She bought a ticket to LA. Platform seven," he said, raising a shaking hand and pointing. He let out a sigh of relief when they all immediately started running, then he picked up the phone and called the police.

"I'm almost sorry I didn't get to shake him down," Buffy said, her agitation evident as she sprinted towards the platform, leaving the others in her dust. Except, she noted as she glanced back, Tara. Somehow, Tara was only two steps behind as they raced up the stairs and onto platform seven.

"Willow?" Tara yelled, looking around. The orange glow from one of the lights spilled all around her as an empty platform met her eyes. Buffy started searching the area, her sense on alert as Tara took a few steps forward, out of the circle's light.

Tara knelt down, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. Her eyes and fingertips found the post at the same time.

"Yeah, I don't see her," Buffy said, letting out a frustrated breath. "Are you sure she was here?" she asked, having missed Tara's tinkerbell impression, as the rest of the Scoobies came hugging up the steps, spreading out and looking around.

"Yes, I'm sure. She was here, and she's hurt. This is her blood," Tara said stonily. "That thing hurt her," she ground out, her voice like ice.

"Tara, she's okay," Xander said, kneeling down and looking her in the eye. "The bad guy needs her alive tomorrow night. We still have time."

"I, umm," Giles said, looking around at the empty platform with sorrowful eyes. "I suggest we return to the house and plan our next course of action.

"And I say we go now," Dawn piped up, her mace swinging. "I bet that ticket guy called the cops, and we can't save Willow if we're in jail," she pointed out.

Tara nodded, rising to her feet. "Let's go," she said, walking out towards the tracks. "We can circle around to the parking lot this way. I'm not in the mood for jail tonight."

"Am I the only one worried about Tara, too?" Buffy asked quietly. "She doesn't look like she's handling this well. She has on Willow's 'I Owe You Pain' face. That's the 'I'm Going To Take On A Hell God' face. I don't like seeing my friends wearing that face."

"No, you're quite right," Giles whispered back as they headed to the parking lot after the others. "Tara has been under a tremendous amount of strain. It's possible she could snap at any time."

"And I always thought she was so sweet and quiet," Buffy muttered, jogging a little to catch up with the group.

Giles sighed, watching swinging his axe up to his shoulder. "Yes, well, it's always the quiet ones, isn't it?" he asked into the night.

"And I always thought she was so sweet and quiet," Buffy muttered, jogging a little to catch up with the group.

Giles sighed, watching swinging his axe up to his shoulder. "Yes, well, it's always the quiet ones, isn't it?" he asked into the night.

A silent group reached the parking lot, a certain energy humming in the air around them. Giles recognized it immediately. It was an almost palpable determination, and it meant the Scoobies would not fail. Never before had they fallen short – never before had an obstacle been too large. And now, with Willow and the world at stake, Giles knew that once again these children would dig deep, finding the courage and ability to defeat this latest threat.

The adrenaline of the chase was starting to fade, and he opened the car door with a trembling hand. He slid in behind the wheel, Buffy and Dawn entering the car silently. Xander, Anya and Tara drove off, and he followed, numbly noting the sound of sirens as they drove away.

It certainly seemed hopeless. Willow was likely being tricked into Hell now, and there was nothing they could do about it.

Xander sped up, likely being goaded by Anya taking potshots at his manhood. Some things never changed.

But some things did. He set his jaw, increasing his speed and tearing off after Xander's car, his mind racing. There had to be something – anything – he could do.

Buffy took a deep breath before answering. "Now we regroup back at the house and make a plan," Buffy said, biting back a testy reply. Dawn was just worried, she knew – they all were – and Dawn didn't have the benefit of experience here. She only had her fear and worry to go on, and Buffy would be patient with her sister. "And then we save Willow."

"We still can?" Dawn asked gingerly, feeling a flood of hope welling up inside her.

They lapsed into silence, finally pulling into the Summers driveway and getting out of the car. They walked in quickly, seeing Xander and Anya sitting close together on the couch, Xander's arm wrapped protectively around his fiancée as Tara was rapidly flipping pages in the necronomicon.

"So how do we fix this?" Buffy asked without preamble, dropping a sword and a stake on the ground at her feet. "Ideas?"

"We need more information," Giles said wearily. "We have to find out a way to defeat The Trickster."

"Now is not the time for research," Buffy said with a shake of her head. "Research phase is over. We need a plan and we need it now."

"Right," Buffy said, going to the hall closet and pulling out the heavy hammer. It had been decided over the summer that the hammer was far too useful to be sold, and Anya had reluctantly agreed. "What else have we got?"

"Well, what if Willow isn't in Hell yet? I mean, what if The Trickster can't get her through the Hellmouth?" Dawn offered up.

"Which is why we don't have time," Buffy agreed with a nod. "He isn't using Willow until tomorrow night, so if she isn't in Hell yet, we have a chance to get her back now."

"But if she is in Hell, what can we do about it?" Anya asked seriously. "Regular mortals can't just walk into Hell – they'd be incinerated. And that's IF you can get past the Hellmouth."

"I'm afraid Anya is right," Giles said, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. "If Willow is already in Hell, there's nothing we can do about it but hope she survives and returns."

Tara let the conversation wash around her, reading page after page as quickly as she could. She felt, on one level, that she already knew this book. That every word was something she was remembering, rather than something she was just learning. Had she and Willow studied it together in their past lives? Of course they had – it was the only explanation for why it had been in with her mother's things.

She skipped things that were clearly not useful, like Pictish history, ceremonies and rituals. It was undoubtedly interesting, but something for another time. For a time when she had Willow with her.

"I'm sorry, Buffy, but Giles is right. Our only hope is to get to Willow before they manage to get her into Hell," Anya said.

"Then why are we waiting?" Xander said, rising to his feet and reaching for his keys.

"We need to formulate a plan," Giles insisted. "We are not going to run off with no idea of what we're doing – that's a sure way to get us all killed."

"Xander, I left something in the car," Tara said, snapping the necronomicon shut and grabbing his keys, heading to the front door.

"I don't care. If they're working on a way to get Willow through the Hellmouth, we need to go now," Xander shot back angrily, barely noting that Tara had snatched his keys right out of his hand.

"So we have a Troll Hammer and some attitude?" Buffy said, cutting to the chase. "That's just great!"

"But we have to do something," Dawn said, moving to stand with Xander. "We can't just let Willow go."

The sound of a car starting reached them, then the sound of squealing tires. The Scoobies all froze and looked at each other, then moved to the window, looking out into the street in time to see Xander's taillights disappearing around the corner.

"Damn it," Giles yelled, grabbing his keys and heading for the door. The Scoobies all followed, scooping up their weapons.

"Go, go," Xander said, hurrying everyone out the door and to the rental car. It was a cramped fit, but they all managed to squeeze themselves into Giles' car, barely getting the doors shut before he tore off, heading for the ruined high school and the Hellmouth that lay beneath.

"Of all the impetuous, short-sighted," Giles muttered, driving like the proverbial bat out of hell.

"Tara's lost it," Anya said nervously. "And she's going to get there, and she's going to fight, and she's going to get herself dead before we can get there and save her. The Trickster doesn't need her. He won't keep her alive like he will Willow."

Dawn paled visibly and gulped. Xander looked sideways at her, patting her knee in comfort.

"It'll be okay, Dawnie," he said. "You'll see. We'll get there in the nick of time, save Tara and Willow, then we'll all leave town for a few days until the stars are out of alignment again, then we'll come back and have a pizza party. Typical Hellmouth weekend, you'll see."

"So, you guys did this all the time in high school?" Dawn asked weakly, suddenly wondering if the Scooby Gang was really the place to be. Sure, saving the world sounded cool, but she didn't feel cool. She just felt worried and scared, and a little sick to her stomach.

"Yep," Xander said cheerfully, forcing a confident smile past his own fears. "And we all went to class the next day, too," he went on, a wave of nostalgia washing over him.

"Okay, now that's just sick," Dawn noted. "You saved the world and you didn't get a day off school?"

"And you won't either," Buffy said, looking back at Dawn. "So don't even ask. You've done more than your fair share of skipping school."

The car shook as Giles drove it onto the curb past Xander's car and up onto the old high school grounds. He navigated it through the rubble, hitting jagged pieces of cement and twisted steel.

"I guess I won't be getting my deposit back," he said dryly, stopping the car as close to the old library as he could.

Without any further conversation, they all got out of the car, running into the ruined shell that had been Sunnydale High, their weapons in hand.

"We have to be careful," Giles urged as they reached the library, then headed underground. "There's no telling what kind of magick Tara is utilizing."

"What do you think?" Buffy asked, looking over her shoulder at her sister. "Willow did – we never would have guessed that. But Tara got hurt, and she did."

They checked their weapons, then stepped into the cavern that held the very mouth of hell, coming upon what was obviously a stalemate.

Tara stood, one hand outstretched and the other holding the necronomicon, a white light encasing the Construct and at least fifteen vampires. It had been simple, really. She had walked in, and they had immediately converged upon her, only to be thrown back across the cavern. Then she had held them there, asking the Goddess to grant her this request, that her enemies be held fast.

Simple in theory, at least. It had, in fact, taken a tremendous amount of her power, and she was feeling the strain. But thoughts of Willow sustained her past the point where she felt she had reached her limits. Nothing would stop her from finding Willow. Nothing.

"Where is she?" Tara asked, the edge to her voice indicating that this wasn't the first time she had asked the question. None answered.

She had flipped through the necronomicon at the house, finding it mostly useless for her purposes. There was dark magick of considerable power there, yes, but Tara wouldn't resort to that. Not unless she absolutely had to.

But the Picts, Giles had said, had a unique understanding of balance. There were light spells in there, too. Things she had only heard hinted of in her other readings. This spell was one of them. If she had only had time to read further, she might have found something else useful, but there just hadn't been an opportunity. She couldn't stand by idly while Willow was in danger.

"Tara?" Buffy called, coming up to stand beside her friend. "Tara, she's not here," Buffy pointed out, looking around the room. All she could see were fifteen struggling vamps, wrapped in strands of pure white energy, unable to move.

"But they have her, Buffy," Tara said, her gaze unwavering as she looked at the still figures before her.

"It better learn," Tara said grimly, a stream of white light issuing forth from her hands, wrapping around the Construct and constricting.

All the Scoobies flinched, only Tara remaining still, as its unearthly screams echoed through the chamber. The sound rebounded, even after the Construct grew silent, shredding already frayed nerves.

"Tara, that's fifteen vampires. Fifteen," Anya said. "I think we should go and figure out what to do."

Tara looked at Anya, almost snarling. Time was a luxury. Time was something they didn't have. How could Anya speak to her of wasting time when Willow was being dragged through Hell at that very moment?

"We are NOT leaving," Buffy said, hefting her hammer. "And please, please tell me the next part of this plan involves you letting all those vamps go, and me dusting them?"

"You need to go. There's fifteen of them. It's too many," Tara tried to explain.

"Where will you be?" Dawn asked. "You're coming with us, right? We're going to do more research, then save Willow?"

"We don't have time," Tara said, looking at Dawn with sad eyes. "I have to go. Now."

Buffy looked at the expression of calm determination on Tara's face speculatively. She had seen hints of Tara's inner strength before – something Willow had always seen beneath the shy exterior of her lover – but nothing like this. Tara looked like she could move mountains.

"Fifteen isn't too many," Buffy said, meeting Tara's eyes, a look of understanding passing between them. "Go."

Tara nodded, stepping to the Hellmouth, then releasing the spell holding the Construct and the vampires. She would need her energy when she faced The Trickster. And she would face The Trickster – no Hellmouth would stop her when she believed Willow was on the other side.

The vampires were stunned for a moment, their ineffectual struggles throwing them off-balance as the restricting white light disappeared suddenly.

Tara's hand raised up, touching the yellow glow of the Hellmouth gingerly. A tingle ran up her arm, and she pressed gently, her fingertips pushing back the barrier, but not breaking through. She pressed a little harder, and the surface tension broke, her fingers dipping inward and sending ripples of light across the opening. Then they stopped, unable to break through further.

The Scoobies met the charge as the vampires and the Construct came at them, Buffy working hard to give Tara time to figure out how she was going to get through the Hellmouth.

A soft sigh escaped Tara and she almost laughed. It was so easy. She knew – she knew how the Hellmouth had been weakened enough to let the Construct out, and how she could get through now.

She cast her mind back to a night when everything in her world had seemed bleak and dark. Willow's betrayal was still fresh and hurt with a raw intensity she had thought she would never survive. And then in the night, a voice had called to her.

That spell had gone wrong, she knew. And she had siphoned off the energy, releasing it in a safe manner.

Had the Trickster been responsible for Dawn casting the spell in the first place? It didn't matter, not really. Either way, he had taken advantage of the situation, using a combination of Dawn's energy and the piece of Willow Dawn had needed to perform the spell to weaken the Hellmouth and send his Construct to earth.

All magick left a residue of energy – a lingering bit of essence that became a part of the caster until it faded away, and that night had been no exception.

Tara searched within herself for that energy now, gathering it together, then sending it forth, confidently stepping through the barrier in a brilliant flash of light.

"Oh, bloody hell," Spike growled, his touch surprisingly gentle as he eased Willow into a seat, removing his leather coat in quick jerky motions, then yanking off the button-down shirt he wore open over the t-shirt.

He passed the wadded up shirt to Willow, who took it absently, her gaze distant and unfocused. She held the wadded up shirt in her hand, but made no movement to do anything with it.

"Damn it, Red," Spike said, shrugging back into his coat, then taking the shirt out of her limp hand. He sat next to her, then pressed it to the wound, attempting to stop the flow of blood. Willow was so out of it, he could probably get away with a taste, but he remembered the bitterness in the flavor from before. It probably wasn't worth it, what with her still being a witch capable of killing him outright and all.

The train continued clattering away from the station, leaving Sunnydale further and further behind. Spike looked out the window, the lights running along the ceiling bouncing back off the glass, making it impossible to see the world outside the train.

Until the next stop, there really was no world outside the train, Spike mused. It was on it track, and it was running its course, and for everyone on the train, the world ceased to exist. There was just the train, the people on it, and the next station.

Unfortunately for him, the only person he knew on the train was spaced out, he was hungry, and if he wanted to eat, they'd have to go to Angel's.

Willow jumped in her seat, becoming suddenly aware of the searing pain in her arm, and the warm stickiness against the skin there. Spike's presence registered next, then the movement of the train.

"We're... I mean, the train left already?" she asked, looking around, her brow furrowed. Awkwardly, she tried to fashion a sling out of the shirt Spike had pressed to her arm. "Duh, of course the train left already," she muttered to herself. "You're sitting on the train, and the train is moving, and you asked if the train left yet?"

"Let me do that," Spike snapped, taking the material and wrapping it around her arm, then tying the arms of the shirt around the back of her neck. "What the hell happened to you back there?" he asked when he had completed his task, sitting in the seat opposite Willow and bouncing against the back of the chair a few times. "Never seen you freeze in a fight like that before. Well, not since before I got chipped."

Willow frowned. The Construct had been there, on the platform. She remembered that clearly. But then she had sensed something that had stopped her in her tracks.

Tara had been there. She hadn't seen the blue glow of the tiny tinkerbell light so much as felt it, and she wondered idly if the masking charm worked both ways. Still, she had felt it – had known that Tara was there, and that had set her mind to racing.

She'd be worried. She must have seen the Construct hit her. Had she still been there when Spike had tossed her onto the train? Did she know that the train had gotten away?

"God, I'm so stupid," Willow moaned, lifting her left hand towards her face, then realizing she didn't have the energy. She let her head drop forward, meeting her hand halfway and rubbed her eyes wearily.

"No argument here, Red," Spike said with a dry laugh. "Would this be a bad time to say 'I told you so'?" he queried innocently.

"Didn't I just say this was a bad time?" Willow asked, looking up and around as if appealing to someone else, only she and Spike were the only two people in that section of the train. "Or am I just talking to myself here?"

"Tickets, please," a voice said, making Willow jump as the conductor appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Awkwardly, she reached into her pocket, drawing forth her ticket and handing it to the man, who punched it twice with a hole-puncher, then handed it back.

He repeated the action with a silent Spike, then wandered off down the train, moving into the next car.

"Well, I don't give a damn if it's a bad time," Spike said in a low voice, lifting his feet up and resting them on the seat next to Willow, laying his legs diagonally across the space between them. "You pulled an incredibly stupid stunt tonight, and you're just now figuring it out? It took getting hurt to make you realize it?"

"No," Willow said quietly, sighing in resignation. Spike was going to have a field day with this one. "Tara was there. I... felt her. She saw the whole thing."

"Oh, well, that's just great," Spike said in disgust. "Your precious Scooby Gang probably thought I kidnapped you. And your bird is going to be all pissed off and worried. Buffy'll kill me. And that's if Angel and his Scooby Rejects don't dust me first."

I really wasn't fair, Spike mused inwardly. His lungs didn't work anyway, but staying outside for one last cigarette was going to be the death of him.

"They probably suited up and headed right for the train station," Willow said, her expression settling into a tiny frown and a furrowed brow as she thought. "And they probably know where we're headed. They could've asked the ticket guy. I mean, how many people bought tickets tonight? They know I wasn't gone very long, and since Tara was there, she knows what I was wearing."

"I'm trying to figure out if they know we got away from the Construct," Willow said, displeased with the interruption as her mind turned over all the possible angles.

"Famous," Spike muttered. "You mean to say that they could be sitting there thinking that the Construct has you? Right now?"

"I said they suited up and headed out, didn't I? There's probably not any sitting involved," Willow said.

"How can you sit there and be so calm when your bird is probably worried sick about you? What if she takes off for the Hellmouth to try to get you back?" Spike said.

"She wouldn't do that," Willow said with a little shake of her head. "That would be stupid."

"And it was so smart for you to go running off and taking on a Hell God all by yourself?" Spike retorted, snorting indelicately. "If she thinks you've been hurt and are being dragged off to Hell, there's no way she's going to sit by and do nothing."

"I -" Willow began to say, only to close her mouth with an audible click. She really had no argument against that. Spike was right. That's exactly what Tara would do, and she hated it. She hated the idea that Tara would put herself in that much danger for her. Didn't Tara know that all she wanted was to keep Tara safe?

"What? You think you love her more than she loves you?" Spike pressed on. "Well, I got news for you, Red. She loves you every bit as much as you love her, only you won't let her. You keep giving and giving, but you won't take a damn thing from her. And here she is, trying to give and give to you, and she won't take a damn thing either. You're both cracked."

"No, fairy tales and poems are about giving," Spike said. "Love – real love... real down and dirty living and crying and laughing and bleeding love... that's about giving and taking."

"That's life," Spike shot back. "My heart may not beat, but every bit of it belongs to Buffy, and God knows that if she gave me anything – anything – I'd bloody well take it and you wouldn't hear me crying about it."

"I'm evil?" Spike finished for her. "That doesn't mean I don't feel it. That doesn't mean I can't see it when it's there... and Tara loves you. I'm not stupid – I've been around for a very long time, and I've seen more lovers... real crazy-in-love lovers... than you can imagine. I'm not stupid. I have eyes. I have a brain. I understand love. And the love that lasts lets both partners contribute. Equally."

"Right, so you told her all about how you were feeling, and how worried you are, and how you wanted to leave so she didn't have to watch you die, right?"

"Well, no," Willow admitted. "But I couldn't do that – she would have talked me out of it."

"She wouldn't have been able to talk you out of it if you were right," Spike said, shaking his head. "And don't get me started on how bleeding inconsiderate it is to run off to die alone."

"I didn't think I got you started on any of this," Willow said with a frown, racking her brain and trying to remember at what point, exactly, she had actually asked for Spike's opinion. "In fact, I think you're just sitting here and lecturing me, when you have no idea what's going on in my head – and, and – what I'm feeling, or what it's like to be in this thing with all the badness happening around me and worrying that everyone won't be safe and all, and it just really, really, sucks."

"You just don't understand that you needed to stay for her sake, do you?" Spike said, shaking his head again. Sometimes, talking to a Scooby was like talking to a brick wall. They were all so damn stubborn – and Willow was the worst of the lot.

"Do you think she's happy now that you've gone? Do you think she isn't worried sick about you? Honestly, I think we should get off at the next station, turn around, and go back," Spike muttered.

"No, we can't," Willow said, though she sounded unsure of herself. "If I go back, the Trickster could get out of Hell."

Spike looked at Willow speculatively, cocking his head to one side. "You don't know, do you?" he asked in a wondering tone. "She never bleeding told you. Dammit, I told her to tell you, and I know Giles told her to tell you."

"Tell me what?" Willow asked, sitting up straight, her brow furrowing deeply. "Her who? Her who didn't tell what?"

"Tara didn't tell you about the flashbacks," Spike said with a sigh, his suspicions confirmed by the blank look on Willow's face. "Not so nice when you're the one being left in the dark, is it?" he added with a sneer.

"Flashbacks? What flashbacks? That sounds bad, all flashy and backy... to what? When did this happen? Why didn't she say anything?" Willow asked.

"I don't think it's any of my business, and I shouldn't interfere," Spike said, shaking his head.

"Well, it could possibly be helpful, and after being force-marched to the train station with a cross in my face, being threatened and punched, then fighting off the Construct and saving your sorry life without so much as a 'Thanks, Spike!', I'm just not feeling very helpful," Spike said.

"Spike, please," Willow said, her wide green eyes tearing up, her voice low and sincere.

"Oh, bloody hell," Spike said, reluctance heavy in his voice. "Fine. Just remember that I don't care either way, all right?" Spike went on, waiting for Willow's nod of agreement before taking a deep breath and continuing. "Tara's having flashbacks of Glory torturing and killing people."

"What?" Willow yelled, shooting up from her seat and bumping her head on the overhead compartment.

"What part of 'Tara is having flashbacks of Glory torturing and killing people' isn't clear?" Spike wondered aloud, frowning at Willow.

"I think it's the part where Tara is having flashbacks of Glory that involve torturing and killing," Willow said, her knees buckling as she dropped into her seat. "She didn't tell me? That's... she talked a little about what it was like, but she never said..."

"That's because the flashbacks started after," Spike said. "Oh, and the flashbacks? She's having them from Glory's point of view, so she feels like she's the one doing the murder and mayhem," he added, smirking as Willow's face paled. Served her right.

"You're making this up," Willow said slowly, her eyes rising to meet Spike's. It was, she knew, Tara's worst nightmare – that she would hurt someone. Her gentle, loving Tara feared doing injury to some innocent bystander, a leftover feeling from the time she thought she was a demon. Certainly Tara would have told her... ?

Willow kicked herself. It was her fault. She must have done something wrong when she had reversed the damage Glory had inflicted upon Tara. She must have messed up somehow – done something – that transferred some sick and twisted visions into Tara's head.

"There!" Spike yelled, pointing at Willow. "That right there is why she didn't tell you. You're blaming yourself, aren't you?"

"What? No!" Willow said, pursing her lips and shaking her head, her eyes wide. "That would be silly."

"You," Spike said, shaking his finger once, a sardonic expression stealing over his features, "are the worst liar in the entire world."

Willow took several breaths, her mouth opening and closing before she had a retort. "So?"

Spike just laughed, banging his head against the back of his chair several times, then pulling his feet of the seat across from him and leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "She has to do extra meditation twice a day to keep the visions from coming. To stop herself from seeing what feels like her hands ripping people to shreds, covered in blood."

"Stop it," Willow whispered, her eyes screwing shut, her body stiff with tension in the chair. "Just... stop. Please."

"And you left her," Spike went on mercilessly. "First, you sucked out her memories – but did you take the ones that were really hurting her? No, you were selfish and took away a little fight that doesn't actually mean anything. Then when she came back, because she needed – SHE needed – to be with you during all of this, you ran off and left her alone with those memories that aren't hers. So while you were trying to be all noble and giving, you managed to rip her heart out. How's that feel?"

"It's not too late," Spike said quietly, his features softening. Willow's glare really was getting better, but it was still kind of... cute. Not that he'd ever tell her that. Or anyone, for that matter. "We can still go back. She needs you, whether you're find and dandy, or sick and dying, she needs you."

"I should have hurt that skanky bitch worse before Buffy killed her," Willow seethed, her eyes shading to black. Spike pressed himself back against his seat, holding his hands up defensively.

"Now, now, Red," he said slowly. "No need for the black magick eyes, okay? Nothing to hurt here. Nothing to kill... just a nice chipped vampire who's being helpful and sharing information. And saved your life back there," he added quickly.

Willow took a deep steadying breath, trying to calm the maelstrom of emotions flooding through her. She closed her eyes, then steadied herself, letting them drift open again.

"I said stop it," Spike blurted out, the sheer eerie factor of Willow with black eyes making him twitch. Inwardly, of course, because he sure as hell wouldn't let her know she scared him.

"What? I -" Willow said, turning to the window and looking at her reflection in the glass there, her hand drifting up to trace her own eyes, seeing for herself they were still dark with the magick. "Spike, I need, umm... something to drink. Like, now," she said, her voice panicky.

Spike immediately reached into his coat, pulling out a flask and offering it to Willow silently.

"Fine," Spike said, getting to his feet. "I'll see what I can hunt up." With that, he wandered down the aisle, muttering to himself, then exiting the car.

Willow retrieved her bag, opening it up and pulling out the box of baking soda with shaking hands. She should have taken the shower with the magicky soap before she'd left, or put the baking soda in the water and had some. Now – now she had the black magick eyes and she didn't know how to get rid of them.

She could feel it, the power, crackling just under her skin. It would be so easy, and it was so very tempting, to just give in to it. To just let it flow through her and out of her, into the night. She could turn night into day. Or stop the train in its tracks. Or perhaps even turn it around and head back to Sunnydale.

Her laptop slid out of the bag and onto the seat, falling over the clothes she had stacked up under it.

She slid the machine onto her lap, lifting the screen and turning it on. Resting her hands on the keys, she waited as it booted up, her hands trembling lightly. She frowned at her hands, peering at them in consternation. Why couldn't she keep them still? She usually had very steady hands – had even considered a career in surgery when she was younger, but decided that cadavers were far too yucky.

The train lurched to a stop, and with it that line of Willow's thoughts. Where were they now? How long had she been on this train?

She checked the time on the computer, seeing that they were about an hour out of Sunnydale. It wouldn't be long, she realized, until they pulled into Union Station, and then ... then what?

Her plan had been fairly simple. Go to Angel's, get help from Wesley with the research, and either fix this thing, or talk Angel into killing her before she did any more damage.

Now – now she was off-track. Her course of action had been so clear, but somewhere along the line, someone had thrown a switch, and she was traveling along a track she hadn't anticipated.

Why couldn't Tara have just let her go? If she hadn't done the spell – hadn't busted through her masking charm – Willow would know that Tara was safe at home, surrounded by family.

Where was Tara now? Did she go to the train station? Had she run into the Construct?

Spike returned with some coffee and Willow broke out of her musings, bringing up the files the Watcher's Council had sent. She was re-reading old information, but she needed to be doing something – anything – while she figured out what she should be really doing. And she had just managed to confuse herself with that thought, so she frowned, cursing her agile mind that seemed to always exist in at least three places at once.

Lifting the box of baking soda, Spike regarded Willow silently. She definitely had something kicking around inside her head – that was certain. He pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing as he considered his options, sprinkling some of the baking soda into the coffee.

"Here," he said simply. He wasn't sure he wanted to press his case any longer – he had said everything he could, and if Red hadn't listened, there probably wasn't much he could do about it. Willow, he knew, needed to come to her own conclusions. He could only hope he had introduced enough new information for that computer-brain of hers to arrive at a different conclusion.

Willow took the coffee, sipping it gingerly and wincing as pain flooded her senses, radiating outward from her stomach. She wondered idly if this is what a test tube felt like, and if so, she sincerely regretted every chemistry class she had ever taken.

"Do you really think she went all large with the butch and went off to get me?" Willow asked weakly, looking up at Spike.

"I think that the idea of losing you is far scarier to her than Hell could ever be," Spike said simply, inwardly smiling. He had her.

"Then we're getting off this train," Willow said with a nod. Before she could pick up her things, Spike had her bag in hand and her laptop carefully cradled, still open, on his arm.

"After you," he said politely, a feeling that felt very much like relief sinking in.

Willow stood, then drained her coffee, thanking poor train food service that it was only warm. Her aching arm protested the movement as she walked, getting off the train and moving into the station, Spike right behind her. As Willow made her way up to the ticket line, Spike could only shake his head.

"I don't know why we're buying tickets. I am a vampire. I might not be able to bite the conductor, but I could put the ol' game face on and scare him out of all good sense," Spike muttered.

"That's not nice," Willow scolded, reaching the ticket booth and buying two tickets back to Sunnydale.

"I never said I was nice," Spike shot back. "In fact, I think I've said several times that I am definitely not nice."

Willow made no comment, merely taking the tickets and moving to the waiting area. The timing, she noted with a frown, looking at the clock on the wall, wasn't nearly as convenient as the train to LA had been. It was going to be a good forty-five minutes before the next train bound for Sunnydale left the station.

Spike looked around with a scowl. Stuck in a train station just outside LA on a Saturday Night. He lit up a cigarette, ignoring the dirty looks the few people in the waiting area shot him, blithely ashing on the tiled floor. At least they weren't visiting that wanker, Angel.

"What are you looking at," he asked after a moment. Willow had reclaimed her laptop and was doing something – but whatever it was, it had to be more interesting than the interior of the train station.

"Reviewing what?" Spike asked curiously. "Don't you remember all that? I thought you were smart," he added, unable to resist getting a little dig in.

"Of course I remember it. But I have my own subjective impressions of the data, and I want to review it in its objective form."

"Fine, you're smart," Spike said with a sigh. "Care to say that again in English?"

Willow smirked. "I'm just checking to make sure I didn't jump to any conclusions – you know, taking assumptions and considering them facts?" she said, looking up at the vampire. "I just wish I knew what was in that box," she added wistfully.

"Huh?" Willow said, looking up at the vampire, pulling her attention away from the screen.

"Well, I was outside smoking. I can hear everything that's said in the living room from that tree out front," he said, tapping his ear lightly.

"That's kind of ... creepy," Willow said. "Do you, umm ... do that a lot?" she couldn't resist asking, even though she was pretty sure she didn't want to know the answer.

"Oh, no, never," Spike said, sounding completely unconvincing. "First time I've ever noticed, really," he added innocently.

"What do you know, Spike?" Willow asked, wishing she had a way of washing Spike's eerie stalker tendencies right out of her head. She was all in favor of the free exchange of information, but there were some things she just didn't want to know.

"Well, I got there as Giles was explaining it all. He said it was a necronomicon," Spike began, trying to remember everything they had said about those kinds of books.

Spike's eyebrows raised as he looked at Willow. He remembered that everyone had offered up different explanations of the word 'necronomicon', and they had all been wrong, Giles finally correcting them. Willow had gotten it right the first time. "Gives the girl a prize," Spike muttered. "I have no idea how someone as smart as you can be so bloody stupid."

"Yes, I'm an idiot," Willow said, scowling. "Could we get back on topic? This could be important."

"It's Pictish," Spike grumbled. "Seems their culture was all about balancing good and evil, so they had some seriously bad mojo in there."

"Yup. Giles was just saying something about how the book told people how to summon Glory's power when I heard you 'round the back of the house," Spike said thoughtfully, trying to remember exactly what Giles had said.

"Glory?" Willow asked weakly. And suddenly it made sense. The Beast and The Trickster hated each other – they were always at odds, each trying to oust the other from Hell. Margaret McDonald must have summoned Glory's power to keep the Trickster in Hell.

"Great," Willow muttered, her shoulders slumping. "Am I just Fated to get all freaky with the dark magicky in every lifetime?" she said on a long exhale, her face troubled. "Tapping into Glory in a past life, and tapping into the Trickster in this one – I'm thinking not such a good track record," she finished weakly. "I'm the bad guy," she added glumly, her eyes tearing up.

"Oh, please," Spike said, a disgusted look crossing his face. "You would be the worst Big Bad in all history. There's nothing evil about you."

"Oh, yeah?" Willow shot back, a stern look on her face. "I'm all ... hopped up on dark magicky stuff, and – and I tore Buffy out of Heaven, and sure I didn't know she was in Heaven at the time, but still! I'm a bad, bad person. And I erased Tara's memories, and that was really, really bad, especially after all the stuff with Glory, and – and it's like I'm ... I'm just no better than her stupid mean family, because I'm all stupid and mean-like, too, and -"

"Stop it before I have to slap you," Spike broke in, covering her mouth with one cold hand. "Listen to me," he said intently, looking her in the eye, wondering how he managed to get himself into these conversations. "You got out of hand, but you've never done anything with truly malicious intent. You were blind, not evil. Believe me, there's a difference."

Spike looked into Willow's wide-eyed gaze for a moment, then gingerly started to move his hand.

"But I -" Willow started, only to stop when Spike's hand quickly moved to cover her mouth.

"No sodding 'buts'," Spike growled. "Just nod your head like you understand me, then shut up. Got it?"

Willow nodded, then gasped as two hands entered her field of vision, lifting Spike out of his chair and tossing him into the wall across the way.

"Angel?" Willow gasped, looking up at the vampire, her mind spinning. What was Angel doing here?

"Angel! Bloody Hell," Spike said, getting to his feet and charging, his fist connecting with Angel's face with a satisfying crack.

With a grunt of surprise, Angel's head whipped back around, and he picked Spike up by his coat, tossing him back again.

Angel stepped in front of Willow, keeping his eyes on the blond vampire. "Wesley? Gunn?" he said.

"The room is cleared," Wesley said, coming around. Once Angel had moved into position and thrown Spike, he had quickly gotten the other people in the station out, telling them that Angel was a police officer, and that Spike was a dangerous criminal. They had been surprisingly complacent, running out quickly. Or maybe not so surprising, since Angel had thrown Spike into a wall twice.

"Angel?" Willow asked again, gaping at him. What was Angel doing here? She shook her head briefly. She'd already wondered that. But she hadn't answered herself. What was Angel doing here?

"It's all right, Willow," Angel said, his weight forward on the balls of his feet.

"It was already all right," Spike spat in disgust. "I'd like nothing better than to rip you into tiny little pieces, you sodding blighter."

"Umm ... Angel? It's really, umm ... okay," Willow said weakly, reaching out and tugging on his coat.

"Obviously I'm not wanted here. How about I just go?" Spike said casually, realizing that the odds of three to one were not in his favor. He looked at Wesley, then silently amended that thought. Two and a half to one.

"You're not going anywhere," Angel said, looking around cautiously. Spike probably had something up his sleeve.

"What?" Angel said, his face returning to normal as he turned his head to look at Willow.

Spike sprang forward as soon as Angel's head was turned, cracking him in the face again, then jumping back, a wide smile on his face.

"Maybe not, but I can take a crack at that nancy boy as much as I want," he said with a smirk. "Come on, Angel. Why don't you just come on over here, and we'll see who the Big Bad is."

"You sure you don't want me to just stake this guy?" Gunn asked, looking askance at Angel.

Angel lifted a hand to his face, frowning as he gingerly probed the cut on his lip.

Spike doubled over, then shifted forward, driving his shoulder into Angel's stomach, wrapping his arms around him and lifting him into the air. Setting his legs, he pushed off, throwing Angel back.

"Stop it!" Willow said, jumping to her feet and moving to stand between the two vampires who glared at each other menacingly, their demonic faces making Willow wonder what the frilly heck she was doing. "You're both behaving like children," Willow said, glaring at the vampires.

"Abducted her?" Spike shot back disbelievingly. "What in the world would I abduct Red for?"

"Oh, I see," Spike said. "Blame the evil vampire. I ask you, is that fair? Just point all the fingers you want. Fact is, she bloody well abducted me."

"She abducted you?" Gunn asked, looking back and forth between the large vampire and the small redhead. He managed to keep a straight face until he looked over at Wesley, then they both started snickering.

"Angel, what are you doing here?" Willow finally asked, then realized how that sounded. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, because boy am I ever! Glad to see you, that is, just ... 'cuz, everything's kind of ... all crazy whacky right now, and it's just ... good to see you," she finished lamely.

Angel almost smiled at the familiarity of Willow's rambling. He'd actually missed her, though in a way, with Fred around, it was like having an extra Willow. He couldn't help but wonder if they had been separated at birth.

"You all right?" he asked gently, looking Willow over and gesturing at Spike. "He didn't hurt you?"

"No, I'm fine. He has a chip in his head that won't let him hurt people," Willow explained.

"I'd heard something about that," Angel said with a nod and a grim look on his face. "But when I saw him with his hand over your mouth, and you looked kind of scared, I figured ..."

"Oh, fine," Spike said, throwing his hands up in the air and rolling his eyes. "Why don't you just tell everyone? Why not climb up to the roof and shout it to the world? Poor Spike! A mean evil vampire who can't bloody well bite people?"

"Anya called?" Willow asked, her eyes widening and her shoulders slumping in relief. "See?" she said, turning to Spike. "I told you they didn't do anything all stupid and heroic. They just went home, called Angel, and I bet they're waiting there right now to see if he found me."

Spike shook his head and sighed. If Tara was all right, there was no way Willow was going back to Sunnydale. Of course, there was nothing keeping him here. Now that Angel was there, he'd let the other vampire play White Knight, and get back to Buffy. He smirked, thinking of the 'vampire with a soul' and an amnesiac Buffy's reaction to the concept. Lame, indeed.

"Ummm, not quite," Wesley cut in. "It would seem that Anya called from her cellular phone. She and the others are at the Hellmouth."

"They're at the Hellmouth?" Willow asked, her jaw dropping. "What are they doing at the Hellmouth? That's a bad place – Evil, even. It's all ... bad ... and evil... and Hellmouthy. No, no Hellmouth. That's like next door to Hell," she went on, shaking her head vehemently. "And there will be no Scoobies in Hell. Scoobies in Hell is not allowed. It's in the contract – their Scooby status will be revoked!"

"They thought the Construct had you," Angel said simply. "Buffy and the others went to Hellmouth, but they didn't see any sign of you. They fought off some vampires, and then they called me. We've been stopping and checking every train from here to LA."

"So they went home, right?" Willow asked weakly. "They realized I wasn't there so they went home?"

"I'm afraid not," Wesley said slowly. "It seems that your girlfriend somehow managed to walk through the Hellmouth. She went after you."

"But ... she can't!" Willow protested, her eyes flying open and her face paling. Spike and Angel both moved forward to catch her as she wobbled, then Spike took a step back. He'd let Angel do it. No sense in being helpful when he didn't have to be.

"Yes, well, everyone seemed to be under the impression that she didn't have the necessary power to get through the Hellmouth, but clearly ..."

"No, you don't understand. She promised! No Hell-Walking. We decided – neither one of use was allowed to just go 'la la ... walking through Hell now'!" Willow said, leaning heavily against Angel.

"Yo – we going to stand here and chat, or are we going to go see this famous Hellmouth of yours?" Gunn asked. "Sounds to me like an ass-kicking is in order."

"Well, with Willow being the reincarnation of the witch who defeated the Trickster, there's really no way we can safely take her anywhere near the Hellmouth," Wesley said uneasily.

Willow found the words returned the strength to her head, and she stood up, whirling on the ex-Watcher. "You think I'm going to just sit around here when Tara's in Hell?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

"All I'm saying is, that it would be best to wait," he said, holding his hands up. "If the Trickster can be defeated some other way ..." he went on, trailing off as Willow's eyes darkened. He had trouble reconciling this dangerous-looking woman with the young girl he had known back in Sunnydale.

"Hey, man?" Gunn said slowly, looking over at Spike. "The part where she abducted you? Not so funny anymore."

"See?" Spike said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it up, hoping that Willow would just lose it and fry Wesley. "She's downright scary, isn't she?"

"Willow," Angel said softly, moving up behind the redhead. "Please, if we're going to help Tara, we need to stay calm."

Angel's words trickled into Willow's consciousness, and she took a few slow, deep breaths.

"How?" she asked, turning around and looking up at Angel, her eyes lost and scared. "How can I help her? Please ... please tell me you have a plan."

"We don't know yet," Wesley said gently. "But once Angel actually described the situation, I recognized it immediately. I did a paper on the truth behind legends when I was at University studying to become a Watcher. It dealt with how stories that are dismissed as fantasy today are just distorted bits of a darker truth."

"Here, I had an old friend at the Council fax me a copy. It dealt heavily with the destruction of the stone circle on Mull. It fits Angel's recollections perfectly," Wesley said, handing over a thick bound sheaf of papers.

Willow took it gingerly, opening the cover and seeing the title page. She almost snorted at the stuffy title Wesley had given his work. The table of contents was next, and she skimmed over it briefly, a few words catching her eye.

"Wesley, what does this mean?" she asked shakily, her eyes fixated on two words that seemed to leap off the page at her.

"Oh, that," Wesley said. "That's the legendary demon of the area," he said. "They stories seem to overlap ..." he began to explain, then trailed off, looking at Willow closely. "Are you all right?"

"We're going back to Sunnydale. Now," Willow said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

"We can't do that," Wesley said again. "You could throw the whole world out of balance."

"I don't want to have to repeat myself," Willow said angrily. She turned to Angel. "We're going. If you don't want to drive me, the go back to LA. I'll take the train. If any of you try to stop me, I'll hurt you. We clear?"

Angel looked at her closely. This wasn't the face of a woman who would foolishly endanger the world. She knew something. He didn't care what he had heard – he trusted Willow.

Tara pressed further through the barrier of energy that made up the Hellmouth, separating a dimension she had never cared to imagine from the world she knew. She held her breath as she moved, sure that there was no air where she was standing, and praying that there was air on the other side.

Would she even survive this? Had Willow survived? According to Anya, anything alive trying to enter Hell would die. Uncharacteristically, she hadn't gone into detail, but Tara imagined it would be very far from pleasant.

Moving through the yellowish energy of the Hellmouth felt oddly like... Jell-o. Or, rather, what she would imagine walking through a giant piece of Jell-o would feel like. Kind of like the Disney cartoon she remembered from when she was little. Hadn't Goofy walked through some Jell-o?

She felt her eyes roll back in her head as the warm sensation of the Hellmouth gave way to a great burning. She fell to her knees slowly, sinking against the yellowness, the necronomicon cradled against her chest as the strange energy of the Hellmouth absorbed the impact of her fall, gently letting her out on the other side, into a wall of flame.

Her mouth opened to let out a scream, but the heat that seared her mouth and throat, and the flames that scorched her flesh stole her voice. Her knees hit something – ground? Flame? It didn't matter, it couldn't matter – it was hot and it hurt, sharp and insistent as she fell onto her face, surrounded in fire.

She couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't scream her pain – she could only crawl forward, the flesh blackening and bubbling, peeling away. Muscle and sinew cooked beneath cracked skin, her hands stripped bare to the bone and ligaments, but still she moved forward.

There was no rhyme or reason to her movements – no plan, no thoughts, no ability to recall why she was there or where she had been before, but only that she must go on. She couldn't instruct her body to move – could only feel an agony a hundred times more horrific and consuming than any she could have imagined.

Still, her body crawled forward, as if of its own accord, deeper into the fire, surrounding itself in the dancing flames and the incessant crackling.

The fire cooled, or she grew used to the pain, or perhaps all of her nerve endings had been seared away – she didn't know. But she found herself able to think of something other than the intense suffering. Yellow – it was all still yellow.

A tiny whimpering issued forth, the only sound she could make as her lungs continued to pull in the heated air, her heart continued to beat. Oddly, there was no smoke or ash of any kind, just the searing flames.

Was this what her ancestor had felt? The Tara Maclay who had been burned at the stake? Her daughter, Fiona had almost escaped the legacy of the Maclay demon through her mother's suffering, until The Trickster had allowed Giles to break Anya's necklace.

Who were they? She felt like she should know. There were stories about them, swimming in her head, melding together. Something about dogs?

Why was she crawling? Why did she keep moving forward? She should stop. Rest. Just wait to die. There was nothing but fire, surrounding her, pouring through her. It enveloped her, and as it consumed her flesh, it called to her, offering her peace and the end of her torment.

A flash of red caught her eye – how could she possibly still see? – and she remembered. Red. Searching. She was looking for something – something that she had to find. It was vital – essential. And she would always find it... had promised to find...

A surge of strength filled her being, and she did not stop to wonder how it was possible – how her ravaged form could contain such power – but used it, pulling herself forward again, the body that should not have been able to move at all propelling her on and on.

And, finally out. Out of the flames and into a vast expanse – a dark wasteland that chilled her as the flames had burned. Jagged rocks, dark and angry framed against a blood red sky met her eyes, casting shadows that loomed and shifted all around her. Lightning flashed sporadically, the blue electric fire pounding into the ground.

A pool of water taunted her with its nearness. She raised her head, her spirits falling at the sight of the sickly, brackish water. It would be no use to her, and yet instinctively Tara reached out, her eyes widening when she saw he hand. It was whole and unharmed, though streaked with dirt where she had landed. She rolled over, her back pressing against the pebbles beneath her, feeling them scratch her bare skin.

Slowly, she sat up, looking down at her naked body, the necronomicon still clutched in one hand.

With a groan, she got unsteadily to her feet and looked around again, turning a full three-hundred sixty degrees to take in her surroundings.

Behind her was the wall of fire, and now that she was standing here and not crawling in there, she could hear them. Agonized screams issued forth from the flames, and Tara wondered how they had found their voices – how they managed to scream when she could not.

The answer, when it came to her, filled her with a sadness so sudden and full it brought tears to her eyes and stole her breath. They were already dead. Within the flames languished the souls who didn't have the strength to make it past the fire. They would, she knew – though she did not know how – stay there for all eternity, burning.

The memory of her own pain was still fresh, and she almost threw herself back into the flames to try to drag those poor souls out – to save them as she had saved herself. She took one step, then two, closer to the fire, tears streaming down her dirty face.

Again, she didn't know how she knew, but she did. Once back in the flames, she wouldn't be thinking of them – just her own torment. She wouldn't hear there screams, nor her own, and she would also be damned to spend an eternity there, lost and alone, unable to think of anything but the agony of the fire.

She couldn't afford that. She had to find Willow. If it had only been her – if she could have sacrificed herself to save just one from the torture she had endured, she would have – but she could not, and Willow needed her. There was nothing in Hell that would stop her from keeping Willow safe.

Still, she cried for them, turning around and looking across the desolate expanse to the mountains that rose up in the distance.

There – she had to go there. Willow was there, or would be soon enough. She could feel it.

Naked and alone, she started walking, the uneven ground treacherous, falling away unexpectedly and threatening to throw her to the cruel rocks. She was careful, moving slowly, but steadily. She would get to the Hell God before he could hurt Willow.

The wind picked up, screaming across the plain, whipping around the jagged boulders strewn about, making her hair fly all around her. It tossed dirt and small rocks all around, striking her skin with a sharp sting, but she pressed on.

"What are you doing here, Tara?" it seemed to demand of her. "You don't belong here. You shouldn't be here. You cannot fight him – he will win. He will always win."

Tara put her head down, walking against the wind, finally raising one arm in front of her, pushing against the force of it, the book still clasped protectively to her chest.

"Willow could not have survived the fire. She's still in there. She's dead. She's dead," the wind cackled at her, and Tara shook her head in denial.

It couldn't be true. She would know it if it were true, wouldn't she? Willow couldn't be dead – it wasn't possible. She would feel it – a piece of her would be missing if Willow had died, and that piece was so vital she wouldn't be surprised if her own heart ceased to beat at the same moment.

"How do you know you're still alive?" the wind whispered, calming somewhat and sending her hair tickling about her neck and shoulders. "No one survives the entry to Hell. No living thing survives."

"My heart beats for her," Tara whispered, pushing onward. She couldn't stop. She couldn't falter. And it was true – her heart beat for Willow. She recalled her words to Anya, recounting that fateful night when Willow had chosen her over Oz.

So she couldn't die. Not here – not like this. She had to save Willow, to keep her safe from the Hell God, and so her heart would continue beating, no matter the cost.

"People don't walk through Hell..." the wind taunted her. "People don't – but Demons do."

Tara's steps faltered at those words, and she winced, a great churning fillings her guts. Numbly, she shook her head, reaching out to rest her hand against sharp stone, resting for a moment and trying to find her breath.

She couldn't be. How could she love and be loved, if she were evil? How could Willow love her? How could the Scoobies have made her a part of her family.

She shook her head, then pressed on, thinking again of the story she had related to Anya – thinking again of a dark room, and an extra flamey candle.

A warmth surged through her as she let herself remember in vivid detail the joy she had felt that night. She called up each look, each touch, from the vault of her mind, playing it back and letting herself just feel it, as she had felt it then.

The wind picked up, screaming in rage, but she couldn't hear it – didn't feel it. She just kept walking, one foot moving automatically in front of the other, crossing this barren forsaken land. Her surroundings didn't matter – they couldn't touch her – because she held a piece of Heaven in her heart.

She pressed on and on, not knowing how long she walked, until finally, she stood at the foot of a mountain, a cliff face rising up before her, as far as her eye could see.

There was no way to go. She couldn't go around, nor could she climb such a height. No, the cliff was far too steep and far too tall to scale, and she knew that falling would not help Willow.

A sense of dread welled up in her. Was this the end? Had she walked into Hell only to find that a mountain barred her way?

She slumped against the rock, and when she touched it, a great flash blinded her momentarily.

The after-image of that blinding light blocked her vision, and she shut her eyes, shaking her head. After a moment, she let her eyes drift open, a dark shadow looming in her sight where there had been nothing but a cliff before.

She blinked once, then twice, trying to bring the cliff face back into focus, and to dispel the shadowy after-image, but it remained.

Her frustration grew after several moments, only to fade to a shocked sense of wonder as she realized her vision had cleared. Where there had been a sheer unscalable cliff a minute before, there was now the cool and shadowy cave.

That, she mused inwardly, had been far too easy. Still, it was the only path available to her, and so she moved into the entrance, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness within.

"You've finally decided to join me," a voice came from the dark. It was deep and rolling, the tones round and full, but echoing across the chamber. "I thought you were going to play in the fire a little longer, and I wondered if you would make it."

"Where's Willow?" she demanded, raising her free hand. A tiny ball of light appeared, but it could not pierce the gloom. "Who are you?"

"Willow?" the voice asked, seemingly puzzled. "I'm afraid she hasn't joined us here."

"I'm afraid that all I can say is that she's not here," the voice responded again. "She hasn't found her way in. You're rather resourceful, you know," it went on, the voice full of approval and flattery.

"Who are you?" Tara asked again, her voice dropped to a whisper. Her light grew in intensity, but still she could not see into the darkness. She could not see the owner of the voice.

"I am he who is formless and nameless, who delights in shadowed trickery," the voice recited in a whisper, a mocking lilt weaving through the words. "You have called me The Trickster many times."

"You will give her back to me," Tara growled, turning left, then right, glaring into the interior of the cave, unsure of the location of The Trickster. She had to find him – to make him return Willow to her.

"I cannot give you what isn't mine," The Trickster said reasonably. "Though, as you ask, I would gift you with her, if I could."

"There are always limits," the amused voice responded. "Without limits, there is no balance, without balance there is nothing."

"Destroy it?" the voice rang out. "Why would I do any such thing? I'm afraid you're under several gross misconceptions, dear Tara."

"I won't listen to you," Tara ground out, stepping further into the cave, holding the light aloft. "Just tell me where Willow is, and then we're going." She could feel a deep well of anger opening up within her as she stalked around the cave, searching for her elusive quarry.

"I'm afraid you have to," the voice said, all trace of mockery or amusement gone. "We have many serious things to discuss."

"I have nothing – nothing! – to discuss with you," Tara yelled, her voice bouncing off the walls and back again. "You will give me Willow, and then Willow and I will leave. You will stay in this pit forever, and you will never bother Willow again."

"Your loyalty to your lover is admirable," the voice said easily. "If only she felt the same."

"Stop it!" Tara said, her voice rising. "Stop your words and your games. Just give me Willow."

"I said I don't have her," The Trickster said back, the voice booming across the room. "And you will listen, or Willow will die."

"Let her go," Tara growled, spinning around, trying to catch a glimpse – just a glimpse – of the Hell God who threatened her very existence by his continued harm to Willow.

"What will you give to see her live, Tara? What would you sacrifice? Your life? Your soul? Tell me," he taunted. "What is she worth to you?"

"Everything," Tara whispered, her shoulders slumping as she stopped her made pacing. The anger drained from her. This was a God... what was she expecting to do to him? She couldn't even see him, let alone hurt him. "She's my everything."

"She hurt you, and you'd still do anything for her?" the Trickster asked, an odd hint of wonder in his tone.

"She is special, isn't she?" The Trickster asked rhetorically. "That's why I chose her. That's why I lent her my power in her struggles against chaos."

"She fights evil," Tara said, her head snapping up and her eyes flashing. "She fights you."

"Oh, no," The Trickster said, and Tara could hear the smile in his voice. "She's never fought me. Willow and I – we're on the same side. We both want order in all things. We want everything to have a place, and everything in its place. Those demons she fights so well – they bring chaos and disorder to the world, and I hate it. I have always hated it."

"They why -" Tara began, only to cut herself short. "No – no, this is wrong," she said, shaking her head.

"But it isn't wrong," The Trickster pressed. "You know it. You've seen it. I've never been the bad guy here, Tara. I merely lent the power. Willow chose how to use it. And when she used it for her own selfish ends – when she cast a spell on her friends... on you – that is when I stepped in. It was only then that the magick did her any harm. It was only then that she became ill. She needed to be punished for misusing the power I lent her – for achieving her personal goals instead of bringing a greater order to the world."

"No!" Tara yelled. "She would never willingly work for you – she would never be on your side."

"She's not evil. You're evil. I don't care if you both take your notes in different colored pens – she's a good person," Tara insisted.

"Would a good person steal your memories away, manipulating you and keeping you at her side?" The Trickster taunted, cruelty dripping from each word as they slammed into Tara's being, making her flinch. "That one struck home, didn't it?"

"No," Tara said again, her head shaking back and forth vehemently, tears stinging her eyes. "You're wrong. She... she didn't mean..."

"Didn't mean what? Didn't mean to... what was it? 'Violate your mind'?" The Trickster said with a chuckle, throwing Tara's own words back at her.

"It was stupid and short-sighted, but it wasn't malicious," Tara said after a moment, calming herself with an effort.

"Believe what you will," The Trickster said airily. "Or, rather, tell yourself that's what you believe. We both know the truth."

Tara felt doubts welling up inside of her. Malicious? Willow? No, it couldn't be. And yet his words made sense. He made sense. Willow loved things to be orderly and neat – and wasn't that what she had tried to maintain by making her forget their argument? There was nothing tidy about a fight.

And Buffy's resurrection – wasn't that largely to maintain the safe little world Willow had made with herself, surrounded by her monster-fighting friends?

"I... I -" Tara began, stopping in confusion. Her brow furrowed as she frowned, her mind racing, latching on to detail after detail, each detail more evidence of Willow's obsession with order.

But that was... Willow? Evil? Tara shook her head again. No, there was no way. A thought occurred to Tara, and she relaxed, her breath evening out. No, Willow wasn't evil. Willow had been tricked – as The Trickster was now attempting to trick her.

Balance was necessary, in all things, and where Willow was orderly, Tara was not. And where Tara was orderly, Willow was not. They balanced each other. Surely someone who would forget to eat breakfast wasn't the chosen instrument of Evil Order?

"She serves me," The Trickster said after a moment. "She and I share a common goal, and she is my chosen agent on the earth. But she has displeased me, and so she will die."

"You can't have her," Tara growled, renewed faith and hope filling her. She wouldn't allow it. She didn't know how she would stop it – not yet, anyway – but she wouldn't let it happen. She belongs to Willow, and she wouldn't let some Hell God come along and hurt her in any way. "You will leave her alone."

"I suppose I could do that," The Trickster said, his voice speculative. "However, I'm afraid that would put me at a disadvantage."

"Because if I let Willow live and agree to leave her alone, I won't get to use her as my instrument any longer," The Trickster explained. "Why would I ever want to do a thing like that?"

"What? You'll throw tiny tinkerbell lights at me?" The Hell God mocked. "You can't be serious."

"I asked what you would give up," The Trickster said. "I asked what price you would pay. Did you really mean anything? Everything?" he asked curiously.

"Yes," Tara said, a cold fear rising up within her. She was likely about to make a deal with the devil, and Goddess help her, if it meant saving Willow, she didn't care.

"You have quite a bit of power yourself," The Trickster said slowly, as if weighing his words. "I am willing to make you a trade."

"Well, Willow, we have seen, has given up magick for you. She hasn't cast in... well, quite a bit longer than I thought she would be able to stop herself. Quite a bit longer than I thought she'd survive, really," he said slowly. "Would you do the same? Would you give up magick in exchange for Willow's life?"

"What's the catch?" Tara asked after a moment, her breath quickening as her heart thudded in her chest. Give up magick? For Willow's life?

But Goddess help her, not with no questions asked – not with this Hell God lurking in the shadows and seeming too eager to agree to offer up a trade.

"Well, your power isn't something I can just take from you," The Trickster said with a chuckle. "And I can't really just take you at your word that you'll never cast again – because I know that even if you promised me, you would do so to save Willow's life. Or Dawn's or Buffy's. Any of your friends really."

"So that leaves us at an impasse," Tara said, keeping her voice carefully even. What was he up to?

"There is another way, though," The Trickster said silkily. "There is a ritual – a sort of promise made between two parties. This promise – this ritual – will bind your magick to my service."

"Oh, no," The Trickster laughed. "Quite the contrary. I will not be able to command you, no," he said. "But if you were to try to cast a spell, you couldn't unless I allowed it. I sincerely doubt you would ever cast a spell again in those circumstances."

"No, I wouldn't," Tara said slowly. Was that it? The Trickster wouldn't gain control of her, or her power – she would just be unable to cast. Was that the whole deal? No more spells – no more magick – and in exchange, Willow could live?

She had practiced magick all her life – she couldn't remember a time when she hadn't seen the world as a mystical beautiful place, despite the harsh realities of her family. There was nothing else in her life that tied her so closely to her mother.

And yet her previous words were true. There was nothing she wouldn't and couldn't give up to keep Willow safe. There was no sacrifice she wouldn't make. And really, in the grand scheme of things, what were a few spells?

"There's something more, though, isn't there?" she asked slowly, her gaze finally settling on a vaguely man-shaped form, a deeper black amidst the darkness of the cavern.

A figure stepped forward, still shrouded in shadow. "Yes, there is," he said softly.

"The ritual requires that I be left a... souvenir... of our agreement," his voice reached her.

"What kind of souvenir?" she asked steadily, her eyes trained on the shadowy form.

"The culmination of the ritual requires that you sever your own left little finger, and leave it here with me," he said, an odd note – excitement? – ringing in his voice.

Tara froze for a moment, her eyes drifting shut and a shudder of horror shaking her frame. She was vaguely familiar with what he described. It was something she had thought she would never even consider doing, let alone need to do to save the one person she would give anything for. The ritual was dark, so very dark, and would scar her in more ways than one.

"Willow, you can't do this," Wesley said urgently, trying to talk some sense into the girl. Gunn stood uncertainly at his side, unsure of whom to back up.

"I'll explain in the car," willow said, leaving Wesley behind as she walked to the exit. Spike just smirked, casting an amused glance at the ex-watcher and picking up Willow's laptop and bag. He hurried to catch up with her, even as Angel started to follow.

"Angel," Wesley said, his voice low and pleading. "Please, be reasonable. You know how The Trickster operates. We have to stop Willow."

Angel shook his head, shrugging away from Wesley's hand and walking off. "She said she'll explain in the car. You coming?" he called back.

Gunn looked at Wesley, then shrugged, following Angel and leaving Wesley standing there alone in the middle of an empty train station waiting room.

Wesley looked up briefly at the ceiling, as if seeking some guidance, or perhaps admonishing the Powers That Be for putting him in this situation in the first place. He took a deep breath, ordering his thoughts. He knew better than the others just what the Scooby Gang, as they called themselves, meant to Angel. The brooding vampire played things close to the chest, but Wesley knew. But more importantly, he knew how very hard for Angel it was every time he saw Buffy, and this impromptu visit to Sunnydale would likely result in such a reunion again.

That, more than anything, sent Wesley into motion, running to catch the motley group of demon fighters, jumping into the back seat of Angel's illegally parked convertible.

"Well, if a Hell God is going to be unleashed upon the Earth, I don't want to miss it, do I?" Wesley said by way of explanation as everyone in the car looked at him.

"Right," Angel said with a nod, and just the barest hint of what could be termed a smile. "Buckle up," he reminded them, everyone but Spike fastening their safety belts as Angel turned the key, pulling the car out of the parking lot and heading to the road.

"The police pull you over for not wearing a seat belt. It's the law," Angel said slowly.

"Oh, fine," Spike said, hurriedly putting on his seat belt. Was everyone going to give him grief for everything he did? Willow had sat up front, and Spike had followed, wanting to stick close to the redhead. Really, he was the only one of the bunch who knew Tara, and Spike wanted to stay close to Willow, ready to reassure her if need be.

Somehow, when Angel had shown up, taking over with Willow, Spike had resented it. His mind had called up memories of Willow. The way Willow had let him cry when he had kidnapped her after Dru had left. The way she had encouraged him to try again when he had first found out he couldn't bite people. Red was all right, he decided.

And he, too, had been there for her. Distraught and unhappy, he had reassured her just how bitable she was, making her feel better about herself. Sure, she had ended up braining him with a lamp and running off, but it was a moment they shared. They had a history. It was almost like they were friends.

But Angel had objected, telling Spike to get in the back seat. Luckily, Wesley had arrived just then, jumping into the spot Angel had insisted he take, and he had not brought it up again, just issuing stupid orders about seat belts, then taking off.

Willow shifted nervously in her seat, opening the thick sheaf of bound papers in her hand and squinting at it, trying to make out the words in the dark. Her laptop rested across her legs, the weight comforting and familiar amidst the strangeness and fear permeating the situation.

'Angel to the left of me – Spike is on the right, and I'm stuck here in the middle with you,' she thought absurdly, cracking a smile as she regarded her laptop fondly. How crazy was all of this? She was surrounded by vampires and it made her feel... safe.

If only Tara were there, it would be perfect. Of course, if Tara were there, then she wouldn't be there, because there wouldn't be any reason to be riding around with these men to rescue Tara in the first place. But still – it wouldn't matter where they were or what they were doing. If only Tara were there, it would be perfect.

Willow shook herself from her thoughts, looking back down at the papers, inwardly cursing the lack of light. Maybe if she turned it on, she could use the screen as a light source so she could read?

Angel glanced over at Willow as he drove, his worry evident on his features. She looked... tired – but more than that. Worn out. Run down. He imagined that plenty had happened since that first call he had gotten from Sunnydale, and most if not all of it must have pushed Willow closer and closer to the ends of her strength. "There's a flashlight in the glove box," he said, his words barely audible to Willow as he drove.

Spike looked over at him, then opened the glove box, pulling out the flashlight and switching it on. As casually as he could manage, he held the beam of light as steady as possible, aiming it at the papers in Willow's hand. "Well, she can't hold it herself, and you're driving," Spike said defensively, his voice raised so he could be heard when Angel looked at him with surprise in his eyes. "I'm no keener on the end of the world than you are. In fact, I seem to recall a time when you tried to end it all, and I helped stop you," he concluded cheerfully, a smug look crossing his face.

"No fighting over me," Willow said when Angel growled, gripping the steering wheel tightly at Spike's words. Then, she froze, her eyes widening. "I don't mean 'over me' fighting over me, in the 'fighting for Willow' sense, because that would be silly. But no getting all growly and fighty with me sitting here, because I'm not loving the idea of being in the middle here," she said in a rush.

Finally, Wesley could no longer contain himself, unbuckling his belt and sitting forward, leaning close to the back of the front seat. "You said you would explain," he said, practically shouting over the wind. "What do you know?"

"Does the name 'Tara Maclay' mean anything to you?" Willow yelled back, half-turning in her seat to regard Wesley with serious eyes.

"Tara Maclay? No, The Trickster was defeated by Fiona Maclay," Wesley responded. "No one named Tara Maclay was there."

"Fiona Maclay?" Spike said with a frown, switching the flashlight to the other hand while he fished in his pocket for his cigarettes. "I thought Margaret MacDonald defeated The Trickster?" Wesley looked at him oddly. "What? I've been helping. I know what's going on."

"No, Margaret was her love, and also a practicing witch. She was there, but Fiona defeated The Trickster. But I still don't understand how you got a 'Tara Maclay' from all of this."

"Tara Maclay means everything to me," Willow said, taking a deep breath before finishing her explanation at Wesley's confused look. "She's my girlfriend."

"I wonder if they teach them how to say that at Watcher's School?" Spike whispered to Willow, earning an amused look from the girl. "He sounds just like Giles."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Willow chuckled soundlessly. Wesley had sounded exactly like Giles. Then she paused, looking at Spike with a furrowed brow. Was Spike... trying to cheer her up?

"Hey," Spike said at her serious expression, bumping her shoulder with his gently. "We'll get your bird back," he went on, his voice low. "There's no way she won't come back to you. We'll make it right, you'll see."

Willow smiled wanly, appreciating Spike's efforts. Part of her still couldn't trust Spike, not really. After everything he had done to the Scoobies before he was chipped, and even after, really, she couldn't let herself really believe in him.

But she could believe in his words. They were right and true. Tara would come back to her – and she would find Tara. She could always find Tara, and she wouldn't let anything happen to her. Maybe she was kidding herself, maybe there was nothing she could do, but if sheer love and dogged determination could possibly make a difference, then Tara was as good as saved.

"Yo, what's all that mean?" Gunn asked Wesley in the back seat. "Who's the Maclay chick?"

"Fiona Maclay defeated The Trickster. Tara Maclay, obviously, must be her descendant. Which means The Trickster needs Willow's girlfriend to open the Hellmouth and come to Earth," Wesley said slowly, his brow furrowing as he ordered all the new pieces of information in his thoughts.

"And Willow's girlfriend's the one who's already in Hell?" Gunn asked. "Sounds like a party."

"Yes, well, if your idea of a party involves Hell opening, Hell Gods escaping, and lots of blood, then yes," Wesley agreed quietly.

Spike lit his cigarette, the wind threatening to extinguish it completely. He cradled it in his hand carefully as he smoked, blocking the wind with his fingers, the warmth of the lit tip seeping into his dead flesh. Still, he held the flashlight carefully, casting worried glances at Willow occasionally, trying to appear as if he didn't give a damn.

Truth was, he liked Red. Sometimes. But Tara? Red's bird had a way of worming her way into anyone's heart, even a soulless demon like him. She had never treated him badly, and in that way, she reminded him a lot of Joyce. Joyce had been an amazing woman, full of tea and sympathy for him – it was something completely alien to him. He had no frame of reference for anyone being that nice to him, even before he had been turned.

Even during his life he had been ridiculed and laughed at. His un-life had been a bit different, but not much. Angel and Darla had always treated him with something akin to contempt, only Dru truly understanding him. Only Dru had loved him.

And in the end, Dru had left him – for stopping Angel from ending the world. Not that he had done it all himself, but he had helped, and Dru's reaction to that had been far from favorable. It had always gnawed at him how Angel – Angelus, he corrected silently – had always held such fascination for Dru. It was like when Angelus was there and paying attention to her, he, Spike, ceased to exist.

It had made him wonder, in his more introspective moments, if Dru hadn't made him to make Angelus jealous to begin with.

Either way, Dru had loved him. He knew that. Perhaps she had grown to love him, as he made himself more and more into the demon she wanted him to be, but whether it happened early on or late in the game didn't matter. She had loved him.

Maybe it was twisted and wrong to equate Dru's love to Joyce's or Tara's, but he did. To his mind, they were the same. Not that Joyce or Tara loved him – far from it, he speculated. But the way they treated him – like he was a person, with thoughts and feelings he was entitled to instead of a hapless poet or a soulless demon – that was something else to be grateful for.

So for their sake, because Joyce loved all the Scoobies dearly, and because Tara was the one in danger, he would help Red as much as he could. She was likely the only one who could fix this, if he knew anything about prophecies and rituals and all that stuff he had picked up despite himself living with Dru. That was, of course, discounting Buffy as a motivation. He frowned as he took another drag on his cigarette. Was he kidding himself? Just coming up with reason after reason to be nice, when the fact was, he would do anything to get on Buffy's good side?

He didn't know, and he didn't care to know. Sometimes, introspection was just more trouble than it was worth, and it didn't matter why he did something, did it? No, it didn't. He'd just keep an eye on Red, and he wouldn't worry about why.

Willow flipped to the page dealing with the Maclay Demon. Those two words in the table of contents had nearly knocked her over, their impact was so great. As soon as she had seen them, she had known. Tara must have been the one to have defeated The Trickster, and the legend of the Maclay Demon that she had lived with her whole life must have had their source there.

She tried to clamp down on her anger as she silently read, the strange circular pattern of light and darkness that only a flashlight could make slowing her down, but only slightly. The Trickster was responsible for it all. She really didn't care the few minor hardships she had endured because of him – in fact, he could have done much worse, and she wouldn't have minded, not really. What happened to her wasn't important.

But what he had done to Tara... there could be no forgiveness and no mercy for such a thing. She had spent her life living in fear, surrounded by the hatred and vitriol of her father and her brother, because of The Trickster's curse, with only her mother, who held the same fears and was subjected to the same violence, to stand by her.

No, The Trickster would pay. She didn't know how, but she knew that he would. She would stop his plans cold, no matter the cost, and when he was defeated, she would laugh.

She turned her attention back to the paper in her hand, wading through the pompous wording and unnecessary imagery. Who wrote like that? Or, more accurately, who wrote like that in an academic paper?

Far from being dry, it honestly read like a Harlequin romance novel, and Willow had to stop herself from turning and looking at Wesley speculatively. The man had either had too much time on his hands, or the Watcher's Council was a much more disturbing organization than Willow had thought.

She turned back to her reading with a little sigh, bypassing the flowery passages and flights of fancy Wesley had taken, sifting through it all and finding the facts. It was the facts she needed – this paper might even be an entertaining read at another time, in another place.

But not here and not now. Now she needed information, because Tara needed her. And if she couldn't use her magicks, and knowledge was power, then information was the only thing she could take with her when she marched into Hell.

She had promised Tara that she would always find her. There was no way she was going to let some little thing like a Hellmouth she wasn't sure she could get through, or Hell itself, which she wasn't sure she could survive, stop her.

What was Tara doing now? Was she all right? Lost and alone and scared? Willow shuddered, a chill running down her spine, and she didn't know if the cold wind surrounding her or the icy fear welling up within her was the cause.

She barely noticed and made no acknowledgement when Spike managed to shrug out of his coat, keeping the flashlight steady, then wrapped it around her fingers. She was too lost in her racing thoughts and the words unfolding before her to make any acknowledgement, but shifted appropriately at the right times so that he could arrange the material around her.

Wesley's words were somewhat familiar, much of what he had written already found by Giles' group of friends at the Watcher's Council, but this was clearer. Obviously, Wesley had had much more time to compile his data, and perhaps his original findings were as scattered and inaccurate as those she had on her laptop.

"Wesley?" she called, looking over her shoulder at him, finally noting that she had Spike's coat keeping her warm. She looked over quizzically at Spike, who only shrugged and scowled in response, then turned back to the ex-watcher.

"Here," she said, awkwardly handing back her precious laptop. "There's a file on there called trprophecy. Giles translated some of it, but I don't know how accurate he was."

"I'll take a look," Wesley said, taking the laptop carefully and opening it, cursing under his breath. Macs. He hated them. He just hoped he didn't break the thing, or Willow was likely to turn him into a toad.

Willow went back to reading after yet another interruption, trying to focus. She needed to stop these stray thoughts. That last one was likely useful, because it put Wesley to work on their long drive back to Sunnydale, but there wasn't anything Spike or Gunn could do – and Angel was driving, so he was out. Instead, she needed to read what Wesley had here.

One thing immediately struck her as Willow read. The Betrayer and The Devil seemed to be a mistranslation on the Watchers' part. Or, rather, Wesley had come up with a subtly different, but undoubtedly more accurate translation. The Demon and The Adulterer.

Willow's heart clenched as she read their story, the truth behind a legend that, according to Wesley's work, lived on in that part of the world today.

The Demon, Fiona Maclay, had been a white witch, and a midwife on the island, her family having lived there for generations. Despite how long they had made the island their home, they were considered outsiders, and not above the superstitious whisperings of the townsfolk.

A young minister and his wife moved to the area, to see to the spiritual needs of the people. She was already pregnant with their first child, and she insisted on seeing the midwife, despite his reservations. Still, he loved her, and it was the way of her family, and so he relented.

And so Margaret MacDonald met Fiona Maclay, and they became friends. The townspeople grew more accepting of Fiona, expecting Margaret's pious influence to sway her from the Old Ways, only to later learn to their horror that the opposite had taken place – Margaret learned the ways of witchcraft, and they became lovers.

It was the second year after they had met that Fiona became aware of strange signs. She studied a book, which Willow assumed had to be the book Spike had told her about, trying to interpret them. To her horror, she realized that a Hell God was preparing to come to the Earth, and she spent many nights in secluded study, trying to find a way to avert this tragedy, for the world would never be the same if The Trickster escaped from Hell.

Margaret tried to help, but the more Fiona learned, the more she withdrew from her lover, afraid for her. She tried to convince Margaret to leave – to take her son and her husband and get off the island, but Margaret refused.

Finally, Fiona had her answer, and after much tears and anguish, Margaret convinced Fiona to tell her how she was going to defeat a God.

When Margaret learned that Fiona was planning upon calling down the dark power of another Hell God – a sworn enemy to The Trickster – Margaret was both furious and terrified. She tried to convince Fiona to seek another answer, but Fiona saw that it was the only way.

Incensed by the machinations of two demons who served The Trickster's interests – Angel and the Construct, Willow realized – the townsfolk arrested Margaret for witchcraft, blaming her for the ills that had befallen them.

Fiona could not save her lover, because the time had come, and so she went alone to the circle of stones above the village where the barrier between Hell and Earth was weakest.

She was triumphant, but no details about that battle remained, for when she returned to the town, all ability to reason had left her. She was kind and compliant, but her mind had become addled. Her brothers fled the town, taking their sister with her, and no account remained as to where they had gone, though many suspected they left for America.

Margaret's husband convinced the people to let her go, with the promise that they would leave and never return. They moved to the mainland, where Margaret lived her life with a man she did not love, bearing his children and keeping his house, never to practice witchcraft again.

Willow completed the section, feeling hot tears falling down her face. The words had struck a chord in her. She wasn't sure Wesley had gotten all the details right, or if perhaps he had just made up and filled in logically where the accounts of the time left holes, but the story sounded familiar, as if it were a forgotten tale told to her in her childhood, only to stumble upon it again as an adult.

She could feel Margaret's confusion, her anguish, in discovering a forbidden love. On the surface it sounded so cheesy and movie-of-the-week, but she could feel it. And the way Fiona had distanced herself seemed eerily familiar. Hadn't she and Tara done just that? Hadn't they both distanced themselves a little, in order to protect the other?

Other thoughts flooded her mind, and with them a wave of guilt. She was the bait. The whole time, she was the bait to lure Tara to The Trickster, and she had fallen in line with his plans again and again.

Was she falling in line with them again now? She didn't know. There was no answer to that question. But it didn't feel like she was. Then again, it had never felt like she was before, either.

Still, that was a risk she couldn't take. Tara was in Hell right now, and it was all her fault.

She cursed herself quietly, using language a nice girl like her had no business knowing, let alone using. Tara was in the gravest of danger, and it was her fault. Everything was her fault, because she should have seen – should have known somehow that she was missing something.

She had assumed. She had made and ass out of herself and Xander. Her dream had told her – she had been asking the wrong questions. It was her own fault that Tara was in trouble, like it was her fault that she and Tara argued, leaving Tara alone at the cultural fair where she couldn't run and she couldn't call for help, and she was completely at Glory's mercy. And Glory had been in her dream.

Thoughts of Glory crossed her mind, and she cursed her, inwardly this time. Even when that bitch was dead, she was causing problems. Between Tara's horrific visions and the part she had played in the tragic love story written in the pages in front of her – not to mention the entire situation the previous year – Willow half-wanted to bring her back from the dead, just so she could have another go at her.

The anger welled up fierce and strong, as she cried again, bitter tears slipping past her eyelids and trailing down her face. Glory. She hated her. She hated her and The Trickster as she had never hated anything before, and would probably never hate anything again. It galled her that Glory had been both the salvation of the world and the destruction of her happiness in a lifetime she couldn't remember, but still resonated strongly within her.

"Oh, that's not good," Spike said, peering closely at her. She flinched when the light from the flashlight moved to her face, the bright glare striking her eyes.

"Spike, stop it," Willow said, throwing up her good hand reflexively to block the light and flinching into Angel.

"What's going on?" Angel asked, taking his eyes off the road to look at Willow, prepared to pull over and take the time to beat Spike to a pulp if need be. Or just stake him. That would probably be faster.

Angel sucked in a breath – a reflexive holdover from the days of his humanity – at the sight before him. A dark crackling energy trailed down from Willow's eyes, streaking across her cheeks.

"You're ummm," Spike said, gesturing to his own face, a concerned look crossing his features. "You're all... crackly."

"I... what?" Willow said, raising a hand to her face, getting a little shock when her fingers touched the thick fluid there. "Oh. Oh!" she said, turning Angel's rearview mirror so she could see herself. Her eyes seemed darker, though they weren't shaded to black like she was preparing to cast, and she hoped that was just the poor lighting. But she couldn't explain away the liquid dark magick on her face where tears should have been.

Willow just stared at her reflection, then glanced down at her hands. Those seemed normal. Nothing strange there. Frowning, she slowly peeled back the layers of Spike's shirt covering the shallow gashes on her arm.

"You don't want to do that, pet," Spike said slowly, his own hand reaching out to stop her movements.

Spike just looked at her a moment, his eyes raising up to meet Angel's, for once a fleeting instant of understanding passing between them. Then the moment was gone, and Spike gently withdrew his hand, gamely holding the light on Willow's arm.

Willow unwrapped the cloth, the skin around the wounds angry and red. It had stopped bleeding at some point, at least, she sincerely hoped it had, because the dark fluid crackling with energy seeped forth sluggishly.

"Her bag," Spike instructed, turning back to look at Gunn. Gunn nodded, retrieving the bag from where Spike had dropped it at his feet and handing it up.

Without a word, Spike took out the baking soda, raising an eyebrow in question, looking at Willow.

Setting her jaw, her eyes narrowing, Willow nodded tightly. Spike swallowed once, then pressed one hand to her chest, holding her firmly back against the seat, then sprinkled the baking soda on the wound.

Everyone flinched when Willow screamed, her left hand digging into Angel's arm as he drove, her legs kicking instinctually and her body trying to bend over her wound and take the pain away. Willow's cry died away, to be replaced by anguished heaving gasps, the bubbling hiss of the baking soda interacting with the dark magick distinct and clearly audible.

Willow risked a look down, her jaw clamped tight, oddly fascinated by the bubbling and popping on her arm.

She gasped and shuddered, then the reaction subsided, leaving a gooey mess there, cooling in the night. Spike left his hand where it was a few moments longer, then Willow nodded again and he moved it, her body finally allowed to slump forward.

As she shook, cradling her arm gingerly, Spike took out one of her shirts and carefully wiped the wound, removing all trace of the goo.

Shaking his head, Spike pushed her back in the seat, and she braced herself for another round. There was no screaming this time, but everyone in the car winced at the sound of Willow's painful moans and whimpers.

Her eyes shut tight, her small frame shuddering in her seat, her limbs jerking spasmodically.

"This stuff is helping. The dark crackly stuff is killing her," Spike ground out, looking over at Angel angrily as he carefully rewrapped Willow's arm.

"I... I think there's some water, in the bag," Willow said softly. She thought she had backed a water bottle, but she couldn't remember, being too distracted by the painful throbbing and burning in her arm.

"Oh, right," Spike said with a nod, digging around in the bag and pulling forth a bottle. "Here," he said, handing it over.

Willow shook her head, denying the bottle. "Open it up and put the stuff in," she said, leveling a look at him when it seemed he would refuse.

Willow just nodded. "It's... it's building up fast. I need... I have to be okay... long enough..." Willow trailed off, the unspoken thought that she had to stay alive just long enough to save Tara hanging in the air between them.

Spike looked like he was going to say something, then sighed, nodding again and opening up the bottle.

A strange feeling welled up in Spike – one that he wouldn't have ever thought he would associate with Willow. Respect rose in him, strong and sudden as he looked at Willow, determined to save her love at any cost.

It was her quiet strength. There was nothing flashy or overly heroic about it – just the dark gritty reality that something had to be done, and that she was the only one to do it.

He started sprinkling in the baking soda, the white powder filtering through the clear liquid, clouding it in a strange pattern. He watched it for a moment, placing his thumbs over the mouth of the bottle and shaking it up, letting the substance mix with the water then started sprinkling some more in.

"What will that do to her?" Wesley asked uneasily from the back seat. He had noticed what the baking soda had done to her arm – how could he have missed it? – and he was worried about what it would do to her if she ingested the stuff.

"It'll hurt," Spike said dryly, leveling a disapproving look at Wesley. "A lot."

"Is... is this really... necessary?" Wesley asked weakly, echoing Angel's earlier concern.

Spike finished preparing the drink, screwing the nozzle back onto the bottle and handing it over to Willow. "I'd offer you a bullet to bite, but I don't have one," he said softly. "And that would interfere with the whole drinking thing."

Willow offered a wan smile to Spike, taking the bottle and drinking deeply, choking down the gritty liquid. She felt herself start to gag, but forced herself past it, swallowing the liquid and wincing at the pain in her gut. It churned violently, and she spluttered, leaning forward and catching some of the water in her hand, coughing.

Frowning, Spike patted her on the back until she stopped coughing, then helped her sit back up. He reached for the bottle, but Willow shook her head, her resolve face falling over her features.

"Love's bitch?" Spike asked softly, leaning in so only Willow would hear his words, a small smile turning the corners of his mouth.

"If..." Tara added on, her mind churning. It occurred to her that this had all been far too easy. Well, except for the fire part. But finding The Trickster and talking him into letting Willow go shouldn't have worked like that. It was... almost civilized.

"And here I thought you were going to be reasonable," The Trickster sighed. "Care to spend a little more time in the fire?" he asked, his voice taking on a low and dangerous note. "Because that can easily be arranged."

"I just... how do I know you'll hold up your end of the bargain? How do I know Willow will really be safe?" Tara asked, lifting her chin even as she cringed inwardly at the idea of being tossed back into the fires.

"You want some kind of guarantee?" The Trickster asked incredulously. "There are no guarantees, little girl. You'll have to take me at my word."

"Then I've no use for you," The Trickster said with a scowl, waving a hand and sending a shockwave of force at Tara.

Time seemed to slow for Tara as she could see the air rippling with power, moving towards her. Her own hand raised in slow motion, her heart thudding loudly in her ears.

They were simple words, which is why she remembered them, and she spoke, her voice low and sure, the necronomicon grasped in her hand.

Balance. The Picts had an unusual understanding of balance, and now some of that understanding was Tara's.

She couldn't confront a Hell God. She couldn't remotely hope to prevail. His force was too great for her to resist. No shield could hold against it – there was no block, no magick powerful enough to stop it cold.

Instead, she balanced the surrounding forces, smoothing out the disturbances The Trickster's attack had made, bleeding energy away from it and softening the blow.

Even so, the force struck her solidly in the chest, sending her flying back and crashing into the dirt landing awkwardly on her side. Her left arm was scratched and bruising, numerous scrapes seeping blood, her hip felt raw and tender, and part of her back was also sore.

She lifted her head and looked at the shadowy form of The Trickster, her eyes cold and hard and determined. Stifling a moan, she shifted, testing her limbs. Nothing seemed to be broken, but she moved gingerly, rising to her feet and standing to face him.

"So you learned a few tricks from your book," he said mockingly. "Time well spent. But perhaps you should have learned a bit more before facing me?"

Tara made no reply, stepping forward until she stood before him, battered, bleeding and naked, but standing. She would not relent, she would not give up, and she would not fail. Willow would be returned to her, and she wouldn't let anything stop her, God or not.

She could not see his eyes, but a wave of revulsion washed over her as she felt him looking at her, his gaze crawling up her body from her feet to the top of her head.

"You don't understand that you've already lost, do you?" The Trickster asked, his voice dripping with incredulity. "Are you so eager to die, Tara? Go back through the Hellmouth, back to your friends who are waiting for you still, unless you are prepared to make a deal."

"No," Tara said, even though she knew it was a lie. She would do anything to save Willow, anything at all, but she needed more information. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing up, and something in her was screaming a warning that she could not trust The Trickster. She needed to know what the catch was – needed to know exactly what she was agreeing to when she finally relented and performed the ritual to save Willow.

"Ahh, I think I see," The Trickster said easily. "You don't want to give up the power, even for Willow. You don't want to be just another person, with no magick. Nothing to make you special. She never would have noticed you without it – never would have spent time with you. And now you can't give it up, like she did."

"That's not true," Tara said, her voice shaking with repressed rage, even as a feeling of guilt welled up inside her. Wasn't it? Would she and Willow be together today without the magick? But that was a pointless question, because they were together. Willow didn't love her spells – she loved her. Tara. Didn't she?

"Willow took the risk. But you're not as strong as Willow, are you? You can't take the same kinds of risks that she can. And so you're going to let her down – you're going to let her die," The Trickster pressed mercilessly, every word making Tara flinch.

"What do you get out of it?" Tara asked bluntly, desperation pushing her on. She had to know – she had to be aware of the full implications of her actions before she decided. But a piece of her wondered why – why she had to know so much. Did it matter? Wouldn't she pay any price to save Willow?

"I lose a witch, the Powers That Be lose a witch," The Trickster said softly. "It's an equitable trade."

"You'll lose her anyway, if you kill her," Tara said firmly, inwardly cringing at how cold and heartless the words sounded.

"Very good, Tara," he said, his voice warm and approving. "Perhaps you're not stupid after all."

"She won't perform your ritual, will she?" Tara asked, a note of pride entering her voice. That was her Willow... stubborn to the end.

"It's only a matter of time. If she doesn't, she dies," The Trickster said, the shadow seeming to shrug.

"If you're planning on killing her anyway, why are we talking?" Tara asked slowly, pretty sure she didn't want to hear the answer.

"Because I'll give her back to you – let her go without performing the ritual – if you bind your powers to my service," The Trickster said. "I will grant you this one chance to save her."

"That doesn't make any sense," Tara said with a small frown, trying to understand the convoluted thought processes of this Hell God. She had to understand – she knew that, somehow, that understanding was necessary in making this decision. "What do you get out of letting her live?"

A second chance," The Trickster said simply. "Her line will continue. And then I can try again," he went on, his voice dripping with menace, sending a shock of cold fear straight into Tara's gut.

"And if she never has children?" Tara asked slowly, trying to work out an angle – any angle – to both save Willow and prevent The Trickster from getting what he wanted. Clearly, Willow wasn't being cooperative, and The Trickster needed her to live to get his second chance. But Tara didn't think he was bluffing – she didn't think the Hell God would have any problem just letting Willow die if he didn't get the added bonus of keeping her from being able to use her powers.

"Oh, she will," The Trickster said, his voice cold and hard, sending chills up and down Tara's spine. "One way or the other."

The implication of his words sunk in, and Tara suddenly felt sick, her mind spinning and her guts churning. "No," she said, her head shaking from side to side as she reflexively stepped back, trying to distance herself from his words by physically distancing herself from him.

"Then I suggest you two plan on having children, unless you want some man to develop an unhealthy longing for her, that he just can't help but act upon," The Trickster went on cruelly. "Perhaps your friend, Xander?"

"You bastard," Tara bit out, her eyes filling up with tears of frustration as her whole body shook with anger. "We'll stop you. We stopped Glory, and we'll stop you."

"You can't," The Trickster said, laughing with delight. "Glory's power was reduced by her unique situation with Ben. You'd have never defeated her if she had been at full strength. And I – I am a God, at full strength."

"I want your word that you will never interfere with Willow again, directly or indirectly, or her descendants," Tara said slowly as tears tracked down her dirty face, trying desperately to try to wrest some sort of concession from the Hell God.

"You are in no position to make demands," The Trickster said with a laugh. "But it was a nice try. You will perform the ritual, binding your powers in this lifetime. I, in return, will not interfere with Willow as long as she gives birth to a daughter before her 30th birthday. That is the deal. That is your only chance."

Tara studied the offer in her mind, her heart screaming at her to take it, as her mind yelled just as loudly to turn it down.

She could save Willow – but only at the cost of giving The Trickster another chance to come to Earth? A chance that he would take by manipulating Willow's descendants?

Did she have the right to make such a choice? Her sheer gut reaction was to take it – to let the consequences be damned and to keep Willow safe. That was always her first choice – to keep Willow safe.

But another part of her wasn't sure that was the right answer. An idea tickled the back of her mind, and though it made her sick to even think it, she let herself examine it fully.

She could let Willow die. She felt a wave of pain tear through her being at just the thought, but she pressed on – she needed to consider all the options, because there would be no second chance. There would be no going back once her decision was made here – no 'do-over'.

And if she let Willow die, her line would die with her, and The Trickster would live eternally here in Hell. But would that even make a difference? Without Glory to balance him, his influence would still prevail on Earth.

"I think you need more convincing," The Trickster said thoughtfully, breaking Tara out of her musings. Her eyes focused in on him, and she regarded him warily.

Before she had a chance to react, the shadows of the cave extended rushing forward towards her, then enveloping her, wrapping in their shrouding darkness. She felt as though she was floating in nothingness, and she was cold – so very cold.

An orb of light appeared in the gloom, then another, and another. She sped helplessly towards one of the orbs, its brilliant whiteness blinding her as it grew larger and larger.

Her arm raised up, shielding her eyes from the brilliance there, until she was right next to it. The orb was as large as she was, and squinting, she looked closer, just making out shadow shapes and figures there. Muffled voices issued forth, and she leaned closer, trying to make them out.

With a rush of air, she fell into the orb, and she was at home, in the room she shared with Willow, only there were two of her. She stood there, her injuries aching, as she watched herself gently push Willow back onto the bed, mopping the crackling black gooey substance from Willow's forehead.

"I'm fine," Willow insisted, snapping at the other Tara. Tara saw a flash of pain in her counterparts face, and saw familiar eyes shut tightly. She knew that feeling – she knew it far too well. Willow's words could cut into her like nothing else ever had, and that harsh tone always made her heart ache. She knew Willow didn't mean it – even here, standing on the outside of this scene, she knew – but she felt it, and it hurt.

"Willow, you're sick. Please," she heard herself plead. Tara's heart sank when she realized what she was watching. Here were the consequences. The Trickster was showing her what would happen if she didn't agree to his terms.

She studied Willow. If she had thought that Willow had looked sick when she had returned from her roadtrip with Anya, she was sadly mistaken. That Willow had been the very picture of health compared to this one. Her complexion was pasty and white, with an odd dark undertone, presumably the dark magick flowing through her veins. Her eyes were shadowed and deep and seemed to burn with a feverish light.

Her pajama top hung loosely off her shoulders, and the wrists and hands poking out the sleeves looked like they belonged to an old woman, the dark veins prominent. They were bony and thin, and the overall look of frailty about Willow made Tara shudder.

"I'm dying," Willow said tightly. "And I don't want to spend the rest of my life in bed." Helplessly, Tara moved to the bed, drinking in the sight of Willow's face. She crawled onto the bed, but neither Willow nor the other her knew she was there.

"Hang on baby," Tara said hoarsely. "Don't give up. Please don't talk like that. You can't die."

"You can't stand," the other Tara practically shouted. "You can't walk. You don't eat. Willow, you can't." The other Tara, Tara realized, must have already moved through all the feelings of denial and anger she herself was experiencing. There was no hope in that face identical to her own – just a quiet grieving acceptance, as if she fully realized that every moment she had with Willow was a stolen one.

"Then get me a damn wheelchair," Willow insisted. "I want to go outside. Please, baby," Willow begged, dark tears streaming from her eyes. "Just... let me see the sun. I... I want to... feel it. It's... looking out the window isn't the same."

Tara's breath hitched once, then twice, and she felt like something was squeezing her chest tightly, so hard was it to get air. She started crying then, her heart breaking even as she glared at the other her.

"You heartless bitch," she growled at herself. "Let her go outside. Give her what she wants. Please," she begged of herself, even though her words couldn't be heard.

"All right," the other Tara nodded weakly, her own eyes tearing up. "We'll... we'll get you outside, baby," she said quietly, leaning in and kissing Willow tenderly on the forehead. "You just – you said school, and that's... it's too far. But it's a beautiful day. We can sit on the porch?" she offered, her features softening as she stroked Willow's hair gently.

"I'd really like that," Willow said eagerly, a shy smile crossing her face as she took Tara's hand in her own, giving it a tender squeeze. "Sunshine and my best girl – my only girl," she added with a grin. "Life doesn't get any better than that."

A flash of light and the scene changed. Gone was Willow's smile, and the tender scene she had just witnessed. Gone was the light of the sun streaming in the window. Gone was the palpable sense of Willow's resolve to enjoy her last days to the fullest.

Willow laid in the bed, propped up against some pillows there, her breathing shallow and weak. Her pale white skin, so transparent it showed the dark angry veins underneath, seemed to sag off her body, as if there was no substance underneath to hold it in place.

The other Tara was there, their hands still clasped together. No, not clasped together. Willow's hand – Willowhand – was laying weakly within the other Tara's, as if Willow didn't have the strength to hold Tara's in turn.

Her hair was darker, as if the magick had infused even that, and the luminous green eyes were shadowed and dull, a thin membrane of darkness covering them.

The air rattled in Willow's chest, and Tara shook her head from side to side in denial as the other Tara just watched Willow with dull, hollow eyes. There was no spark of life in the other Tara, but Tara didn't care. That was irrelevant – it held no emotional resonance for her.

She curled up on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest, keeping her eyes on Willow's barely moving form. A trembling hand reached out, and she was surprised when she felt contact, though Willow made no sign of being able to feel it.

The skin under her fingers felt thin and papery, and a sob rose up in her throat. She was helpless to stop it as that first sob, then another, shook her frame.

She recalled the way Willow had moved and spoken that day at the Wiccan Group meeting when she had first laid eyes on the other girl. There was something about Willow that hadn't shown in her dreams, and until this moment she had never been able to put her finger exactly on what that was.

Her dream Willow had been quirky and fun, and so sweet and pretty. But the real Willow had called to her in ways she had never guessed at – called to places inside of her that she hadn't known existed.

Her every move and gesture was filled with the living of it, and she threw herself into every task with an intensity and focus that astounded Tara. Willow never just marked time. Each moment was something to be grabbed onto with both hands and clutched close. Even when she was just sitting and doing nothing, lost in her thoughts, she was intensely and fervently living those moments.

Tara grieved for that lost light – for without that, how could this fragile shell be Willow? The other Tara had clearly already realized this, her eyes haunted with grief and loss. Willow was already dead to her. Now she was just caring for the body until it ceased to function, and that knowledge cut through Tara like a knife.

How could she do that? How could she have given up on Willow like that? Willow had to be in there.

Tara raised herself onto her knees, crawling closer to Willow, looking intently into her eyes, panic welling up inside her as she searched frantically for something that she was so very afraid just wouldn't be there.

"Willow, you have to be there," Tara said softly, her tears spilling off her face and onto Willow's skin. "You have to be in there, baby."

Willow's eyes seemed to focus and her head turned to the other Tara, her voice scratchy and raw when she spoke. "Tara?" she asked weakly.

The other Tara nodded, swallowing hard and squeezing Willow's hand. "I'm here, baby. I'm right here," Tara said softly.

Willow started coughing then, turning on her side as her body buckled under the violent onslaught of her spasms. Tara rubbed her back gently, knowing that Willow couldn't feel it, but unable to stop herself from offering that comfort. The other Tara stroked Willow's face, picking up a glass of milky liquid from the counter. The coughing subsided, and both Tara's made soothing noises, trying to calm Willow. The other Tara raised the glass to Willow's lips, urging her to drink.

"No," Willow said weakly, shaking her head as her eyes filled with dark tears. "We've dragged this out, baby," she said softly, and Tara realized the glass must contain water and the magick baking soda. "I think... I think it's time for me to go."

"No!" both Tara's said, shaking their heads in denial. A look of terror crept into the other Tara's eyes, and Tara realized that her counterpart, though already grieving, wasn't ready to let go. Not yet.

"Yes," Willow said gently, a look of bone-deep weariness and sadness settling across her face. "You haven't left my side in months. I've stayed alive far longer than any of us could have expected."

"But we're still looking. We could find something," the other Tara pleaded, but Tara could see in her eyes that she had given up hope. Their options had been exhausted, and no 11th hour miracle cure would be found.

"We won't," Willow said, shaking her head. "I don't want to leave you," she whispered after a moment, raising her arms with great effort and brushing the other Tara's cheek with the back of her knuckles. The other Tara raised her hand, cupping Willow's gently and holding it there as tears spilled from her eyes. "You know I want to stay with you. I love you. But you're not living, baby."

"And you think dying is the answer?" the other Tara asked incredulously, a look of disbelief crossing her face. "How could I possibly live without you?" she asked, her voice choked.

"I don't know," Willow said honestly. "But you'll manage, baby. You're strong. Like an Amazon."

Tara's sobs started again as she watched the other Tara kiss Willow gently. "Please don't leave me," she pleaded softly. "I don't know what to do without you. I love you so much."

"You can't go on like this, baby. You can't keep your life on hold while you're waiting for me to die," Willow said gently, a serene look settling over her features.

"Don't you say that," Tara said, her words falling on two sets of deaf ears. "I'd never just wait for you to die," she insisted, wanting to grab Willow and shake some sense into her. "I'm fighting for you – I'm waiting for you to get better."

"Please let me go," Willow added softly, and Tara looked into her own face, seeing the words breaking the other Tara's heart, even as they broke her own. "I'm just so tired... so tired..." Willow said, her voice trailing off.

"Willow?" Tara said, her voice frantic as she leaned over the redhead. "Fight, dammit!" she yelled, only to see the other Tara calmly take Willow's pulse, her face blank with shock.

Tara watched in horror as the other Tara's face filled with unwanted knowledge, her shoulders slumping and her breathing stop. The other Tara fell to her knees by the bed, her hand pressed to her chest and a look of abject pain twisting her features.

"No, no," Tara said, pulling away from the other Tara and her grief – pulling away from a Willow who was lying far too still and far too silently. "No!"

"You knew that would happen," The Trickster said, and the scene froze, the lighting in the room changing drastically, full of nothing but shadow except one light focusing on the silent tableau of grief and death. "Now you're more fully aware of what that means, exactly," he hissed.

"You... you can't know this," Tara said, shaking her head in denial. "You can't know the future."

"Oh, I don't," The Trickster said easily. "This is just the most likely outcome. And you haven't even reached the best part." Then the light returned, and the scene changed, and The Trickster was gone.

She saw the headstone, making out the name 'Willow Rosenberg', then turning away abruptly. She didn't want to know what it said. She didn't want to see the dates... she didn't want to know. She couldn't know.

"I never really got this pebble thing," he said softly, placing it on the grave. "But Tara explained it to me. I kind of like how they last more than flowers, but I brought you some of those, too." He placed the flowers gently on the grave, then looked up at the dark sky, his eyes filling with tears.

Tara's heart lurched at the sight of big, friendly, jolly Xander so immersed in grief. He was Willow's oldest and dearest friend, and he had kept her from making a horrible mistake the night she had left Willow – and she loved him for it.

"Dawn's speaking again," he went on, apparently relating recent events. "And not just to Spike. She asked for some water, and we were all so... so relieved, and so happy to just hear her voice. I wish you coulda' been there." He paused for a moment, a sad self-effacing smile crossing his face. "Of course, if you'd been there, Dawn talking wouldn't be such a big deal, huh? Spike says she blames herself. Says that if the whole Glory thing hadn't happened, Hell wouldn't have been unbalanced and The trickster wouldn't have been able to do anything. He says she's been talking to him. I guess he's not lying, 'cuz she disappears at night an awful lot. Buffy's worried. We're all worried."

Tara thought of Dawn not talking at all, shattered by the event of Willow's death, and she felt sick. The whole situation was making her feel sick, and she fell to her knees on the soft earth, unable to look away from Xander as he spoke.

He sniffed loudly, shaking his head and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, then moved them, blinking back the tears. "I promised you I wouldn't keep blubbering like a baby, but here I am," he said, a dry humorless laugh escaping. "I'm not keeping my promises to you very well, am I?" he asked, his eyes tearing up again.

A look of acceptance crossed his face as he let the tears flow down his cheeks. "Tara will be here soon. I know you asked me to look out for her – to watch over her and make sure she was okay. I swear to you, I'm trying," he said fervently, his hand resting on the headstone and his voice going thick with emotion. "She won't eat. She barely sleeps. It's like... it's like she's not Tara anymore, and we all miss her almost as much as we miss you. I'm so sorry I let you down," he went on, choking on the words as he cried. "I get her to eat as much as I can. It's almost like... she's just waiting to join you."

A huge sob shook Xander's frame and he leaned forward, resting his head against the grave marker, his tears falling onto the unyielding stone. "I always said I couldn't imagine my life without you," he gasped out. "You've always – always – been there, and I just... I miss you so much."

The sound of someone approaching reached Xander, and he lifted his head, wiping his eyes self-consciously, then standing up. He looked around, then moved off into the brush, watching Willow's grave as silent tears tracked down his face.

Tara was confused by his action, until she saw the other Tara walking slowly up to the grave. She turned away, unable to watch the perfect mirror of her own grief and pain on the other Tara's face, gazing out into the night, and seeing Buffy stealthily approaching.

They were all watching her... the other her. The Scoobies had banded together, obviously, keeping an eye on the other Tara, and trying to help as much as they could.

Tara saw the vampires first, and she screamed a warning, but none of them could hear her. She was cold, and naked, and there were vampires... but she couldn't do a thing.

Tara walked over to Buffy, finally getting close enough to see the blank look in her eyes, much like she had looked when she had first been brought back. She seemed lost in her own pain, a look of stoic misery on her face, as the vampires got closer.

"Buffy! Dammit, Buffy," Tara yelled. "Xander's here, and there are vampires. The other Tara can't do anything... she looks so... broken," Tara said, wanting nothing more than to get through to Buffy in this instant.

Tara's heart beat double-time in her chest as the vampires arrived. Buffy and Xander still seemed unaware of their presence, but the other Tara turned.

Tara had always thought that if something ever happened to Willow, she'd at least try to go on, for Buffy and Dawn and the rest. That she would give it her best, even though she knew she'd be living half a life. Still, there would be people who needed her, and she had always believed she'd make the effort not to let them down.

"No," Xander yelled, throwing himself from his watching place, a stake in his hand. "I promised her," he screamed, tears falling down his face as he jumped in the middle of the three vampires.

They easily overwhelmed him, and Tara watched in horror as Buffy snapped out of her reverie and started moving. Xander fought back as hard as he could, and Tara heard him say over and over that he had promised... he had promised.

Tara shook with anger as she looked at her other self, sitting by idly while two vampires kept Buffy busy, the third draining Xander dry.

"This can't happen," Tara said, shaking her head again and again. "This can't." Xander, dead? Because of a promise he made to Willow? And her... who was this woman who wore Tara's face, who just sat there? Who was this woman who made no move to help, as if the idea were alien to her.

The third vampire dropped Xander's limp body to the ground, coming up behind the other Tara and pulling her head to one side, exposing her neck. The woman made no move to resist, and when the vampires teeth sunk in, the scene changed.

"There are others," The Trickster said from the shadows.. "There's the one where Willow can't hold back the magick, and she casts a spell completely against her will that kills her... and you," The Trickster said slowly, as if calling up each scenario from memory. "In that one, Buffy withdraws into herself, blaming herself for letting you both die. Dawn is completely neglected and sent to foster care. Giles starts drinking heavily, and Xander and Anya have each other. For a little while, at least."

"Or the one where Willow goes to Angel and asks him to kill her before the dark magick takes over completely. He does – at her request and to save the world – but Buffy never forgives him. Xander, in fact, stakes him, and Angel lets him do it, his guilt stopping him from fighting back. Buffy never forgives him, either, and the Scooby Gang breaks up completely. It isn't long after that that Buffy is killed again."

"Oh, but the others... you haven't seen the others," The Trickster said, and the scene changed again. Tara was back in her room, Willow lying on the bed with the other Tara at her side.

"No!" Tara yelled, looking up at the ceiling and turning around. How many times would she have to watch Willow die? She didn't want to see... didn't want to know. No matter what happened, no matter the consequences, she couldn't watch Willow die. She wouldn't watch Willow die. They'd figure something out... they'd find a way to stop The Trickster, but for now, Tara had to make sure Willow was safe.

The scene froze again, then disappeared completely, and Tara was back in the cave.

"Shall I have the circle prepared?" The Trickster asked, the mocking sound of his laughter threading through the words and making Tara feel sick inside.

"No, I'll prepare it. Bring me the things I'll need," Tara said softly. She was risking the world, she knew, but how could she not? She just prayed to the Goddess that they'd find a way to defeat The Trickster permanently, before he escaped from Hell.

She remembered The Trickster asking her what she would give to save Willow, and the question mocked her.

With a flash of insight that shocked her with both its suddenness and the strangeness of having it here in Hell, Tara realized exactly what had motivated Willow when she had attacked Glory. She fully understood, for the first time, why she would turn to Dark Magick to save her. The desperation, the pain, the anger – she understood it all – every piece of it – and it scared her with its force.

Tara could feel her Shadow – that chunk of darkness within her – start to stir, testing its boundaries and trying to claw its way free as she prepared herself for the ritual ahead. It was a sick feeling, and one she had always fought so fiercely against, reminding her of nightmares she had had when she was younger of the demon rising up and taking over.

Her thoughts turned to Willow and how she must have felt watching Glory steal her mind, feeling her anger and grief welling up in her as it must have in Willow.

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Answering Darkess

by Sassette

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