Never the Twain by Zahir

Disclaimer: The toys I'm playing with belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy, who are far too cool to sue me because after all I don't really have anything they'd want I hope and pray please oh please.

Author's Notes: This is an Alternate Timeline in which Willow never completed the Soul Restoration Spell on Angelus. From that moment on, things change.

Summary: The Scooby gang encounters a mysterious one-eyed vampire.

An hour later, Willow was (still!) waiting for the migraine medicine she'd taken to kick in. And it didn't help that she simply could not afford to lie down right now. If Glory didn't know Dawn was the Key, she would soon. Eager to get Faith to the hospital, Buffy simply hadn't had time to deal with every single minion in the condo. Some of them were bound to have gotten Doc's message.

"Soooooo..." said Buffy, obviously antsy. Her most basic reaction to stress was to seize control, and now even letting Giles drive Oz's van was eating away at her. "What happened to Doc, exactly?"

Everybody was listening to their conversation. Not that they could help it. The van wasn't small, but it wasn't that big either and carrying six people didn't exactly discourage crowding. Or eavesdropping.

"Willow?" Dawn's voice sounded fragile. Her look was steel. "Did you see any sign of Mom?"

Okay here it was. Breathe normally. She needs to believe you. Buffy, too. Its for the best no matter how you look at it. As Willow creaked open her eyes, she caught both Summers girls pleading with their looks.

"Just before Anya and I broke into the office, we heard Doc say some words. I'm pretty sure they were part of a spell. And it sounded like some kind of banishment. He said 'reverti' at least three times. That's Latin for 'return.' I think...maybe he sent her back once he got what he wanted from her."

"Oh, Dawnie—I think it wasn't really your mother. Just part of her. The room, it kinda smelled...well, bad. Like, dead." Willow squirmed as she said this. The discomfort was real. Only the full cause of it was a lie. But she had to tell this lie. She had to.

Dawn put her head on her arms, hiding her face. Buffy gently stroked her hair, offering a comfort in something other than words. The sight made Willow long for Tara.

Now Giles brought the van to a stop. Gunn and Wesley were waiting for them at the corner, and they managed to fit everybody inside after only three minutes of groaning and squeezing. In the midst of it all, Giles managed to brief them on where things stood.

"Well," he'd begun, "the good news is that Faith is alive and in a doctor's care. The bad is that Glory knows Dawn is the Key. Oz, Tara and Anya will be meeting us with some alternate transportation."

The Watcher shrugged. "Something large enough for us all. Hopefully, fast as well."

"Because Glory knows," said Buffy. "And she's too powerful. Now that she knows, we have to get out of here. Fast."

Willow could feel how uncomfortable everyone was at this. In fact, Gunn and Xander both looked something akin to shocked. But Willow saw how utterly desperately certain Buffy was. She also saw something else—the ragged tatters events had left of her nerves. Flight might be the right choice. Maybe it was the only choice. Probably, it was. Yet there was only one possible reason Buffy would plan on running away so quickly and without argument.

She believed she was going to lose. What had happened to Faith must have been the final straw.

Anya looked worn as Tara entered the office, followed by Oz. She immediately noticed something else—that Anya was standing in the corner of the office, as far away as possible from what had been Joyce Summers.

"Am I glad to see you two," said Anya, all but sighing in relief. "What took you so long?"

"Hello," said the colorless thing with Joyce Summers' shape. It was dead. Tara knew what was alive and what wasn't. After all, she was both. This was dead. Animate, yes. But far from alive. "Are you my daughter? I seem to remember my daughter is a blonde." The timbre of voice was a good imitation of kindliness. But that's all it was, the mystic equivalent of muscle memory. Neither compassionate nor cruel, this...thing...pretended to listen.

Now Tare looked at Anya, who wouldn't meet her gaze. It must have been uncomfortable in the extreme for her to react this way. But then, Anya was curiously fragile when it came to genuine emotion. And passionate. She had liked Joyce Summers very much. The past hour must have been subtle torture for her.

"My name is Tara," she said. The dead thing didn't blink at this. It didn't' blink at all. Nor did it react. Yeah, this could get unnerving real fast.

"Tara? Oz?" Anya spoke up. She had a box in her hand. "I searched the desk and found this. Had to break a couple of locks to do it. That much security probably means they're important." The top of the box flipped open.

Inside the box were scrolls. Tara was tempted to read them now, but she had a clear set of priorities. "Thanks, Anya," she said. "You're probably right." She took out an envelope. With a glance at the unblinking thing on the sofa (still in the same polite position it had before), Tara removed the picture inside. It was a nice photograph. Handsome even. And a couple of dozen times more alive than the creature that had the same face.

"But you and Willow..." He left that hanging. So. Oz knew. "This shouldn't lie between you." Deliberately, he took the photo from her hands. Some part of Tara thought she shouldn't let him do this. But the larger part realized his wisdom. Were our positions reversed, she wondered if she'd have done the same. Tara continued to wonder this as the photo left her touch, and he held it with two hands. He didn't hesitate more than a fraction of a second.

Scrambling, Willow and her friends managed to get out of the overturned mobile home. The sun blazed above them. More importantly, over two dozen soldiers in chain mail were descending. Buffy met them head on. Riley, Gunn, Oz, Wesley and Tara were at her back—the last (thank god) wearing the Ring of Amara. Not only was Tara immune to the usually-fatal rays of the sun, she was practically invulnerable. The Knights of Byzantium didn't know that.

There was a deserted gas station across the road. Willow, along with Xander and Anya and Giles, formed a protective ring around Dawn. All of them headed for the station.

Axes and swords were swinging in the melee. Curiously, the Knights' greater numbers weren't having as great an effect as Willow would have expected. One part of her mind wondered if perhaps they were too rigid in their tactics to deal with such a diverse foe. Then again, three of those they battled were more than human. Buffy was the Slayer. Oz was a werewolf. And Tara—her Tara—was a vampire. Knowing her love was rendered invulnerable by the talisman she wore didn't ease Willow's nerves as much as she'd expected. Hearing the twang of arrows couldn't help but make her flinch. And turn around. No less than three arrows shuddered as they struck Tara's chest. It made little difference, and the Knights at last reacted to the threat she represented. More hurled themselves at Tara, whose face melted into its fierce demon-form, accepting battle.

Once inside the station, Willow began to chant. She could feel the power begin to flow, her blood tingling against her bones. Would this work? Even now, after furious study and practice, she wasn't sure. But she raised her voice, wielding the arcane words.

Almost immediately, Buffy responded. She—and those fighting at her side—broke contact with the fanatics. They ran for the gas station, as Willow chanted faster.

What happened next must have taken less than a second. Yet it seemed to last an hour at least...

She was completing the spell. Barely a word remained to be intoned. Meanwhile, Buffy and the others were racing at full speed to the safety of what would soon be a stronghold. The Knights were poised to race after them, but one man gave an order, making them hesitate, then stop. At their rear, five men aimed their crossbows.

The last word of the incantation finished just as the crossbows fired. A mystical barrier immediately began to form around the abandoned gas station. But it did not form instantly. Three crossbow bolts struck the newborn barrier and bounced off. One was slowed, then cut in half, in a fluke caught precisely between the two sides of the barrier. But the fifth and last bolt had crossed before the barrier was up. It flew straight and furious, piercing its target.

Riley coughed blood as he fell. And Buffy, hearing that, turned. She was by his side almost instantly.

The bolt had gone all the way through, its gory point sticking out of Riley's chest. His eyes met Buffy's, refusing to look elsewhere as the light in them fade to nothing.

As the sun began to set later that day, Tara held the still-unconscious Willow in her lap. Her barrier still held. Buffy kept vacillating between nervous pacing and hugging her sister. Gunn and Oz had brought Riley's body inside, covering it with a sheet of canvas. Xander and Anya were holding each other. Tara could relate. Meanwhile, Giles and Wesley were reading the scrolls brought from Doc's office.

"Tara? What's wrong with Willow?" Dawn asked this with hardly any change of inflection. Not a good sign.

Dawn nodded, accepting this, then wandered off. Tara kept her own gaze on Giles and Wesley as they continued reading. She had skimmed them already, and knew what they contained. And had chosen not to tell the more disturbing details. Buffy's sharp looks in her direction confirmed that instinct, as far as she was concerned. Not that she blamed the Slayer. Especially now. For a horrible moment, Tara imagined how she would have felt if that crossbow bolt had slain Willow. For a moment, the word "hell" took on a terrible meaning—to see Willow die. Slowly, firmly, not wanting to wake her beloved, Tara bent down to press her lips against Willow's brow.

"Find anything?" Buffy's voice was ragged as she approached the two Watchers. They looked up, guiltily thought Tara. But then, she knew.

"Yes," answered Giles at last. "The good news is that Glory is most definitely working against a time table. If she fails to seize Dawn by a specific hour, even a specific moment, then Dawn will be safe." He paused.

"We've calculated the precise day," added Wesley, "and it seems sure that Glory needs to have Dawn by..."

"The day after tomorrow," finished Xander. Everyone looked at him. A lot. "When the new moon is parallel to Sirius and Betelgeuse."

"The exact equation that a hellgod needs in order to accomplish her goals" asked Wesley incredulously, "just...came to you?"

"Makes sense," said Gunn. Now everyone looked at him. "The X-man had his brain sucked by this Glory-chick, right? Till you found a way to cure him?"

"That's right," answered Tara. She thought maybe she could see where Gunn was going with this.

"Makes sense that maybe Xander sees things different now," finished Gunn with a shrug.

"This could prove extraordinarily useful," said Giles, his eyes almost aglow. "Xander—do you have any more insights to offer?"

"What about you?" asked Buffy. "You two've been oggling these scrolls. What else do they say? Anything else about what Glory wants with my sister? What she's trying to do? Why these Knights want to stop her? Why Riley had to..." Trembling, Buffy stopped herself from saying anything more. She tilted back her head, all too clearly to keep tears from starting to flow. Deep breaths followed. Very deep ones, for nearly a minute. At last, she slowly lowered her head and drilled into the Watchers with bright, hurting eyes. "What" she whispered, "do those damn scrolls say?"

Tara didn't know either Giles or Wesley terribly well, but their discomfort at that question was achingly obvious. Especially Giles. And these were Willow's friends. Her dearest friends, ripping at each others open wounds because they couldn't help it.

"Glory wants to go home, to the hell dimension from which she was exiled. That's why she wants the Key, to open a portal between this world and her own. But to do that, she needs Dawn's blood. She needs to shed it, using Dawn's life to rip open a door. What she can't control is which door will open, so she intends to open them all. Thousands and thousands of dark realms and hells touch this reality in some way. Glory will hurl open all those gates. Chaos will build on chaos as other realities pour into this one while Glory makes her escape. And the Earth dissolves. Until the blood of the Key flows no more, which won't happen until Dawn herself dies. That's what the scrolls say." Tara had spoken slowly, deliberately. It was vital Buffy understand precisely what was at stake. More, she had to take that ugly task away from Buffy's and sweet Willow's friends. That, at the least, she could do.

Buffy looked at Giles for confirmation. He reluctantly nodded. So too did Wesley, meeting the Slayer's eyes unflinching.

Dawn had gone pale. Tara had a flash of deja vu and spoke up again. "Dawn? Anyone can kill. Everybody has the power to torture."

"But we all have it. What matters is what we do, not what we might do." Should she go further? Explain how as a human she'd been told she was destined to become a demon, that she'd do terrible crimes because it was her irrevocable nature. And that, as a genuine demon (which was an ironic fluke, really, since her family had lied), she learned even then such acts were far from inevitable? No, let her digest what she could for now. Too much and she'd react even worse. Let the truth live in her. For a time.

"No!" piped in Anya. "What she's saying is you've gotta keep her out of Glory's clutches for another couple of days!"

"We know what we've gotta do, then," Xander exclaimed. "Just protect Dawn for another two days. And we're home free." His deliberately cheerful tone faded as he looked at Dawn's eyes.

Willow woke to a gentle rocking sensation. It very nearly hurt, her brain feeling bruised and all. But because she knew without opening her eyes whose arms wrapped and swayed and protected her, the pleasure eclipsed any discomfort.

"Hey, you" she whispered, eyes closed. Cool lips pressed against her forehead, feeling good. "Sorry about going all girly and fainting."

"Uh-huh. And my guts. Plus there's this weird tendency for my teeth to go all rubbery. No," she resisted Tara's attempts to make her lie down, "time to get up." She nearly regretted this as she peaked out from behind eyelids at a spinning world.

"No. But its too late now." Willow concentrated. The sun had set, for no light peaked through the windows. Buffy was near the front door, standing towards it, back to everyone else. Nearly everyone was lying down, a few low snores confirming their sleep. Anya and Xander were coiled up together, while Dawn managed to curl her lanky frame into an abandoned back seat of a car. Willow took another sweep of the room. Then another. She looked back at Tara. "Riley?"

Tara shook her head. Willow couldn't be surprised. The image of Buffy's boyfriend's chest with a crossbow bolt emerging from it was only too vivid. Hard to forget. Difficult not think of with horror—especially given the little detail that Willow herself was in love with a vampire. Wooden weapons piercing chests and hearts had become a special terror. Her hand reached to Tara's, almost instinctually checking that her love yet wore the protective Ring of Amara.

"Some news," began Tara after another minute or two. She kept her voice low. "Giles and Wesley finished reading the scrolls. Everything was pretty much what I thought—although they've worked out the precise time for Glory's ritual. The night after tomorrow. Buffy...didn't react very well. All she can think of what can go wrong."

Willow nodded. Understandable. Two boyfriends in a row killed right in front of her—how can anyone cope well with that? "Any other good news?" She smiled wanly.

"Actually, yes." Tara's reply surprised Willow. "Seems Xander has some kind of psychic power now, so he knows things about Glory, about what she needs. In the morning we're going to do some testing, see how much we can find out."

Too tired to do more than nod at this, Willow leaned up against Tara, who shifted to accomdate her. "Not a good place we're at right now," she quietly said.

This time the smile showed in Tara's voice. "A telemarketer insurance salesman.!"

"A Jehovah's Witness telemarketer insurance salesman who works part-time for the IRS!"

"No," finished Willow "what would have been really bad—if she was all of that plus she was a televangelist!"

Strange, thought Willow to herself, how little I've heard Tara giggle. Not that hers was a loud giggle—more like a galloping shudder along the length of her body. Punctuated, as it turned out, but tiny snorting sounds. It was really odd. And utterly charming. Willow let herself enjoy the experience for a little bit.

"What are you two laughing at?" Buffy's voice wasn't (quite) a dash of cold water. She did, however, dampen their reactions as she loomed over them suddenly. Unlike either Willow or Tara, she made no attempt to lower her voice. All around the room, people were shaking themselves awake.

"Willow and Tara," the Slayer said in earnest indignation, "were laughing." She looked at everyone as if daring them not to share in condemning them. No one else uttered a word. At first. Then...

"Buffy." Dawn's eyes grabbed her sister. "I say—anyone who finds any reason to smile in all this," she said "let them." It took a moment, but the Slayer began to relax. It wasn't like deflating, more like a letting go. All the battle-ready tension that had made her seem like a spring just vanished. One moment she'd looked ready to attack her best friend's vampire lover. The next, she was walking over to her sister, and hugging her.

"You're only fourteen," she muttered in mock crankiness. "You're not supposed to be wise. Stop it."

Tara heard it first. What sounded like wind—or maybe a stampede, but with only one horse. It was the silence as Dawn and Buffy comforted each other that let her hear it.

Next was Xander. His head whipped in the direction of the dirty windows. Being closer, he got to them first, and looked out.

Moments later, everyone was up against the grimy glass. It was night, and the glass was caked with dirt. Plus there was the mystical barrier which distorted everything beyond. Yet certain details were clear. And nothing interfered with the sounds coming from the encamped Knights of Byzantium. Yells were the least of it. The clash of weapons made up much of the noise, along with an occasional scream for punctuation. Meanwhile, a cloud of dust literally made its way through the camp—like a tiny dust storm.

Amid all the tumult outside, a red figure was now very obvious. She was wearing a tight red dress, a mini in fact, with matching pumps. Her golden hair was done up nicely, probably having killed half a can of hairspray to create the effect. Right now, she was moving just slow enough to make out her actions—twisting blades back into their wielders' bodies, kicking armored figures twenty or thirty feet, punching through chain-mail-guarded torsos with all the apparent effort of someone wading through really heavy grass.

Glory finally reached the mystic barrier, only to find herself blocked by a middle-aged man in better armor than the others. She blinked, and grinned. "Gregor!" she exclaimed before picking him up with one hand "Have I thanked you yet for leading me to the Key?"

Her next blow was against the mystic barrier. It collapsed with a thunderclap. Less than a quarter of a second later—too fast for anyone inside to respond—she ripped open the wall of the abandoned gas station.

Tara raced towards Glory as fast as she could. Buffy of course beat her there, only to be picked up by the Hellgod with a sneer. "Get serious," she said, then tossed Buffy to the other side of the room. Tara landed no less than three kicks to her knee, making Glory stumble but only for a moment. "Hey! Don't I know you?" Glory reached down to pick up a piece of wood. Then she closed one hand on Tara's shoulder before driving it into Tara's heart. Even she looked surprised as her vampiric foe didn't turn to dust but punched her in the jaw. Hard. Twice. "Neat trick," smiled Glory. "Wanna see one of mine?" Bracing herself, she lifted Tara by the wood in her chest and threw the vampire behind her.

Although the wood through her heart couldn't kill Tara, it was big enough (along with the hard landing) to hurt. She barely heard Anya's frantic shriek of "Xander!" When she did, she looked up to see an amazing sight.

Xander was trading blows with Glory. Or something like that, because not one of Glory's fists was ever coming into contact with him. Each time she swung, he perfectly dodged the blow. A good thing, too, since one that missed punched a hole in the concrete wall behind him.

Buffy hurled herself at Glory, only to be tossed aside. Dawn got barely two steps after that before Glory had one arm around her waist.

Then, with what sounded like a cackle, Glory ran fast enough to leave a cloud of dust in her wake.

Tara wasn't used to trust. Neither as a verb nor a noun. Her life had seen it betrayed far too often, sometimes with terrific ruthlessness. The oh-so-wonderful Maclay clan to start with. Having the oldest, probably most evil vampire in existence as a sire did nothing to change this. She was also honest enough to realize she'd betrayed Buffy's trust—what little trust the Slayer might have had for her. Nor did she regret it. Which left her feeling no more inclined to believe without proof than before. Yet now, she was leaving a great deal to trust. Nothing less than survival, not simply her own but Willow's.

For nearly three hours now Tara and the others had been making their way back to Sunnydale. Fortunately, the late Knights of Byzantium had been survived by their horses. Wesley, herself and Anya had all proved able riders. Xander, Gunn and Oz all managed, the latter surprisingly well for his first time. Or not. Willow rode with Tara, an arrangement made workable (as well as desirable) by their relative sizes.

Bouncing along on still-skittish beasts had done nothing to further conversation. Still, Tara could tell—from the way she held on, from her breathing, from a thousand little details—Willow knew Tara was more unhappy than she'd let on. Yet they couldn't talk about it. Not yet. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea yet anyway.

Now the motley (very, Tara thought to herself) group approached their goal. The Stephenson horse ranch. Xander, it turned out, knew Old Man Stephenson (he said it that way, with the capitals) and was sure he'd give them all a ride back to Sunnydale. This wasn't as straightforward as any of them would like, simply because Xander had trouble dismounting. Walking proved difficult as well. He was now officially limping with both legs. To be expected under the circumstances. Still, it delayed them. Xander headed up to the main house, while everyone else (other than Anya, who went with her boyfriend) waited. Gunn complained about his own legs, profanely if not loudly. Oz said nothing, just nodded in sympathy. Tara stared at them all. Herself, a vampire. A witch, the lovely and even more worried than she seemed Willow. A Los Angeles "homey" (was that the word?) who specialized in fighting demons. Oz the werewolf. Plus the prissy Englishman who represented an age-old secret society dedicated to helping teenage girls fight the forces of darkness.

Motley. Yes. Without doubt. The ex-demon and her now-psychic boyfriend headed up the hill certainly fit in.

Tara wandered over to a large tree, parking herself against the trunk, in the deepest shade. She realized the Ring of Amara made her immune to sunlight. Habits, however, were hard to break. And right now, she didn't have the strength to fight those habits. But at least she wasn't hungry. They had left several horses behind them, all but two now wounded slightly and left a little weaker for loss of blood. Animal blood. The equivalent of bread and water. But at least it had been warm, alive. Everyone turning away so as not to watch did little for her mood, though.

Now Willow approached. Tara hoped (oh so much) that her beloved would simply sit beside her and say nothing. Please, she said to herself, please.

Willow sat in front of Tara, her eyes huge and concerned. "Tara? Please talk to me?"

Tara didn't say anything for an eternal ten seconds or so. When she did, there was an undercurrent of bitterness. Faint, but very much there. "You are going to die. And I can't stop it."

Trust me, Giles had said. He hadn't given a lot of details this morning. Barely any at all. Wesley had seemed to know what he was talking about, and after what seemed like a thousand pleas for trust Buffy had finally agreed. She had been nearly catatonic. To Tara, it seemed like she was an underground well full of tears, ready to erupt like a geyser but not yet, not yet. Her mother was dead. Riley had been killed in front of her. Now Dawn was in Glory's clutches. And no one, not even Buffy, had any idea how to stop her from bleeding the little girl to death, and in the process turning Earth into a chaotic version of Dante's Inferno. Exactly what Giles thought this ritual was going to do had been unclear. But he had insisted, begged, nagged. And she'd agreed. Eventually.

When Tara and Willow and the others had headed back to Sunnydale, Giles and Buffy had gone deeper into the desert.

Saying nothing, Willow brushed her lips against Tara's fingers. As a vampire, Tara's body was room temperature, in this case that of a warm summer day. Willow's lips were warmer still. A slightly moist warmth, that penetrated far deeper than the skin. She kept kissing her fingers, and each kiss reached deeper. Tara felt herself relax slightly. Willow must have felt it as well, for she looked up just then. Her eyes pierced Tara deeper than any kiss.

Willow met with no trouble at the hospital. She already knew in which room to find Faith, although the dark-haired girl's appearance startled her. Nearly half her face was bruised, with a noticeable swollen lip. Plus there was a cast on her arm.

"No how are you? Okay? Well, I mean, you're obviously not okay but that can be a relative term..."

So Willow did. She didn't limit herself to just what had happened since Faith had ended up in intensive care. First, she sketched in general terms what had been going on since since Willow had visited Los Angeles. Then what had occurred over the last few days, as well as the various aftermaths. About how they'd fled into the desert, hoping to lose Glory now that she'd learned Dawn was the Key. But the Knights of Byzantium somehow followed, driving the mobile home off the road. How they took refuge in an abandoned gas station, but not before Riley was killed. Faith's eyes grew more intense at this news. Willow didn't think that possible. She went on to explain how Glory herself tracked down the Knights, killing every one of them before snatching Dawn.

"Its like...if she was a puppet, a marionette...as if somebody cut her strings, you know?"

"Giles insisted they do a kind of ritual, something about renewing her soul's strength. He didn't say when they'd be back."

"Pretty much. But we're putting together everything we can. There's the Dagon's Sphere. Plus April—that's the robot I told you about. She's really strong. Xander's pretty sure he knows where Glory'll be. And Riley said some Initiative-type guys were on their way."

"So, she should be safe. And she's made a suggestion I haven't told anybody else about."

"Well, you know I've been getting better and better at magic? But doing anything big takes a lot out of me. I mean a lot! Tara thought that if we worked together, our control would be better. Plus we'd be able to access that much more."

"We've only got one shot at this. All or nothing. No second chances—no we'll-get-it-right-next time because there isn't going to be a next time unless we get it right this time! Which means, we don't have the luxury of playing it safe." She looked at Faith.

"Really, really dark. Like summoning the Elder Gods and letting them do their will. Its very dangerous, especially if we lose control."

"If an Elder God's powers were simply...let go...a chunk of the city might go all liquidy. Before boiling. Then evaporating away poof. Not too big a chunk, but...maybe a dozen square miles or so. Maybe."

"But...but your arm! Plus with the bruising, and everything else, and..." She let her eyes take in Faith's ravaged form. But still, this was Faith and there was steel in her eyes. "Promise you'll be careful."

Tara had always had an excellent memory. Plus what most people took as an odd sensibility. Fewer realized just how both of these were augmented by a really first-class mind. Such were the truths she'd lived with for two decades, eventually learning them to be truths and wearing them as something like badges of pride.

Now, all these fit together in a scavenging expedition. The ruins of Sunnydale High crawled with vermin. Once she'd been squeamish and would have minded them. No more.

Up in what had once been a bell tower was a room. She'd spent many a night meditating there, sometimes fighting the Hunger. Other times she'd simply read. And in her odd/individual way, she'd decorated this room. Maybe it was coincidence, or karma, or whatever, that led her to take one particular item as an ornament. Were circumstances less dire, she might have contemplated the string of factors that led here.

Climbing the ladder was no problem. That it was a new, different ladder might be. Someone had been here. Or was here. Recently. Now?

At the level of what had been her former lair, Tara crouched. She extended her senses. Yes. There was an intruder. More, another vampire. Secure in her own power, she deliberately stood. One foot rose—then descended on the half-crushed beer can. It made a satisfying crunch sound. Like an enemy's bones snapping in a quick press. Tara welcomed her rage, hoping for the chance to lash out. Self-control had been a long, long habit. And she was tired.

The sound of the can brought forth a stirring from the pile of rags in the corner. Farthest from any hint of light. Of course. From its sheath, Tara slid out a curved blade the length of her forearm. She felt her face shift, preparing for combat.

But the vampiress that rose up out of the rags bore no weapon. More, she was painfully thin, even for one of the undead. Hollow cheeked, with sunken eyes and unwashed black hair. Her bare arms looked like sticks. It took Tara seconds to realize here was one of the timid ones, those who lacked the fierceness to hunt regularly or the sophistication with which to seduce. Such rarely lasted. They were sloppy, or careless, or simply unlucky.

"Michelle?" The gaunt female reacted with what might have been a jerk if done instantly or at normal speed. She blinked. "Is that your name?" After another blink, she slowly shrugged. Did she not care? Or not remember? Which was more disturbing?

"Do you" the poor creature's voice was ragged "want to sleep?" Her eyes weren't quite focused.

"Tar. Ra." She had trouble saying the word around fangs. Her expression didn't quite add up to recognition, though.

"Yes. Tara. And you're Michelle. You were at a bus stop, reading a romance novel. I came up to you, introduced myself. Remember?"

The expression on her face didn't change. Was she even listening? Could she anymore? Tara stared intensely, trying to spot a glimmer of the shy girl who'd been thrilled to have a blonde stranger flirt with her—thrilled but terrified. Later, as Tara had seized her, she'd been simply terrified, feeling her throat ripped open and her blood eagerly lapped up. At the time, Tara had been in a strange mood. Having taken far too much, Tara decided to be merciful and pressed her fresh-bleeding wrist to her victim's mouth. One swallow had been enough. But Tara hadn't stayed.

Now, nearly a year later, this was what Michelle had become. Gaunt, starved, brains half-addled by the blending of human with demon. The floor was strewn with the decaying remnants of rats, squirrels, even stray dogs. Each was desiccated. Many had been dead for days, if not weeks.

Michelle made a mewling sound, clearly tired and afraid. Of Tara? Or sunlight? Both?

"Go back to bed. I'll be leaving soon." Tara tried to make her voice soothing. Whether she succeeded or not was open to question, but at least Michelle (or what used to be Michelle) didn't bolt or attack. Slowly, Tara headed for the uppermost level. The stairs were mostly intact. As she headed for them, the gaunt creature behind scrambled underneath her rags.

Here was the other extreme of vampirism. Most of those transformed became vicious children with superhuman strength, with all the enthusiasm and lack of forethought that characterized the very young. In fact, the vast majority of vampires fit that description. Even the more intelligent Nosferatu were nearly always governed by raw hunger, a veneer of civilization simply serving that need. Others, like Michelle, became animals with little skill at pretending to be anything else. In her case, she was probably a scavenger, drinking from other vampires' kills. If lucky, some stronger undead would notice and take her as a pet, allowing scraps in return for sexual performance. Or, without such, she'd be forced to hunt tiny animals in every greater quantities, becoming more and more like the vermin she devoured.

Am I lucky to be different, wondered Tara? So different I fell in love? Different enough to meddle with horrors than face Willow's likely death. Does that make me wise? Enlightened? Or just more subtly cursed? Will my suffering be worse than Michelle's, simply because I retain the ability to feel more?

Nor, as she found the piece of metal she'd expected, did she feel remotely close to an answer. But at least she had resolved to do what could be done. One hand closed over the object of her quest, and she gently headed back down. She did so quietly, hoping not to wake the monster she'd made from an innocent girl.

Hours later, Willow finished drawing the circle. A pentagram was within, and candles at each point. The pillow in the very center of the circle held the object of the spell. She found herself breathing hard. Praying, maybe? That this would work? Or for another failure?

"Maybe," agreed Willow, "but we need to take some real chances now. End of the world and all."

"I know," said Anya. "But if anything goes wrong, we won't need any apocalypse to get hurt."

"True," said Tara. She stood to the side, the most important prop for the ritual in her hand. Even without her game face, she radiated unhuman intensity. Willow found this both frightening and exciting. "But we've had a lot of experience by now. And we're all in enough danger no matter what we do, this will only help."

Willow finished the magic circle, then got out the book with the incantation. She waited for Anya to finish. Once she had, Anya stepped to her friend's side and took her hand. Both took very deep breaths. Several in fact. Oxygenating blood seemed a good idea before using your own body as a lens through which to focus eldritch energies. Couldn't hurt, anyway. Willow looked at Tara, who nodded.

"Dionysus, lord of transformations, hear now our plea!
Render shape once more onto its proper vessel!
Lend your will onto our own!"

She traced a magical rune in the air, which glowed green. A whiff of ozone followed. And the second part of the incantation followed.

"Loki, master of trickery, unleash now your power!
Make this unworthy one again what she was!
Ignite now your godly might!"

Another rune traced in the air, burning red this time. With a faint odor of brimstone.

Tara raised the object in both hands. Green and red reflected from its once-polished surface. Willow meanwhile, felt her nerves begin to shudder, while Anya beside her trembled. Taking several more breaths, Willow managed to speak again, but with difficulty.

"Ravana! King of devourers! Wielder of powers!
Accept this sacrifice of blood for blood!
Let DEATH mold flesh into new flesh!"

Hand shaking, Willow barely could force her fingers to take the needed position. She blinked. In an instant, she saw the world differently. Rather than light and dark, energies of magic rippled around her. Four souls glimmered in the room, like rainbow flames. Directly across from her, the red demon of Tara coiled within the fleshy shape. Willow pointed above her, at the bronze object.

Willow barely recognized her own voice. It seemed more liquid than ever before. Resonant as well.

Pain cascaded from her hand as the power released, and Willow screamed. Dimly, she could feel a whirlwind gather, pulling the air from her lungs. Something clawed at her eyes from behind, while dozens of bells echoed in each ear discordantly. In a weird way, the thudding ache as her knees struck the floor was welcome.

Tara's own hands felt scalded from shattering the red hot metal sculpture. But she reached her love's side in less than a quarter second, looking into her face, aiming all her preternatural senses.

"...I'm...could be better." She licked her lips. "I think...maybe...a couple of thousand elves have decided to mine my nervous system for precious jewels." Eyes closed, she sighed. "That's what it feels like, kinda."

Willow's eyes half-opened. Exhausted, yes. But more than alive, she was alert. Tara felt her own tension bleed away at that, at least. For a few more hours, Willow lived.

Anya took several steps, and extended her hand. The long-haired nude girl standing in the center of the circle took it, with some air of puzzlement. She also looked around the room, at the red-haired girl on the floor in the arms of a one-eyed blonde vampire. The walls around her were a disaster, the remnants of the once-comfortable Sunnydale High School Library. Now an overgrown ruin. Smoking, the pieces of a cheerleading trophy lay on the floor.

"Amy Madison, I presume," said Anya. "I'm Anya. Can you help us save the world?"

Wesley cleared his throat, lifting one eyebrow and staring at those who'd gathered in the back of the Magic Shoppe. Privately, Tara thought his attempts to be serious either fell flat or succeeded magnificently. Usually, this depended on how much he was trying. Now, he wasn't trying but simply was.

"I wont pretend we're not asking a great deal of you," he said. His eyes met those of the newest member of the group. Met and held them. His voice was low but piercing. "More, in fact, than is remotely fair. But the only other choice we have is to risk suffering and death for the entire world." Now he sat down across from her. "We don't even dare give you the time you need to adjust. Quite simply, too much is at stake. And we do need you. In just a few hours, we'll be going into combat against a being of terrifying power who intends to rip this entire reality into tatters. She'll do it simply because we're in the way." He paused.

Sensing all the eyes upon her, Amy managed not to wilt. Just pulled the coat Tara had lent her a bit tighter. Probably the strangers—like Gunn and Wesley—were easier to bear. Willow and Oz and Xander, whom she'd known before and now looked so much older probably were disorienting on a visceral level.

A part of Tara felt sorry for her. This had been her own idea, after all. It had been Tara who'd noticed the strange aura of the cheerleading trophy, then realized its significance after hearing the story from Willow about Amy's mother, a powerful and evil witch. Amy showed the same kind of power, but with an awkwardness that led to unforseen consequences. Like changing herself into a rat. No doubt that had seemed a good idea at the time. From what Tara understood, it probably was. Amy had been tied to a wooden stake and surrounded by kindling wood. Becoming a rat had allowed her to escape. Changing back had proven far, far more difficult. Until Tara realized the sacrifice of her mother would power magic enough to transform Amy back. Dark magic. Extremely dark. Mrs. Madison had been a captive and unwilling sacrifice. Forces willing accept such were extremely dangerous. Tara wouldn't even consider allowing Willow actually kill Amy's mother. Bad enough for her to work the ritual.

Yet even the result—a fourth witch of considerable power to help take on Glory—wasn't going to be enough to save Willow. Neither was the addition of Faith, weakened as she was from her wounds.

And although Tara wracked her brain, she couldn't imagine a way to keep that from happening. She'd keep trying, adding to their forces every way she could. But in her unbeating heart, she didn't believe there was any real hope.

"What's wrong? I mean—I know what's wrong because we all know what's wrong and we've been going on about it, but...there's something more wrong, isn't there?"

In a part of Willow's mind, she wondered at how her lover sighed at this. Not the reason for the sigh. Any or all of a dozen reasons for sighing came to mind, quite good ones when you come to think of it. If the end of the world wasn't a reason for sighing then what was? But a little voice in Willow reminded her that Tara didn't need to breathe. So why sigh? Habit, most likely.

"You're going to tell me, you know." Willow didn't raise her voice, so the others on the other side of the store couldn't hear her. But the timbre of her voice did. "So make with the telling, if you know what's good for you."

Tara paused before saying anything. In fact, Willow was preparing another needling plea when Tara fixed her one eye onto Willow's face and spoke. "I saw a vampire."

"No!" Her reaction was just a tiny bit panicked at that. A good thing? "I haven't seen Harmony for months."

"Oh." Vast with the vocabulary today. Wait a minute..."I didn't know you'd made any other vampires."

Tara nodded, her features grave. "One other. Her name was...is...maybe was...Michelle." Silence again. "After The Apostate killed himself, I didn't know what to do. He was—well, father and teacher and maybe even god for as long as I had existed. Plus there was you—someone who fascinated and drew me in, but human. I'm a vampire. Humans are my prey. What was worse, you were the friend of not one but two Slayers!"

"And you went to Los Angeles." Willow hadn't heard this before. Tara's voice was a subtle instrument, and its music was one she'd learned to read very well. She loved Tara's voice. But now that voice carried tones of past confusion and anguish, as well as current guilt. It was compelling but also uncomfortable. Tara's pain was her own now.

"Eventually. But the night before I left..." She hesitated. "Her name was Michelle." Silence followed. "A pretty girl at a bus stop, her nose buried in a book. I'd noticed her looking at me, sneaking an occasional peak. So I sat down, introduced myself, got her to relax. Then, I fed on her."

"The Apostate didn't approve of killing prey. Foolish waste he called it. And too conspicuous. I'd kinda gotten used to being hungry. But after the blood touched my tongue, the thought came to me. My Sire is gone. I don't have to obey him. He won't, he can't punish me. So I drank and drank and drank. Why not kill her, I thought? Why not?" She gave a little shrug. "Should have been a sign. I couldn't just kill her. At the very end, I cut my wrist and put it against her mouth. She drank. Not much, though. Enough."

Silence again. Willow found this story unsettling, but she was sure it wasn't over. Uncertain how to respond or what to say, she waited for Tara to continue in her own way.

"After," Tara finally said, "I put her body underground. Then I left Sunnydale. Forever, I thought. Earlier today, I went back to my old lair where the trophy was, in the ruins of Sunnydale High. And Michelle was there."

"How is she?" Willow was sure the smile she tried right then was all wrong for all sorts of reasons but she couldn't help herself.

"Terrible." Her lover suddenly looked quietly afraid. "She didn't recognize me. I'm not sure how much language she still has, or even if she remembers her old name. That sometimes happens when a vampire is made—they rise weak, even feeble-minded. No one knows why. Michelle is one of those. She's been so reduced all the blood she can get is that of vermin. Rat carcasses were all over the floor. She wore rags. And she'd lost so much weight! Once she was pretty girl. Now she's a scarecrow." Distressed, Tara shook her head.

"Look what I'm doing to you!" Tara interrupted. The almost non sequitur brought Willow up cold. "You used to be a Wiccan. Now, you're practicing black magic. Human sacrifice, even!"

"Not even a little bit" Willow nearly hissed! "Don't you dare go on like that. Tara, look at me. Look at me!" Keeping her voice still down, Willow pulled Tara's chin to face her own. "Before you, I don't think I even knew what it was like to be alive. Whatever else you are—a vampire, a demon, a dark witch, whatever—you're my girl. Mine. All mine." Without any conscious thought, they embraced. Her words whispered in Tara's ear. "The only thing that really, really scares me," she said, "is that maybe we'll save the world, but not you. Because you're my world now. Forever and ever."

In Tara's limbs she could feel reluctance, drawing away, even fear. But hunger as well. Equal to her own? Maybe. Willow didn't let go, refused to. Weird though it was, unlikely and maybe against somebody's rules somewhere, she'd made her choice. Or her heart had.

Cool hands pressed against Willow's back, pulling her closer. "Mine," she heard at last.

Tara didn't want that embrace to end. She willed herself not to consider how brief this moment had to be. Or what would soon follow. Better, far better, to dwell in this warm and loving NOW. Pretend it was forever. That it could be.

"Hello!" A familiar voice piped into their moment. Without willing it, Tara's face shifted for a moment as she stared at the one who dared interrupt. And shifted back as she saw who (or what) stood at the front door of the shop.

April smiled, as she nearly always smiled. She smiled because her creator had programmed her that way and she obeyed her programming with the precision of a computer. Because that's what she was. Or at least, that's what she had instead of a mind. "Hello Anya," she chirped to the woman at a nonplussed Xander's side. "Hello, Xander. I am happy you are better now."

'Uh...thanks." Xander blinked. Well, he hadn't had a chance to get used to her. And a robot that looked like Britney Spears did take some getting used to, after all.

"Hello to you as well, Tara and Willow." Again, the precise and perfect smile. Too perfect to be real. "I do not know these others. Will you please introduce me to them?"

"Okay," Willow said. She gave a last hug to Tara then stepped away. A part of Tara wanted to scream Come Back.

"Hello Faith the Slayer like Buffy." Faith looked nonplussed at the blonde girl reaching out to shake her hand.

"April" explained Willow, "is a robot. She was built by a guy named Warren. One of Glory's victims. But he's been healed and Tara asked him if April could help us. She's way strong."

"Mostly," murmured Willow. Then, she spoke to April again. "Finally, these are Oz and Amy."

"Hi yourselves, Oz and Amy. Are you boyfriend and girlfriend?" The two of them looked at each other. Interesting. Something finally made Oz react—and it wasn't something earth-shattering.

"N-n-no?" Amy answered. This clearly wasn't doing anything for her nerves. Did she know Oz was a werewolf? If not, it was probably best not to tell her. Enough shocks already—finding herself human again after almost three years, learning her mother had been killed to change her back and that a vampire did it to try defeat a god and so save the world. Enough on her plate, for sure.

"I am sorry," went on the robot, oblivious. "Hopefully each of you will get a boyfriend or girlfriend very soon."

Nobody said anything in response. Oz did walk away, though, quietly taking a seat in the corner.

"Thanks for coming, April," said Tara at last. "Everything will be decided by tonight, so if all goes well you can go back to Warren before long." She didn't really believe things could go right, but it had to be said. What was the alternative? Give up and weep in despair.

"Warren said you should use me as long as you need to," the robot replied. "He said to tell you that."

By sunset, everybody had gotten rest, or at least as much rest as possible under the circumstances. To Willow, that meant curling up with Tara and trying to sleep. She didn't sleep. Instead she lay next to her lover, head against Tara's breast and listening to the echo of her own heartbeat. It was strange. Tara had no breath to feel, no heart to hear beating. She was simply there—yet to Willow's senses her presence was vivid in the extreme. How much of this was psychological? And how much mystic, the sense of a witch at the presence of a supernatural creature bound to her by love?

Willow had tried to make Tara feed from her, but the vampire had refused. You need every bit of your strength, she'd said. She had sounded very rational, very clear. But to Willow an undercurrent of fear was obvious.

A knock on the door startled Willow out of her fake sleep. She blinked and muttered "Hello?" The door opened and Wesley's head peaked in.

Willow nodded. The door shut. She then shared a look with Tara. An air of melancholy still hung around her. Memories of Michelle, the girl she'd turned into a pathetic wretch of a vampire? Maybe. Or tightly controlled fear?

"Time to save the world!" She tried to make it sound flippant. Tara's little smile gave her hope that maybe she succeeded. As one, they rose from the collection of pillows and blankets on which they'd been resting. In the hallway, they found the others emerging from the various bedrooms here in the Summers home. Gunn, surprisingly, was rubbing his eyes. Had he actually managed to sleep? Impressive.

April was waiting at the foot of the stairs, smiling as ever. She looked up at Willow.

"I can report no sightings of your friend Buffy, Willow." Her vocal tones did register regret, even if too precisely.

"Thanks, anyway, April." The windows showed darkness. Night. The clock on the wall read nearly eight o'clock. Another hour to go. She shot a look at Xander, already downstairs and seated on a sofa, his arm around Anya. "Anything new?"

"Nope." Xander seemed to focus in on himself for a moment. Then he was back. "Nope," he repeated, "the time is coming up but it still isn't here. And I still get the same sense of where the ritual is going to take place."

Amy was sitting down at the table where several old books lay open. She'd changed into some simple, comfortable clothes. Willow recognized them as Buffy's. Now she stared at the glowing orb in the table's center, surrounded by four objects. A dagger. A cup. A wand. And a silver dollar coin. Beside each object was a tarot card—the Queens of Swords, Chalices, Wands and Pentacles.

With barely a word, Amy picked up the cup. Anya walked over and took the coin. Tara and Willow approached, taking the dagger and wand in hand. All four looked at each other. Willow vaguely sensed a new connection, some kind of magical bond uniting them in some way with the Orb of Dagon, a talisman specifically designed to ward against Glory. Silently, she thanked whatever gods or goddesses that might be Tara wore the Ring of Amara. Whatever else might happen, at least Tara should survive.

"Tertius" whispered Tara. A dark undercurrent added to the not-quite-sound Willow sensed.

"Quartus," said Amy, finally. The volume (if that was what it was) increased, and its rhythms reached a kind of sustained crescendo. It peaked, then sank into Willow's bones. She shuddered at the impact, which was both hot as well as cold. Out of the corner of her eyes, she noted similar reactions in Amy, Anya and of course Tara.

"Are you ready?" Wesley had come up to them. She hadn't noticed. He had a small axe in hand. Behind him, Gunn and Oz and Faith (still limping slightly) were also armed. Willow nodded.

Everyone looked towards Xander, who gestured in a specific direction. "That way." The whole group moved as one towards the front door.

Barely seconds after starting to cross the Summers' lawn, all of them stopped short as bright lights suddenly turned the night into something like day. Two large vehicles were pulling up at high speed, their headlights glaring. Engines roared, then brakes gave little screams. Two wide, low-slung vehicles had pulled up and stopped in front of the house. Several figures jumped out, all of them clearly armed and wearing camouflage fatigues. In the shadows no faces or insignia were obvious.

"Hey! Hey! What's goin on here?" Gunn was already jittery. Being surrounded by soldiers for no apparent reason did nothing to help.

Every single person turned their head at the sound of that voice. She walked into the light of the vehicles, her face calm but full of resolve. Willow could feel her jaw want to drop. It didn't, not yet, but wanted to for sure.

Tara parted from Willow only very reluctantly. She didn't want to, most especially when hours might be all they had left. It took Willow's permission to make her go. And a few words of persuasion. So, almost by an effort of will (as well as Will), Tara went with Buffy. Not far, only three or four yards. Just into the shadows away from the gathering Scoobies and soldiers.

Buffy looked anything but happy. More than the loss of her mother, the threat to Dawn, or Riley's death, something seemed eating at her. She turned to Tara focused, however, and calm.

For a long hard moment Slayer stared at vampire. Tara's mind for a moment went to a memory, a time in Los Angeles. She'd been looking for contacts, trying to build a life (or undeath) for herself after the Apostate's self-destruction. Not daring to hope for a future with Willow—not even enough to admit what she felt—Tara had visited the various dens and hang-outs demons called their own. Poker was a popular past time in such places. More than once she'd seen really excellent players vie with each other. And those rooms, visited months ago but not forgotten, recalled this spot and this time. Only so much more was at stake.

"You and Will—no secret I'm not thrilled about that." No venom in those words. "If it were up to me, you'd've been turned into dust bunnies a long time ago. Except you've been...well, more than useful."

"Xander knows where to find Glory. Just before her ritual has to begin, we're going to hit Glory with as much magic as we can. The four of us."

Tara shrugged. "Minus any and all caution, enough to fry any demon I've ever heard of. Even the strongest would need time to heal."

Again, Tara shrugged. "Hurt her, we hope. Distract her, at the very least. What with the sphere of Dagon and all, she should be weakened. Some. That's when Faith and April and me—and now, presumably, you—start in on her. All we need to do is keep her busy until the time for the ritual passes."

Perilous waters, these. Tara felt acutely glad to be wearing the Ring of Amara as the truth hovered in the air between herself and the Slayer, the natural foe of her kind. Not the right time to suggest killing the Slayer's sister, not even to save the world. Not even if it was true. Especially. Was she likely to believe Tara? Or did Buffy know how much Tara feared the success of Glory's ritual? Death, and not just for her, was the threat. Willow. Did Buffy imagine Tara would allow any threat of that?

"That ritual can't start. If it does, we've lost." Not an entirely honest answer. But close enough? Buffy didn't give away any clues.

"If that happens," Tara replied after a few moments, "I grab Willow and get her as far away from ground zero as I can."

"She gets as much time as I can buy her." Iron crept into Tara's voice. This was supposed to be a lie, but much of it wasn't. "And she spends that time with me." Unless I stop that damn ritual. Whatever it takes. "Anything else?"

Tara was left staring as Buffy headed away, checking on Faith and Giles who were talking. What to do? Brutal truth wasn't something Buffy liked to hear. Not that Tara blamed her. She understood only too well how the Slayer felt. Unconsciously, Tara's finger grazed the Ring of Amara as she headed over to Willow. She would certainly need it tonight. What she hoped, desperately, was that it wouldn't be the Slayer she'd need it for. But if the choice came to between Dawn and Willow...

She kissed Willow gently as they touched hands. Her love's smile, worried as it was, still pierced Tara. It always had. We will have a future, she vowed silently. I will make it happen! No matter the cost.

An hour later, Willow found herself, along with others, outside a construction area. Behind the fence, dozens of people were working. Despite the fact it was night. Rising above the area stood a simple tower, little more than a metal staircase reaching maybe a hundred feet into the air. A few glimpses into the lit area from the street confirmed what everyone already suspected—the presence of robed figures they'd seen before. Short beings with elongated features, pointed ears and very, very, very bad skin.

"Spedoinkle!" gulped Xander, looking up at the weird staircase/tower before them. The dozen or so Initiative soldiers alongside gave him a look.

"You can say that again," muttered Tara under her breath. Then she turned to Willow. As ever (and when did I first notice it, wondered Willow to herself) Tara's harsh features softened. "Shall we begin?"

With a gulp, Willow nodded. She looked again at the tower, spotting two robed figures at the very top. And a third figure, smaller. They were tying this other figure atop the tower. Dawn. "Let's hurry," she said.

Amy took position, along with Anya and Tara. Willow finished the circle. She concentrated, and began the chant. Each of the other witches joined in, making the ritual gestures, intoning the words she and Tara had found in her books. Dangerous words. Extremely dangerous. Potency crawled along her nerve-ends with each syllable, like a drug. Her eyes even began to tingle, slightly. And itch. They were four. Four elements. Four cardinal points. Four seasons. Now, four witches—infused with power most fundamental and eldritch.

She never even noticed when they began to levitate. Only inches. Yet it was a heady feeling. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted how the Initiative soldiers grew more alert, confused. Not sure whom to fight? It hardly mattered. Floating, Willow continued the chant. With her words, she and the others called upon the oldest, most alien of powers to lend a tiny fraction of their might. Hopefully, they would barely notice—or, if they did notice, they'd not care. The strangest sensation shot through Willow, both pleasant and painful. As if—how to put it? As if her bones had begun to heat?

Ready. They were ready. All four of them knew it at the same moment, in a communion with the magic. Willow felt her fellows with senses she didn't know existed, hadn't guessed could be. Amy's fear, frustration, anger. Anya's dedication and surprising clarity. Plus, of course, Tara—the hunger of her, the calm wisdom and cool fire that shielded...what? More fire. Passion. Vast, unquenchable, deep. Yet filled.

It very nearly staggered her. But instead, Willow felt as if a hand had reached out and pulled her along to safety in the midst of a strong, even terrifying current. Tara. Aided by Amy and Anya. Not on any conscious level, the four of them turned in mid-air. They headed towards the construction site.

A simple wall of rough-cut timbers and chain link was in their way. In communion, they willed it away. Wood flew. Metal links bent and twisted away. They sang the air to sustain them, floating closer and closer to their prey. A hellgod named Glorificus. Her minions were fleeing, running from the circle of four who approached. Willow herself was the point of a lopsided arrow shape. She had not planned it. None of them had. This was the natural flow of the power. Hers was the natural conduit to unleash it. Ozone crackled in the air. The four spoke as one.

"Uphrael, and Balthazar" they intoned "Hold our victim as in tar!" In her robes, the golden-haired Glory turned to them, sneering. As if a puppy had dared challenge a tigress. But then, the air about her buckled slightly. Her movements slowed to a fraction of what they had been. More than one minion's eyes grew large at this. One, a tall one with a beard whose robe was more elaborate than the others, began flipping through some tome.

Four sets of eyes locked on him. Their fingers pointed. Lightning shot out. He screamed as he burned to death, eyes boiling out of his head and hair reduced to ash.

Now four sets of eyes locked on the hellgod. Glory was moving at nearly normal speed by now. Another second, perhaps two, and she'd be free to move far faster than they could ever respond. Waiting was not an option.

Four mouths opened. But not to speak. Instead, green fire shot from their throats. Willow felt the pain of those flames—which burned, strangely, with cold rather than heat. Part of her knew why this was so. Another part fled from that knowledge and what it implied. The larger part of her. The wiser part. But the flames struck Glory. They enveloped her.

She screamed. A loud, unearthly sound. High-pitched and filled with as much surprise as pain. She was a god. Had she ever even felt pain, real pain, before now in all the countless ages of her life?

None of the four released her. All focused on emitting as much of the flames as they could manage. No longer an arrow, they floated into the shape of a circle, orbiting the hellgod while spewing as much flame as each could. Yet, although Glory flinched and screamed, she did not truly burn. Her screams grew less and less, just as the flames themselves began to dwindle. The four, combined in this way, were mighty. Mightier than any ever had been before. But they were not gods.

Anya was the first to falter. She coughed. Then fell. The circle was suddenly reduced by a full quarter. Distantly, Willow noted how Xander ran to his girlfriend and carried her away. More disturbingly, Glory was able now to face her tormentors. Not without flinching, but she could clearly now do more than react. Nor did she wait. One blow hit Amy like a thunderclap. She didn't seem hurt by the blow. But she did falter, and after another moment flew back. Glory nearly pursued the staggering witch. Willow concentrated, redoubling her own efforts. The green flames reared up again for a moment, making the hellgod visibly flinch and turn in her direction.

She growled, approaching with effort. The sounds of combat (the others must be attacking the Minions, Willow realized distantly) in no way eclipsed the rage in Glory's eyes as she braced against the fires. And. Walked. Forward.

And no matter what Willow did, no matter how she concentrated on focusing the powers flowing through her, still the flames were shrinking. They would have long ago killed anything made of simple flesh. Vampires and most demons would have been dust by now. Humans, naturally. But Glory, although clearly in pain, lacked even any burns. Soon, she'd be in arm's reach. And nothing Willow could do would stop her, could stop her. The flames reduced still more—and Glory grinned, exactly like a bully. Nothing to stop her now. She was reaching out to Willow...

Only to be thrown forward! Behind her, Tara dropped the two pieces of a now-fractured concrete cinderblock. Her demon face was showing, fangs bared and one eye a feral yellow. A growl escaped her lips.

Exhausted. Willow had exhausted herself in weakening Glory. She fell (not far—it just seemed like miles instead of inches) to the ground and collapsed hard enough for bruises. With luck, she'd live long enough to develop them. Blurrily, she made out Glory. Oh good. She hasn't killed me yet. That's good news. Her vision cleared. Some. Actually, Glory looked too busy to even think about Willow.

Blows were raining down on the hellgod from all sides. Faith, arm still in a sling, was delivering powerful kicks. April the robot had what looked like a small steel girder in her hands, swinging it like a club right into Glory's head. Those blows weren't killing Glory. In fact, they didn't even seem to be breaking skin. Willow tried not to feel terrified awe at that fact, looking for comfort that she evidently still felt each blow. Buffy, meanwhile, was getting in her own strikes. As was Tara.

Tara's fighting looked reckless. Willow had seen enough combat to recognize she was all attack and no defense. Glory backhanded her, sending Tara into a pile of bricks that then collapsed. Tara never even paused, but clawed her way out and attacked again. The Ring of Amara has got its perks. But Willow knew as well Tara might have fought much the same without any invincibility talisman. Just as Willow hadn't held back. The world was at stake.

Then, the worst thing possible happened. Glory had managed to push everyone but Tara away. Minions were (unsuccessfully) trying to hold back April. Faith had fallen, and Buffy was helping her fellow slayer up. So the vampire and the hellgod were trading blows. Willow tried to focus, tried to summon something to help Tara. Nothing. Even her bones felt heavier than rock. Just then, however, Glory got a firm hold on Tara's wrist. The Ring rendered her invulnerable, not unmovable. Glory stared at the hand attached to that wrist, very nearly ignoring the blows Tara pounded against her head and shoulders. In fact, Glory suddenly smiled.

"A magical thingamajig! No wonder you're tougher than you were. Ha! Let's take of that!" Glory easily pulled the ring off Tara's finger, crushing it just as easily in her hand, a bright spark shining between her fingers as it was reduced to dust. Then, she laughed. Cruelly.

But then, she had the vibe that said she did pretty much everything cruelly. Just like she now tossed Tara cruelly over her head and into the wall of the nearby building. Hard. Hard enough to leave a dent. Even from a distance of twenty or more yards, Willow could hear her love cry out. It hurt.

Glory didn't even glance at the vampire she'd just slammed into a wall. Rather, she swung her first straight into an approaching April. The robot's head flew off amid sparks. Snarling, Glory turned to the next person daring to attack her.

Arm still in a sling, with hollow eyes and gritted teeth. Faith looked the weakest of them. But in her hand was a weapon—one before which even the hellgod hesitated. Tied to a rope, the Dagon's Sphere—specifically created as a ward against Glory herself—glowed. And in the Faith's skilled hands, it swung towards Glory like a hammer. It connected! Willow nearly grinned as Glory grimaced. The Sphere hurt. Hurt enough that Glory actually retreated from Faith, who continued to swing the Sphere menacingly. Beside her stood Buffy.

"And what? You'll force us all to wear your wardrobe?" Faith's grin was feral. "Hey, reason enough to kill you right there, I say." Another swing of the Sphere, aimed at Glory's head but only connecting with her shoulder. Still, it brought forth a cry of pain. Willow was glad.

Willow began to stand. It wasn't easy, but she was pretty sure she'd be able to manage. Having noted precisely where Tara fell, Willow had a location she needed to be. Still, she wasn't ignoring the battle. Only too clearly she saw Glory pick up a steel girder. Buffy grabbed Faith, tackling her to the ground just in time to avoid its path as Glory tossed it. And laughed.

"You're going to wish I killed you," she began. But never finished. A wrecking ball hit her from the side. Up at the ball's controls, Xander met Willow's eyes and gave a thumbs-up.

Faith wasted no time. She rose and swung the Sphere directly onto Glory as hard as she could. Again. And again! Not letting her get up from all fours. Meanwhile, in between Faith's blows, Buffy was hitting her as well. Glory looked—Yes! Tired! More than tired—a trickle of blood was actually appearing from her nose! It was working!

Until Glory simply reached up and caught the Dagon's Sphere. Caught it and held it. The Sphere's glow immediately flared, then began to fade. In less than three seconds, the Sphere seemed to actually freeze solid, then shatter on Glory's fingers.

Yet that destruction took a lot out of her. Rather than resume the attack, she remained still. Wearily, she looked at the Slayers, not even trying to get up off her knees. "Like you understand..."she said "...anything!" She took a shuddering breath. "Home," she whined "is that so much to ask for?"

That's when it happened. Glory...changed. Her long golden hair darkened and pulled back into her head. Nose and shoulders broadened, eyes shifted color, skin coarsened. The delicate but cruel features became harder yet softer at the same time. A man, wearing Glory's long burgundy gown, looked up at the Slayers. He was bruised, exhausted, and bleeding.

Tara picked herself up off the ground. She didn't think any bones were broken. Cracked, maybe. But she didn't waste any time. Willow was far, far too close to Glory. Limping, she headed back to the construction site. Taser blasts and a variety of thudding noises echoed in the night. The minions were being kept busy. Which meant none would get in the way. Good. For them as well as Tara. Baring her fangs, Tara hurried as much as her weary body would allow.

But the picture that presented itself when Tara arrived was nothing like she feared. Instead of Willow shattered across the ground (a sight she knew would shred her own mind), or even combat between the Slayers and hellgod, she saw Ben cowering on the ground. He looked beaten up—nose and ears bleeding, bruises along his mouth. More, he was wearing...wasn't that Glory's outfit? The truth dawned on Tara. She'd known Glory's fellow hellgods had banished her. Here then was the other part of her "punishment." To be bonded to a mortal man, presumably in order to live out his natural lifespan, then die with him. An elegant cruelty, when you thought about it.

"It wasn't me," Ben was gasping. "It was never me. Not like I ever got a choice. Glory—she ruined everything I ever wanted, everything I ever had too." He looked as if he might cry, but was just too tired. "You have no idea," he said, "how much I hate her."

Faith and Buffy looked at each other. Off to the side, Willow was managing to stand. She looked unhurt. Thanks to all the gods. Well, all but one.

"Buffy!" Tara's voice cut through Ben's whining. She pointed up. "Dawn." Buffy took a quick look towards the top of the ramshackle tower. High above, her sister was visible, bound at the edge of a platform. More to the point, she wasn't alone. Tara's vampiric senses could make out the identity of the figure approaching her. Barely. She didn't recognize him at first, in a tailored dark suit instead of the near-rags he'd always worn before.

"Its Doc," Tara told her. Buffy wasted no time. Leaving them all behind, she bounded for the stairs and raced up.

While Tara made her way to Willow, Faith stared at the cowering and bruised Ben. Neither one said or did anything while Tara reached her beloved, wrapping arms around her with a sigh of relief. Or was that her sigh, at seeing Tara still alive after being thrown through the air into a wall? It hardly mattered. They were alive. Both of them. Weakened, yes, but strong enough to support each other.

"I really oughta just gut you," Faith hissed. Ben almost managed not to cringe. "But..." Faith looked up, at where Buffy was racing to reach the top of the tower before it was too late, "...Bee wouldn't be happy." She knelt next to him. "Glory, she's lost her chance. You tell that bitch to get her tail out of dodge, 'cause we know all about her now. Next time, she won't have it so easy." Under her glare, Ben nodded. He crawled to his feet, and staggered away into the night. Then Faith ran—or tried to, managing little more than a really fast walk—up the staircase, after Buffy.

Mistake, Tara thought to herself. Sooner or later, Glory would reassert herself, reclaiming Ben's body and life. She'd have all her powers, know us as well as we know her. Worse, she'll have nothing to lose. Maybe not for a while, but she would return to Sunnydale with only one goal left—revenge. On Buffy and Faith. Plus Xander and Anya and Giles and all the Scoobies.

"Tara?" Some of her resolution must have showed. When she looked into Willow's eyes, she saw so many things. Too many, perhaps. But the promise of happiness, of years spent in this lady's arms, was as ashes before the fear Tara felt. Fear for another day, when Glory would take her time killing Willow. Certainly a hellgod would know precisely how to make a mere witch believe death the sweetest of mercies. Hungrily, Tara kissed her. As if it might well be their last. Only by exerting her will could Tara break away.

"Make you safe." She didn't dare look. Tara walked as quickly as she could towards the shadows where Ben had left. Cracked bones were not broken, after all. As a vampire she could still track him. He was bleeding. They were both hurt, but unlike Ben, Tara has superhuman strength.

Besides, his blood would further her healing. If there was any point to healing. She doubted Willow would forgive her for this...

Willow was still startled at how quickly Tara could move. She shouldn't have been, but she was. Tara had nearly left the construction site before Willow could even react. And dizziness prevented her from taking more than a step or two before grabbing something. Not that she let that stop her.

But Tara didn't wait. Some part of Willow recognized only too well Tara's reaction. Had someone threatened or hurt Tara, Willow understood herself enough to know she'd go over-the-top ballistic. Even the threat of it would make her blood boil. And she wasn't a demon. In Tara's mind, clearly, Ben still represented a threat. An unacceptable threat. Unacceptable as in must-die-before-he-gets-much-older-like-ten-minutes-older. Because....

Because Ben's life threatened Willow. He contained Glory, that much seemed plain. If he lived, so too did Glory.

Willow understood too well. Yet the fact that Ben was human made her still try and catch up with Tara. Make her stop. Killing a human wasn't the answer. It couldn't be. Could it? Should it? Even if the answers to those were yes, could Willow live with herself? Or—Tara? Frankly, she didn't want to find out.

She surprised herself at just how quickly she managed to move, holding on to piles of bricks, or walls, or even cars as if they were canes. It was slow going, but steady. And swift as Tara had looked, she had also been limping. Willow might still be able to catch up with her. She had to. And see, now, the dizziness was passing. Movement wasn't so very hard. Not easy yet. But easier, and that was something, right? The minions all around were still fighting, but not as hard as they had been. In fact, they were pretty much falling to the combined efforts of the Scoobies and Initiative soldiers. So at least Willow didn't have to deal with any pesky demonlings trying to stop her. Crossing half a block seemed to take a longish time. She didn't dare slow down, not even when her eyeballs started to melt. Well, okay not melt really. It—or they—just felt like they were. Just as her teeth seemed strangely soft at moments. But stopping was just so not an option no matter how you looked at things.

And hearing Ben's voice call out in alarm somewhere up ahead only got her moving faster.

One lonely streetlamp illustrated the scene before her. Ben, obviously battered, was limping frantically away from Tara, whose own limping gate was the only reason Ben still lived. The vampire's eye was feral gold, her mouth befanged, and somehow the unsteadiness of her gait only made her more menacing.

That was the moment when a rainbow of light shot across the sky. It was something like a slow motion lightning bolt, one that didn't fade but stayed across the sky. All of them looked up, towards the tower. The glowing ribbon was directly below it—specifically below the extension where Dawn had been held. Even as they watched, the ribbon stopped looking like a ribbon. Instead, it became a hole, the edges eating away at...what?

No matter. Blue and white bolts of energy began to boil out of it. The ground shifted, sending Willow to the ground again with a thud.

Oh goddess. The portal! Someone had begun the ritual, spilling Dawn's blood. Now that blood was opening all the doors to all realities, loosing chaos into the world. Dimly, dealing with yet another blow to the head, Willow tried to make out what was going on around her.

High above, what looked like some kind of...dinosaur...flapped its wings as it soared out of the glowing tear in reality.

To her right, she saw Tara on her hands and knees. She was crawling towards Willow. Her face was human again, but no less determined.

Parts of the walls in nearby building were cracking. An eldritch lightning bolt struck the garbage dumpster in the alley. Instantly, it melted. But more disturbingly, hundreds of bright red insects began swarming out of the glowing remains. Or at least they seemed to be insects...

Behind Tara, Ben had somehow managed to get to his feet. More, he'd grabbed a piece of wood from the building supplies strewn in the area. This piece was broken, jagged on one end. He now brandished it, heading directly for Tara from behind!

Yet another lightning flash. This one a sickening green. It made Ben with his makeshift wooden stake look a thousand times more menacing. Frantically, Willow tried to summon the strength with which to push him back—or knock the wood out of his hand! Or something! But she was too tired. She simply could not concentrate.

The shadowy figure that had run past Willow moments before was on him now. She (it seemed female) had leapt up onto Ben, knocking him over, then fastening onto him in a way that was very familiar to Willow. He barely had time to make any sounds at all as he struggled—and the vampire fed gluttonously. Tara and Willow reached each other, holding on for dear life. Whoever their savior was, it was pretty clear she'd saved them only a little time. Now that Dawn had been bled (was she still alive, Willow wondered?), chaos would grow until the world itself dissolved.

Including Tara. She clung to her lover, who held her just as tightly. All around thunderclaps were shattering windows. On top of that, weird noises like the songs of whales were echoing through the night sky. For a few moments, the stars seemed to race instead of crawl across the sky.

Willow heard Tara's voice in her ear. "I love you," she kept saying over and over. "I love you!"

Tears in her eyes, Willow whispered back "If I gotta die, this is how I wanna go." And held as tight as she could, savoring each curve and moment of these, their last.

It took several moments for Tara to respond. When she did, she looked behind her, and gaped. Standing before them was the vampire who had killed Ben. She looked emaciated, with matted hair and clothes little more than rags. But her eyes! They were looking at everything as if it was all new and wondrous. Like a child? No. More like someone waking from a long sleep. Barely a moment before Tara said it, Willow knew the name of the girl before them. Even then, she could barely hear it above the din of screams and lightning bolts around them.

And one second later—as Willow contemplated what those words might mean—the awful noises stopped. The sky returned to normal. A whining, random wind vanished. More, in the air Willow sensed that something had changed. Something had stopped.

Dawn sat hunched on the sofa, eyes unfocussed. Willow, beside her, looked little better. She had her arms around the fourteen-year-old, and listened. Her voice was nearly inaudible, even to Willow.

"She said," Dawn whispered, "that she understood. That she loved me, and to live. For her. The hardest thing about this world, she said, is living in it." At this last, her voice very nearly broke. Dawn opened her mouth to say something else. Exactly what would forever be a mystery, because she didn't say anything, although she tried several times. The lips moved, but no words.

"Yeah," spoke Oz. He crouched on the lawn, before the front porch. He's been sitting there for nearly an hour.

Willow nodded. She'd already guessed as much. Dawn was the Key, and once the ritual began only when her blood ceased to flow would reality be saved. Of course Dawn would offer to sacrifice herself. Not that she'd be happy about it. Who would? But as Buffy had pointed out, she'd been fashioned out of Buffy herself. Dawn really was her sister, in every way that counted. Including their souls. Heroes both. Naturally Dawn's instinct had been to die if that's what it took to save others.

"Hey. We know." For some reason Oz's voice, no louder than Dawn's, overpowered hers. It nearly touched Willow herself. Nearly.

"We know, Dawnie," Willow repeated. Even to herself, the words sounded rote. A formula. The words weren't from her heart, merely what she was supposed to say. But she meant them. Didn't she?

The edges of her eyes began to water again. Why haven't I cried, Willow wondered. Dawn bowed her head. And Willow deliberately stroked her hair. But that was what Buffy did so should I or maybe that isn't such a bad thing it could be kinda familiar. Or something like that. After a few moments, gentle sobs came from her.

Willow hadn't cried. It had been days. But still, she hadn't cried. Unlike Dawn, who had wept herself to sleep more than once. Instead, Willow found herself thinking about how she should cry, how she should be mourning, how she really ought to be devastated beyond words. Rather than feeling nothing. No, that wasn't right either. Truth to tell, she did feel a sad loss that hurt almost beyond taking. But she felt it removed, somehow. As if the emotions belonged to someone she knew, even liked, but did not love. Mostly, she felt tired.

Creaking wood behind Willow signaled the arrival of some one—no, some two. Xander and Anya sat on the other side of Dawn, eyes full of what Willow knew she should be feeling instead of faking.

"You're very lucky," chimed in Anya. Everyone looked at her. Even Dawn, who lifted her head, eyes growing huge as they bored into Anya. "Usually," Anya continued undauntedly, "when a loved one dies, the love goes bye-bye along with the person. I've a theory that's why it hurts so much. Its like your heart gets ripped out. But you've got multiple hearts. Or at least, multiple loved ones. Experience says that's more rare than most people think. Odd, huh?" She nodded, sagely impressed by her own wisdom.

Okay, I'm feeling something, thought Willow. I'm surprised. This is me feeling surprise because Anya just went off on one of her proclamations and everybody, even me, agrees with her. Yep. Cause for surprise. And fear because this has got to be a sign of some apocalypse.

Tara and Wesley watched Michelle stare at herself in the mirror. She'd been doing it quite a lot. Probably getting used to having a reflection again. Her reaction to solid food had been similar.

"Just curious..." Wesley said in a low voice, so low Tara figured Michelle could no longer hear it.

"Me, too. All I can figure is that Ben's blood was also Glory's, so it had some kind of mystical properties. Ones that resulted in..." she gestured slightly in Michelle's direction. Wesley nodded.

"I'd be lying if I said he was fine. Still, he does seem to be coping. More or less."

"Unfortunately." He gave a little sigh. Of sympathy, most likely. The two Watchers had plenty in common, and in time they were all but certain to share this as well. Tara didn't know that much about the history of Slayers, but she rather doubted many outlived their Watchers. "The Council called a little while ago. It seems they knew."

"There are...well, signs and portents the Council knows to look for...they herald the selection of a new Slayer. Curiously, they initially offered their condolences towards me. Evidently they had assumed Faith was the one who..." He didn't finish his sentence, but coughed. Not a good thought for him, evidently. "I suppose," he continued after a moment, "their presumption was that if Buffy died, another Slayer would not be called. Came as a bit of a surprise, actually."

Idly, Tara nodded. She was worried about Willow. Her love had gone into a place where she insisted on helping everyone else deal with their grief. She was nearly acting as a second mother to poor Dawn, while letting Xander cry on her shoulder and staying up for hours hovering around Giles. Faith, meanwhile, found a constant nurse in her. Mutual support was one thing. This, though, smacked of obsession. Or compensation.

Giles' footsteps came up the stairs, meeting Wesley and Tara in the hall. He took a moment to see where they were looking. "Ah. Yes. How is she coming along?"

"All things considered," said Wesley, "Miss Huggins appears to be slowly but surely welcoming her humanity back and adjusting well. No offense," he added at the end to Tara, who shrugged. She, more than he, knew how terrible a return from vampire to human could be. None more than she. Well, none alive.

"He and some other members of the Council are on their way to Sunnydale even as we speak." Giles' voice lacked something. A spark, perhaps. Or just a terrible missing Something. In time, maybe, scar tissue would take its place. "The signs," Giles continued, "are that the next Slayer is already here."

Willow listened to Giles announcement and held Tara's hand. Although cold, somehow her hand seemed warmer than her own.

There was a pause, in which Giles started to say something, but didn't. Wesley jumped in. "Both of us felt a full disclosure of the situation should wait for an opportune time. Which is to say, they are aware a relatively young vampire was created by the Apostate and aided him as well as us. They know as well that she has continued to be of help, and that she is not one who hunts down humans as prey." He paused, letting all of them guess what the Council didn't know.

"But they don't know she and Willow are lovers." Anya. Straightforward. Honest. Blunt. As usual.

"Which begs the question," Wesley continued, "of how they might react. Keep in mind virtually every one of those arriving have in fact been Watchers for active Slayers in the past. Each has personally aided in slaying vampires, as well as other demons. I believe" he concluded, "they will need time to absorb the implications of the Prophecies of Aubergion."

"Wesley," said Dawn in a little voice. Everyone looked at her. "What are you saying? That Tara has to go away?"

"But," said Willow, "I can't leave here at a time like this. Dawn...she needs me right now. And...Faith." She could hear the whining in her voice, but nothing could keep it out.

"Will!" It was Xander. After months of his being a pathetic madman, Xander now had far more focus and purpose than before. Maybe his experience had been a catharsis? There was some quote—that which does not destroy me only makes me stronger. Who said that? "Will, have you looked at yourself? You're exhausted looking out after everyone but yourself."

"No you can't," said a familiar voice behind them. Willow turned, to see Faith in the kitchen doorway. One arm was still in a sling, her free hand carrying a soda. She also still had a black eye, albeit a fading one. "Red, you've been running around taking care of us. You change our sheets, and cook our meals, and listen to us when we gripe...but what about you?"

She nearly responded with a reflexive "I can handle it" but then Tara squeezed her hand. Rather than reply to Faith, Willow looked at Tara. For a strange moment, she imagined herself reflected in Tara's single eye. Or was it imagination? Tara's hand reached up to stroke one cheek. It felt...good. Better even than the touch of her lover usually was. Almost against her will, she leaned against that hand, accepting the offer. Let me take this weight from you.

"Please," whispered Tara. "Come with me." Four words. They might as well have been four thousand.

It was well past sunset when Willow put her things into the car. Tara watched her. Watching Willow was a pleasure as always but now there was cause for worry. She had watched her beloved girl for many, many hours by now. Many times such watching had been covert. Tara doubted Willow guessed even now how often a vampire had been following her every move for almost a year and a half. She had seen the beautiful young woman dancing happily with Oz, weeping at his loss, struggling with various enemies at the Slayer's side.

Later, she'd watched Willow look at her with joy, her face lighting up as Tara came into view. That had proven a pleasure beyond words. By then Tara knew how to read this lovely lady. Knew when she was lying. Just as she knew when she was afraid, or determined, or amused. And knew...beyond doubt...knew Willow loved her.

Willow insisted on driving. Tara didn't argue, but continued to watch her. And was rewarded with a sad smile. Can we survive this? Tara hated thinking it, but her love had suffered a terrible psychic shock. Such things changed people. Not always for the better.

The distance between the Summers home and Tara's lair was nearly an hour. Unfortunately, the most direct route—the one Willow as driver insisted upon—went directly past several devastated city blocks. Fire and ice had been the least of the travails inflicted by Glory's ritual. One set of storefronts looked as if they'd been gnawed by giant insects. Perhaps they even had. Then there was the church with the nearly perfect round hole in its center.

Seeing such things, Willow's face grew longer. And sadder. Yellow police tape marked lots of locations.

"Did you hear," asked Willow, "they got an official death toll. Not too bad. Seventy three."

In a major city that would be a horrifying number. Sunnydale wasn't even a minor city.

"Yeah," she breathed. There was more to it than that, then. Seventy three dead strangers touched her, but that grief was eclipsed. And as she thought on what she knew of Willow's life, Tara began to understand.

She blinked. "That...that was a long time ago. Besides, I had friends. Xander, for one." Willow's voice rose in pitch. It was slight, but enough for Tara to pick up.

"Then...you became part of the biggest, most important of secrets. Special. Buffy may have been the Chosen One, but she chose you."

Willow parked the car with a jerk. Usually, she was a very careful driver. Now the angle was a little wrong, the car was too far from the curb and besides the fire hydrant was just a little too close. "I...I don't know what you're talking about. There's such a thing as nerd mystique, you know!"

And with that, she got out of the car, slamming the door. Tara followed as they both headed for the building where Tara hid during the day. Willow needed no help finding the secret entrance, of course. The speed with which she moved, though, was startling. Only with effort did Tara keep up. Of course, she hadn't really fed well since the fight, and her bones hadn't fully knitted from their cracks. Like Willow, she'd been trying to help others through the shock of Buffy's death. Another reason she understood—only too well—what her love might be going through.

They were halfway down the ladder when both sensed something was wrong. Both noted the angle of the tunnel was subtly wrong. Neither had been back here in days...

One side of the lair now bore a crack, at its widest nearly five feet wide, and running all the way up into the ceiling. Pulverized concrete lay in chunks and dust across the room.

"Lots of minor tremors did accompany the ritual..." Tara began, "...that could be it."

But now Willow had approached the edge of one crack. "Tara," she said. "The edge of this looks melted."

First, Willow looked frightened. Second, she looked horrified. Third, she looked determined—fiercely so.

The words to the spell were simple, really. A single drop of light was conjured out of the air, and it floated its way through the crack in Tara's wall. Neither of them was surprised. Of course Miss Xita would go exploring once such an opening appeared in her home. That she still wasn't home was the cause for worry.

Within yards, the crack narrowed, but its other end led to natural caves. Sunnydale was riddled with them. Tara knew that even better than Willow. Vampires nearly always traveled underground. It became their highway, their concourse, their personal world—along with the other demons. Yet Tara didn't take the lead. For one thing, the light was Willow's spell. It obeyed her will, not Tara's. And for another, she by now recognized that her lover wouldn't relinquish the lead position. Not right now.

"Miss Xita!" Willow's voice echoed. Tara listened, hoping for a response. Her superior hearing picked up sounds, some of them quite odd, but nothing like a kitten's cries.

Steadily, the glowing drop of light continued along its way. For a long time, maybe even an hour, the going was rough. These were not tunnels frequented often by human-sized creatures. Boulders packed atop each other made up the cave floor, leaving barely two yards between them and the jagged ceiling. Willow never really hesitated, though, clearly focused on the light and where it would lead. Tara believed she understood why. No one had been able to save Buffy, not even her best friend—who had herself been defended and saved countless times by Buffy for years. Yet at that final battle, Willow had failed to do as much for her. She had been unable to, that was the truth. It was little short of a miracle they hadn't all died, with much of the world's population slaughtered as well, but Willow did not see it that way. Or more accurately, that wasn't how her heart could. Buffy had saved her. She had not saved Buffy. That it had been impossible could hardly eclipse that blinding fact. And right now, what else could Willow see? Save perhaps the opportunity to succeed for a kitten where she had failed for her best friend.

Oh Willow, the vampire thought to herself, how can I help you get past this? The only answer that came to mind was to help rescue (or find) Miss Xita. So she followed her love, deeper and deeper into the earth.

"I'm listening," said Tara. Yes. No mistake. What it was remained a mystery. But she heard it. Heard...what? "Have you ever listened to the songs of whales?" she suddenly asked.

"That's kind of what I'm hearing. But something else...as if there were words..." She shook her head, lacking any more details. But she pointed to where the sound or voices or songs seemed to originate. In just the same direction as the light had been leading them.

Both of them hurried, but carefully, trying to make as little sound as possible. Another minute or two passed before Willow whispered that she, too, could hear something. Within another five, both could have given a description of it. There seemed to be a chorus, singing some weird language more suited to whales than human or human-like creatures. Harmonies interlaced, clearly meaning something and certainly creating an effect of terrible beauty and power. Magic? A ritual of some kind? Both? Neither? The possibilities raced through both minds amid a shared glance—and both of them pressed on.

Here the caves also echoed with the drip-drip-drip of seeping waters. Bric-a-brac lay in odd corners, like the broken shards of a wheelchair. And a stained porcelain doll, broken cleanly in half. Exactly how these and a handful of colored balloons—fresh, unused, in a neat little pile—ended up here wasn't something either of them wanted to guess. More importantly, past the next turn, a greenish luminescence seemed to wait for them. As if to make that clearer, Willow's little blue glow headed directly for it.

And the...music...voices...sounds...rose in volume and tempo. The green light pulsed in matching rhythms.

"No! Wait!" Tara hissed. Much as she loved her pet (the first she'd ever had, some part of Tara reminded her for some reason), she loved Willow a thousand-fold more. Danger to one was as nothing compared to danger to the other. Yet Willow ran faster than Tara had ever seen her move before—round the corner to where the sounds and glow continued to swell.

Tara rounded the corner herself perhaps one full second later. Before her was a nearly circular chamber, as if a molten bubble had simply evaporated amid the rock. One meter-long pillar of onyx lay in the center of the space. Atop it was Miss Xita, laying on her side but with both ears now pointed to where Tara and Willow had just entered.

Surrounding her were...Things. Leathery long robes (that seemed sewn directly into the flesh) helped give the proceedings a ritual air. The fact that none of the five were even remotely human rendered the air sinister. Each of the five had long, hairless heads with tiny eyes too far to the sides. Maw-like mouths resembled those of horses. But their singing revealed the fact that every single tooth was a fang. No noses, or nostrils or anything like them was visible. Meanwhile, hooked claws were raised ritually in a circle around the defenseless kitten.

Just ahead of Tara, Willow's head was bowed and she was uttering words. Names. Powerful, malevolent names.

"Willow!" Tara managed to step directly in front of Willow, just in time to see her lift up eyes now grown black as pitch.

Tara tried to grab Willow by the shoulders, give her a shake. Power such as she was getting ready to channel was made even more dangerous because they were underground. Surrounding walls could easily collapse. But the effort she expended towards her lady had an unexpected result—namely, throwing her back as if she were a doll! Amid a thunderclap, Tara found herself arching away from Willow and landing with a heavy thud on the other side of the chamber!

Dizzy, Tara tried to make out what was happening. The Singing Things had stopped singing. One was staring at Tara herself, taking a step towards her. Most of the others had formed a wall between Willow and the meowing Miss Xita. A lone Singer had raised his claw, palm open, towards Willow—who had begun to elevate as she finished her spell.

"Strike and let unjust ones fall!" From Willow's hands flared out bolts of red lightning!

With a gesture, the lone Singer managed to gather the lightning and take it entirely onto itself. From the screeching sound that came from its throat, this must have caused vast pain. But, although staggered, it held its own.

Seeing this, Willow bellowed in fury. Her lovely lips pulled back in a grimace of hate, or raw and primal rage. Both hands extended like talons, she spat something in Russian.

And at that moment, a spiral of black flames materialized directly below Willow in a cone. It began to grow like a tornado. She didn't notice, too intense on making arcane gestures as part of her magical attack. Not until the black flames actually touched her feet did she even react, and then her eyes—black to mirror the flames beneath her—showed alarm. For all of a second and a half. It took that long for the cone to envelope her and fade away.

Willow was gone. Tara could think of nothing else. She was aware of nothing else. Even her own skin seemed countless millions of miles away, far too far for her to feel or be more than faintly notice. Willow was gone. My lady. My love.

Willow didn't know where she was, save that it was dark. Robed figures hovered nearby, so it wasn't pitch black, but on the other hand she couldn't make out any details either. And her head hurt.

Behind her. She turned around, and managed not to vomit doing so. Her internal organs felt as if they were dancing together. To punk music. Like a mosh pit. Blinking, she tried to make out the speaker.

"Pain such as we understand. Pain we have all shared." It was an old voice, a powerful one. "The pain of loss, of injustice unavenged and wrongs unpunished. We understand."

The speaker moved closer. Like the others, he was robed but his hood was thrown back. At least Willow thought of him as a "he." It must be the beard. Beards said male to her. Just as his pointed ears, protruding teeth and horns said something else.

"The pain you feel at what has happened is something we very much know, Willow Rosenberg. For a long time, we've heard echoes of it until at last we were compelled to seek you out. Already, your rage has enflamed your powers. Given time, it may elevate you to still higher and higher levels. Because you have discovered that which all things that live instinctually desire." He didn't seem so much threatening as proud. Like a coach, maybe. For some reason, he reminded her of Ira Rosenberg, her father.

He interrupted her. "But you have not shielded yourself. The mundane deaden their own hearts so that the world causes them less pain, and as a result they survive but very rarely live. And in turn they thoughtlessly add to the miseries each of them fears but refuses to acknowledge. But you, you Willow Rosenberg...!"

"When Oz left you, it was as if your soul had been crucified, left nailed and exposed to the elements. Was it not?"

Appalled, Willow nodded without thinking. It was true. No one had ever betrayed her so deeply, so horribly as Oz. She had forgiven him, true, largely out of an understanding that he suffered under a curse that eroded his precious self-control. He had not chosen to be unfaithful, she knew that.

"And since that time, has the pain really grown any less keen, Willow Rosenberg? Do you feel it less when Joyce Summers died, or your friend Xander's mind was flayed? Even so, your friends themselves hurt you, did they not?" He stepped closer. Those eyes, milky yet deep, held hers. "You, whom they knew to have suffered terribly from a vast loneliness—when you found a beloved one again, they sought to kill her. Because your love was a demon, to them your feelings were as nothing. All the affection you had lavished upon them, in the just expectation they offered you the same—it stood revealed for what they truly felt." Willow didn't want to hear the next word, because she suspected what it would be. She was right. "Pity!" She flinched.

"They never tried to! You had sided in your heart with a member of demonkind, and in their eyes what was any chance of happiness of you compared to that sin?"

"And now, the world has lashed your soul yet again, has it not?" The demon's voice had grown quieter. Wiser. "Your best friend, slaughtered like farm animal. She died a hero—the salvation of untold billions—yet forgotten. Even by the others."

"Now the most innocent of creatures, your kitten, it too is taken from you. Is it any wonder, then, your magicks found such potent fuel in your rage and pain and grief? Accept the implications of this Willow Rosenberg! Let your mind be open to the great truths that lie before your open eyes! See all the pain this world offers you, forces upon you! And use it—to shape the world into something better!"

Every word out of this demon seemed to ring with indignation and promise. The resemblance to some kind of coach, or the very best and most challenging of teachers, was never more acute. He seemed to realize this, as he nodded again.

"Walk the path of vengeance and power, Willow Rosenberg. That is what I, D'Hoffryn, offer you. A chance to right all the wrongs of the world, and soothe the pain even your closest fellow humans inflict."

He stretched out his hand to her. In it, lay a kind of amulet. A rounded pentagon of silver, embossed with a black shape, something like a star.

"The double ll requires something between a trill and a mild glottal stop. Try again."

It sighed. The fact its voice was practically identical to that of David Niven (a fact Tara found vaguely disturbing) make its sigh a precisely civilized yet expressive thing. "Close enough, I suppose."

"Never mind that, what did you do to Willow?" The demon rose up in Tara, shifting her features. She felt her fangs extend, her brow furrow, and she welcomed the blood rage that simmered deep inside. If Willow was gone, so too was any reason to hold back. Let death come, but she would not greet it alone.

"Your soul, you mean?" The long-headed creature said this nonchalantly. "Nothing. Honestly."

From the crook of another of the creature's arms, Miss Xita made a plaintive meow. It stroked a claw gently behind her ears, and she purred in response. Something seemed off. Off enough for Tara to retain control.

"That vortex," the leader continued, "was none of our doing, I assure you. For one thing, we don't have that kind of power. Not that we can't traverse the differing realities," this last was said with something like a laugh—the kind Giles or Wesley might have made at their most arch, "but our natures do require us to the actual traversing, as it were. No, your soul was taken by someone else."

Only one person had ever called Willow Tara's soul. He had been an essentially benevolent demon. Did that mean so too were these?

Now the creature opened its mouth and inhaled. "Hmmmmmm...from the taste of the magicks, I suspect one of the specialty hells. Willow—that is her name, yes?—may be in great peril." Behind it, another creature was scratching Miss Xita behind the ears. She of course purred, accepting her due of worship as befitting any feline. That detail, more than any other, was evidence to Tara that these beings might be telling the truth. Cats were notoriously difficult to deceive.

"Um...sir?" It was the smallest of the creatures, voice preposterously young. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

"Travelers," the leader said, "nomads along mystic paths, seeking out the holy beasts where ere they may gather so to sing their praises and tell them the wonders we've seen on our journeys." From the posture all them had towards Miss Xita, Tara suspected she knew what time of being this holy beast was. Nor, to her mind, did that seem inappropriate.

"Your soul," it went on, "is much troubled. When she unleashed her rage with magicks in our direction, it was evident just how troubled, I'm afraid. There are beings, sad to say, fully capable of sensing the tempests within her heart and welcoming such as something delightful."

"Yes Glim'th'th'thrik'doodle?" Even Tara, distressed as she was, blinked at that name.

All five of them stepped forward, tilted their weird heads and inhaling. Some licked their lips. Tara was reminded of wine tasters.

"Our young colleague is correct," spoke a third. Although rail-thin, its voice was deep and robust enough to make Orson Wells seem distinctly Pee Wee Hermanish. "This creature with but one eye was one of those present at the conflagration which diverted us into these caves. Do you recall?"

The leader nodded. "Indeed I do. Thank you, Sally." It looked at Tara again. "You were present when the Slayer went to heaven. Perhaps she was a friend of yours?"

The talisman sang to Willow. Its song was a remembrance of disappointments and rages, of hurts minor and vast, of betrayals and the urges she'd long ago learned to suppress. Free me, sang the tiny piece of metal, free yourself! Swallow the power and make it part of you. Let the flames jump high! Let them dance!

All around her, the cloaked figures were chanting something. What, she didn't know. Mostly, she didn't care. In the darkness, the talisman in her hand, memories washed through every cell.

Her mother was forbidding her things—pets, toys, asking questions of Rabbi, silly little holiday shows on TV. Willow had arguments in defense of what she'd done. She knew what she wanted, and why. None of it unreasonable. Didn't everyone long for the uncomplicated friendship of a puppy? Especially a single child whose parents never noticed her loneliness, never offered to assuage it? Why not let her play with that doll instead of this? Who was the doll for, after all? Mother or child? Wasn't anything for her, for Willow? Anything? No. Be quiet. Do your homework. Of course you got straight A's we expected no less so there's really no reason to single you out for great praise or any praise really when you really think about it. Don't disagree with your mother. This is for your own good. Because I said so, that's why. Everything will be fine in the end. The end is just one of those sayings. You'll understand when you're older. Be a good girl. Be quiet. I said be quiet. Do as you are told, not as you desire. You're too young to know what you want anyway. Don't be disagreeable young lady. Go to your room. Stay there. No you may not have a cookie.

Jesse and Xander were laughing with her. No, at her. She loved them both. Xander especially. Neither one ever flirted with her. Both sets of their eyes mooned and traced the path of every vacuous bitch with big tits and noses higher than Everest. They never looked at her with anything like desire. Pity, understanding, even a little sympathy would have been such a tiny gift. Yet too much for them to give. And for all of that, they were her best friends. So of course they hurt her the most. Because she let them.

Buffy valued her. Liked her. Used her. Ignored her advice or insisted she do things as Buffy would. Had Buffy even once changed to suit Willow instead of the other way around? She was the stranger, after all, and had needed Willow, rewarding her with a pittance of thank you's. Lording it over Willow because she was Chosen. Chosen by Xander. My Xander.

Dizzy, Willow recalled every sneering word Faith had ever aimed at her. The way Principal Snyder had simply assumed she was a slave to his image of school as a haven for thick-skulled jocks. Giles was shaking his head as she dared to read books he didn't want her to. Then there was Cordelia. Evil and vicious, with her fellow harpies like Harmony. Cackling at the thought of each wound Willow's heart might feel. Of course sweet Xander fell in love with Cordelia. It was the most hurtful thing he could have done. So he did it. Of course.

Oz. Wonderful, mysterious, judgmental and betraying Oz. Everything on my terms Oz. No listening to Willow's needs Oz. Here's my groupie Willow. How cute. Calling himself her love, then slaking his lust on a whore because she was just as much a monster as he was. Is this your heart, Willow? Pardon me while Veruca and I rend it with our teeth. Think of it as a kind of foreplay.

How could Willow be so hot and still live? This talisman—was it molten? If so, the burning wasn't what she expected.

Anya and her thoughtless mouth. Dawn and her young greed. Wesley's nose was ever further up that Cordelia's, even though he was a coward and useless and arrogant and a fool. Joyce, smothering Willow in fake concern, eager to feel good about herself rather than to help Willow feel better about anything.

Now all of Willow's body that itched, and hurt, and burned. All around her, the darkness twirled. Hooded figures, led by that D'Hoffryn guy, chanted. Exactly what she couldn't say. For one thing, it was in a language she didn't know—or even recognize. Yet it was the same phrase over and over. Pain wracked her body, a delicious pain that purged her of...what? She didn't know. Did she care?

Her hand hurt. The hand that held the Talisman. She looked at it, opening the palm where claws had dug into her skin. Her claws. Thick, green blood dripped from the open wounds, boiling in the air as it dropped. Willow snarled. It felt good to snarl. Just as she knew it would feel good—great—to rend the flesh from those who dared hurt her or hers. More than feel great, it was Purpose.

Purpose seized hold of her, and with the mildest effort of her will, she wrapped herself in black flame. Reality twisted, and she was hurled back to where she'd been. Vengeance. Yes. It was a good word. A delicious word. More, a delicious Purpose. In the name of Vengeance she landed into the earthly realm, stepping with her hooves upon the stone floor.

Still here. Good. She hungered to gnaw upon their bones. All five turned to her, startled in fear at what had arrived in their midst. Their fear was also a good thing. Purpose flowed through her, hurling more lightning bolts at them. Ha! Let them weaken those few bolts with their puny magicks. She had more. Lots. And they knew it! See how they flee from me?

And pretty. Her eye was deep gold, her fangs dainty and long. Very pretty indeed. At the corners of her awareness, the Evil Ones were scattering. Let them. She could find them later. Right now it was this one who intrigued Willow. Floating across the space, she came to rest in front of this pretty demoness. Traced one claw against the edge of her jaw.

For one long moment their mouths almost touched. Then, at last, they did. Willow was startled. How could anything be better than Purpose? Yet this was. Beyond doubt. Growling, Willow devoted herself to the better-than-Purpose that was kissing this lovely demon. Feeling her hands against Willow's chest was good, too. Very good. Vengeance could wait a little while.

She was still thinking that—in so much as she was thinking anything—when Tara crushed the talisman with her superhuman strength.

Tara thought the idea of a wake good. It gave loved ones what they most needed—a chance to grieve. Together.

Giles and Wesley were with the other Watchers, off in a corner explaining things to Michelle. Tara didn't know Quentin Travers, but she thought the expression of shock on his face wasn't quite subtle enough to be invisible. She could relate. If having a vampire turn into a human again wasn't strange enough—having that same ex-vampire turn out to be the new Slayer certainly upped the whole level of bizarreness. Being the sire of said ex-vampire was fairly weird, too.

"As near as we can discern," the bearded Watcher was saying, "these unique series of events must be the cause. A completely unprecedented confluence of mystical forces aligned in a precise, never-to-be-repeated manner." He'd been going on in the same vein for some time, but so far Michelle had showed no signs of panic or mental shut down. Nor did Tara think she would. She suspected this flooding of a new Slayer with high-sounding verbiage was part of doctrine. Given her past, was it any wonder Michelle found this terribly unimpressive?

Tara wondered among the others in the Summers home. Anya and Dawn were chatting at once end of the couch. Interesting how those two had managed to become friends. From what Willow said, Dawn's crush on Xander had been quite intense. But, people grow. Even teenagers. And ex-demons.

Gunn and Faith were sharing a beer in the kitchen. They toasted to Tara as she passed, then went on reminding each other of stories—something about Faith's haunted apartment back in Los Angeles. She made a mental note to ask for details some night.

On the back porch sat Willow. Alone. Staring into the night. Tara sat beside her, as ever acutely aware of her touch, even hip to hip through their clothes.

"I wouldn't want to go against type." She hoped the jibe would get a response. It did not. The silence stretched on.

"Well, that does make sense, doesn't it? If there are countless hell dimensions, shouldn't there also be an equal number of paradises?"

"Guess so." No emotion. Or—were they elsewhere? "But—do you think she'd mind. About April, I mean?" Just a trace of emotion there.

Tara pondered. "Buffy was a hero. So was April." The pieces left of the robot had been gathered and buried next to Buffy's grave, even given its own headstone. Anya had chosen the words: She Did Not Fail. Buffy's headstone had been written by Willow: She Saved The World. A Lot. "No, I don't think she'd mind. Especially now."

Did you think I'd love you less, Willow, because your pain could be used? Tara didn't say those words, merely thought them. One hand reached out and entwined with her lover's. The tension in that hand was great, but did relax somewhat over a minute or two. Soon, Tara leaned over to graze Willow's ear with her lips. And was rewarded with a welcoming tremor. "Can I tell you something?"

Together, they grinned. Lips found lips. And soon it was Willow's turn to speak. "Just thought of something." To Tara's relief, her voice held just an echo of pleasure. From this echo, she believed more could grow.

"Something you told me once." Willow spoke, lip grazing lip, so low even Tara had trouble hearing. "Even as a demon, I could not help but love you."
* * *

An hour later, Willow and Tara walked hand in hand to where everyone else had clustered together, around the piano. There, a startling figure in a charcoal gray tuxedo ran lime-green figures across the keys. His eyes were bright red, his horns the same shade as old ivory. Who knows, thought Willow, maybe that's what they are. She had thought the Host quite strange looking last time she'd seen him.

Of course, that was before she grown horns and hooves of her own. Just as well she hadn't kept them. Not her style.

"A long time ago, a million years b.c.," he began,
"The best things in life were absolutely free.
But no one appreciated a sky that was always blue
And no one congratulated a moon that was always new."

Willow noted how everyone—Gunn, Faith, Dawn, the assembled Watchers (for once not inching away from Tara)—listened to the words. Song had this power, she supposed. No, she knew. Holding Tara's hand tighter, and remembering another song, she found herself smiling.

"So it was planned we should vanish now and then,
And you must pay before we see them again—
That's what storms are made for—
And you shouldn't be afraid for..." The Host held the last note of the first part exactly long enough. Proof of that was how everybody held their breaths.

"Every time it rains, it rains pennies from heaven," the melody kicked in, simple but full of grace.
"Don't you know each cloud contains pennies from heaven?
You'll find your future falling
All over town
Be sure that your umbrella
Is upside down."

Now his eyes met those around him. To Anya and Xander—
"Trade them for a package of
Sunshine and flowers"

Next he looked directly into little Dawn's blue eyes.
"If you want the things you love
You must have showers!"

He sang to Wesley and Giles
"So when you hear it thunder,
Don't run under
A tree..."

Then gazed at Gunn and Faith, smiling at his words,
"There'll be pennies from heaven
For you and me!"

Everyone applauded as the Host let the last notes of his voice and the piano fade. His smile at their reaction was genuine. Rising, he gave a little bow. Clearly, he was experienced at it.

The words of the song for some reason touched Willow. Maybe that's why we have music, she mused. To remind us of truths we forget. Like how the world is a hard but beautiful place. How our joys are purchased with troubles, which means of course they're that much more valuable. After all, isn't that proof of things like love? How much pain we'll pay for it? If I had never been lonely, could I love Tara as much as I do?

"Penny for your thoughts?" Tara's voice both startled and soothed. Each had their arm around the others' waist.

"Do I gotta?" Willow said in a mock whine. She didn't really want to say these things, just think them. For now, anyway.

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Never the Twain

By Zahir

zahir@brainlink.com