Tribulations - Chapter 63

After the day she'd had, Buffy fully expected to drop right into sleep--and the truth was, she'd started yawning almost the minute she climbed the loft stairs. Giles, being who he was, had already managed to get completely undressed, hang up his rain-and-ocean-soaked tux in the shower to drip and put on his pajamas before she'd even pulled the first pin out of her hair.

Finally, he ended up doing it for her, removing each pin with a care most people would have reserved for handling high explosives. By the time he'd unzipped her dress and hung it up to dry next to his suit, she was practically out on her feet.

"Patrol..." she slurred. "Should..."

"Out of the question," Giles told her. "You're barely awake, love--and I suspect that even the citizens of Sunnydale will have had the sense to stay indoors through tonight's downpour.

"Not like us," she mumbled sleepily, then yawned again.

"No, not like us," Giles agreed. She could hear the smile in his voice, even as he dropped a soft cotton nightie over her head and steered her into bed. Once she'd spooned up against him, she went out like a light.

That being the case, Buffy would have thought she'd sleep soundly and peacefully. Instead, she found herself back in the bare white house with the white corridors, where the person (creature? being?) who wore Celeste's face to talk to her lived. Or existed. Whatever she did in wherever that place really was.

This time, though, she didn't get any prologue. One minute she was sleeping, and knew she was sleeping, the next she stood only a foot or so away from the white piano, watching those long-fingered hands move gently over the keys. A cluster of violently red poppies bloomed in a crystal vase on the piano's lid. The prickly, furry darkness behind their petals unnerved her.

"At the end of the day," not-Celeste sang.

When there are no friends
When there are no lovers
Who are you going to call for?
What do you have to say?

What do I have to say? Buffy thought. "I don't get it," she said aloud.

The being--she'd decided to settle on that term as most likely closest to the truth--lifted her hands from the keys, and, after a moment, shut the piano lid with a kind of dull chime. "You can't remember, Buffy?" she asked, rising from the white bench. Her equally white skirt swirled around her long, elegant legs, even though she'd stopped moving, and there wasn't any wind. Buffy accepted that as the kind of thing that happened in places like this.

"I'm really sorry," she said, hanging her head and feeling beyond dumb.

"Augustina wants to sing you a song too," not-Celeste said, and in that instant they white room melted away, turning into a rippling green hillside, probably the same one she'd met Augustina on before.

It wasn't Augustina who appeared to her, though, but Helena. At least, Buffy thought it must be Helena: this woman had the same coffee-with-lots-of-cream skin, the same tons of black hair and big, dark eyes. The difference being, this Helena looked about as far from crazy as a person--even a dead person--could hope to be. Her face seemed peaceful, her eyes calm and wise.

"We meet again, Buffy," Helena said to her. "And under better circumstances."

Buffy couldn't help but smile. "You can say that again."

"We haven't much time." For a second, even though her accent was one hundred per cent American, something in the rhythm of her words made her sound like Moira. "Do you recall what the other one--?"

"Augustina," the woman with Celeste's face interjected.

"Right. Augustina. Why can't I remember that?" Helena nodded once, briskly--and that, too, struck Buffy as very Moiraesque.

Buffy could relate: she'd tried really hard, but every time she felt like she had almost caught hold of the thing she'd forgotten, the memory scooted away from her again.

"That's all right," Helena told her. "Knowing that one...er...Augustina, the message you received was probably cryptic as hell. Let me put it a little more succinctly: Willow won't help you. You've got to think of another way."

All of a sudden, a whole crowd filled the hillside, all kinds of girls, all races, all sizes, some scary-looking and some Buffy wouldn't have thought could hurt a fly. She knew them, though: these were her sisters. Her younger sisters, even though they'd come before her in time. Actually, it hurt her, to see how young some of them were.

"What do you want?" she asked gently.

The Slayers answered in one voice--that was, at the same time, all their voices mixed together. "Live for us. Live a whole life for us. Be happy."

Then they were gone, just as suddenly as they'd appeared, leaving her and Helena standing alone in the alley outside The Bronze. In her hands, she held a small birthday cake with a single candle burning.

Helena tipped her head to one side, looking down on Buffy as if memorizing something.

"What?" Buffy asked.

"Make a wish, chere," Helena told her, and was gone.

Buffy sat up in bed, gasping and panicked. Make a wish? What the hell did she mean, make a wish? So much for non-cryptic answers from the other world.

Giles stirred sleepily beside her, finally sitting up himself. "Buffy, love? All right, are you?"

"God, what a weird dream," she muttered.

"Unpleasant?" He switched on the lamp, then passed her a glass of water from the night stand, watching as she drank. "Or prophetic?"

"I sure hope not. It was like Slayer Central in there." Slowly, she managed to get her breathing--and, at least partially--her self under control. "Giles, can you think of any reason for me not to trust Willow?"

"Not trust...?" Giles's face changed. For a minute, he looked nearly as wigged as she felt. "To distrust Willow," he said thoughtfully. "Is to risk the loss of our friendship, and yet..."

After an uncomfortably prolonged silence, he told her about his own dream--which, she had to admit, ranked right up there with hers on the freak-o-meter.

The thing was, she couldn't let herself believe it, not about Willow. Will was just...Will. Loyal and sweet and not--not all torqued out of shape about who was stronger, better, whatever.

"Couldn't..." Buffy swallowed hard. "I mean, really, couldn't Helena just have meant that Will was getting a little...uh...too big for her britches?" God, now she was using mom-phrases. This had to stop.

Giles gave her a look.

"Uh, getting over her head, I mean. With the magic. 'Cause she does, sometimes. She just wants it so bad...ly. So badly."

"Isn't that desire for power, more or less, the danger of which Moira warned us?" Giles sounded depressed.

"Dream-Moira," Buffy insisted. "Which isn't the same. Really. Is it?"

Giles rubbed his eyes with the fingertips of one hand, the way he often did when he was very tired or stressed. "Hard as I find it to believe that Willow would deliberately..."

"Then don't," Buffy interrupted. "Until we have proof. Real proof, anyway. She's our Willow. We love her. And she wouldn't hurt Moira. God, Giles, she worshiped Moira."

Giles probably could have quoted her chapter and verse on a hundred examples of worshipers who decided it was more fun to be an idol than adore one. But he didn't. He just looked sad, and doubtful, and like he'd made up his mind about what was the what, but really didn't care to get any harsher about forcing her to admit the truth.

"We'll go over to Will's tomorrow. And ask her straight out. You'll see," Buffy insisted, even though she knew full well that Giles was right. She'd been duly warned by her sister Slayers, and to ignore that warning verged on the pig-headed.

She flopped back on the bed, letting out all her breath in one big, long sigh. Giles lay down on his side next to her, stroking the hair back from her face, his expression all tender, loving, concerned.

"I don't want to fight Will," Buffy told him in a small voice. "I can't fight Will. And, geez, Giles--Morgana LeFaye? Do you think if we're really lucky, King Arthur will show up here to kick her butt?"

"He hadn't notable success with that endeavor the last time," Giles answered.

Buffy reached across him to switch off the light again. "Then, can we at least pretend until morning?" She cuddled up as close as she could into his warmth, knowing that she couldn't pretend, and probably wouldn't sleep again that night, much as she wanted to. Bleah. There went all the good feelings from their night out. Sometimes she wondered why they even bothered, if it was going to be just one bad thing after another. Why they struggled to get to those good places, those peaceful places, if it was all just going to come crashing down again?

"Because, Buffy, if we don't make the attempt," Giles told her quietly, "If we were to let the darkness of life entirely consume us, and never reach for the lightness or the joy, we'd soon find ourselves on a path from which we could not easily turn away. The Watcher Journals are full of such stories, love, and that's never been what I wanted for you. Or, rather less importantly, for myself."

"You don't want me to get like Helena, you mean."

Giles touched his lips, softly and warmly, to her forehead. "Precisely."

"Sometimes..." Buffy said softly, raising a hand to touch his mouth, to brush his slightly-stubbly cheek. "It just gets hard. I thought I'd always have Xander and Will to lean on, now I don't know what's next. Is Xander gonna go all Darth Vader on me?"

"You've seen into Xander's heart, Buffy," Giles answered patiently.

Okay, she had. She really had. And maybe Xander had his own insecurities and his blind spots and things that made him mad, but he wasn't going to turn on her, ever. Really, her worst fear was that sometime Xander would go so far trying to prove himself that there wouldn't be any lucky reprieve. That he'd just be dead, and his death would hang, like a huge, heavy weight, on her conscience.

Once upon a time, though, she would have said she knew Willow's heart just as well. That she didn't--and maybe never had--hurt her in ways she couldn't even define. Buffy could imagine, vaguely, having to fight her friend, but try as hard as she could, she knew she didn't have it in her to hate Willow. Which meant it would be Angel and Angelus all over again: with her, once more, unable to deliver that final blow. Hadn't she learned anything? Was that always going to be her weakness? Was she really going to let Will get away with the kind of things Angelus had done?

She thought of Jenny, lying on a different bed, but in the same place she and Giles lay now. She thought of his splintered fingers, the visible damage that he made so light of, and all the hidden damage he'd never mentioned at all. She reached down to take his hand, that left hand, strong and whole, but carrying the memories that would never fade.

Miserable now, she turned her face into Giles's chest, feeling his heartbeat against her cheek, his steady breathing, his warmth.

"We will find a solution," Giles said quietly, his deep voice humming through her. "I swear that to you, Buffy. We will."

Maybe they would, but right then she couldn't see it. And even if they did, would that bring Moira back? Would it return Willow to the friend they knew and loved, or would there always be suspicion, and touches of evil left like dark smudges on her soul?

"I wonder..." Giles held her a little tighter, and his voice sounded wistful. "Is it too late, do you think, to book passage to Tahiti?"

It comforted her, somehow, to think that Giles would want to run away too. But that he wouldn't. He'd be there. For her. For them.

"Go back to sleep, my love," he told her. "Morning will be on us soon enough."

If only it was that easy, Buffy thought.

"Meddlers at ten o'clock," Willow grumbled. Because there they were, Buffy and Giles, striding up the drive with identical do-gooder expressions on their faces.

"No, I don't really want a subscription to The Watchtower," she added, which made Morgana give her a look.

"Twentieth Century thing," Willow told her. "Guess we'd better fix all this, huh?" Because chez Rosenberg no longer exactly looked like your average middle-class suburban home. Sometimes it looked like a forest, and sometimes like the inside of a silken tent. A pavilion--wasn't that what the stories always called those things? Because "tent" was just too reminiscent of mildew and smelly hiking boots.

At that moment, she herself felt limp and sleepy with pleasure, jazzed with magic, and definitely not in the mood to answer a bunch of nosy questions from the Dynamic Duo.

"Can't I just change them into toads, or something?" Willow asked. "Or maybe I could freeze them, too, the way I did Ira. We keep this up, pretty soon we'll have ourselves a six-pack."

"Willow," Morgana answered, more amused than admonishing.

Willow sighed and made a little gesture. The trees and vines went away, the silken walls disappeared, and the Rosenbergs' drab, practical, beigey furniture showed up in their place. Another gesture changed her clothes from the beautiful green gown she'd been wearing into a pair of baggy blue overalls and a stripey long-sleeved t-shirt.

"Think I'll pass?" she asked, and the two of them laughed together. This was gonna be too easy. People saw what they wanted to see, no exceptions.

When the doorbell rang, she bounced to the door, making her face into old-Willow's usual schizo blend of perky grin and big, sad eyes. Buffy, she noted, wasn't looking her best. She'd chosen a bad day to neglect the morning beauty routine.

"Hi, Buff. Hi, Giles," she chirped.

Giles gazed down on her, and some of Willow's confidence drained away. For one thing, he was looking very tall that morning, and his expression seemed not merely Watchery but watchful. He'd dressed differently, too--jeans and boots and a dark-colored sweater layered over his gray t-shirt, a long black coat over it all. She found herself taking a step backward.

Giles knows, she thought. He knows.

"Hey, Will," Buffy said to her, in a trembly voice. "We...uh...we just stopped by to see if you...um...wanted a ride this evening. To, you know, the wake."

Willow couldn't stand the way Giles looked at her, that weird light in his green eyes. She turned away from them--from him--speeding across the room, even though she hadn't meant to hurry. Morgana, she was glad to see, had absented herself, so far away Willow couldn't even feel where she'd gone to. She picked up the phone receiver, pretending to listen to the dial tone. "Huh! I didn't know the phone was broken. Guess it just started working again."

Giles kept looking at her that same creepy way, as if he saw everything, knew everything, saw the little charade with the phone exactly for what it was.

When he spoke, it was to her alone. "You know the real reason we've come here, Willow. There's no need to dissemble. Think," he said, and the quiet power in his voice made Willow shiver. "Think of what you have, and what is being offered. You're aware, aren't you, that the quality of such gifts is dubious, at best, and the price of them always far higher than one can safely afford?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, struggling to keep old-Willow's peeping little voice in place. After a minute, she was even able to make the tears well up in her eyes. "Giles, this is me. Willow. Buffy, you don't believe him, do you?"

"The wards I set outside this house have been stripped away," Giles continued. "The house itself reeks of magic." He moved closer, looming over her, a tinge of anger creeping into his voice. "Do me the favor, Willow, of not entirely insulting my intelligence. Whatever else you may think of me, at least admit that I've knowledge of such matters." He got closer still, invading her space. "Knowledge and experience." Suddenly, gently, he touched her shoulder, the touch and his expression tearing at Willow's soul, because they were so exactly what she'd always expected, and loved, from him.

She'd thought her heart had hardened. She thought she'd turned away from all this: from mousy Willow, weak Willow, eternal-second-banana Willow. Giles's hand tightened slightly on her shoulder, the gentlest of caresses. His green eyes locked with hers, no longer uncanny, but warm and deep and ready to forgive her. A billion images flashed through her brain: Giles pulling her out of the hell-pit at the school; Giles scarred and hurting after Buffy left, but still brave; Giles holding her, sheltering her, beneath the ruins of Mermorgan tower; Giles sitting across the table from her in the old library, quiet and studious and there, the way no other grown-up in her life had ever been.

But she was an adult herself now, or as close to one as made no difference. She got to make her own choices, mind her own business, and no one, not even Giles had the right to interfere.

"Think," he said again, even more softly, but with such force behind that simple word that she had to fight long and hard not to do what he wanted without question. Giving in would have been the easiest thing in the world.

No! she wanted to scream at him. It's too late now. You can't change anything. I can't be that person anymore.

"Come back to us, Willow. Come back," Giles said. Willow hated the tenderness and the kindness in his voice. What good were such things? Where did they ever get a person, except used--and, finally, used up.

Willow gave him a look back. Her eyes felt strange, first warm and kind of itchy, as if she had some kind of summer allergy, then heavy and hard, burning with a dark hotness. The LeFaye power--the stolen LeFaye power...

No, she told herself. Not stolen. It belongs to you just as much as it ever belonged to Moira. What use was Moira making of it? What good had she done for the family, running away from us, spitting on our traditions? Morgana had chosen her. Willow Rosenberg. Out of all the women of their blood, she was the special one.

Specially gullible, said a sarcastic voice in her head. Where do you see this heading, Willow dear? Do you really think Morgana will just step graciously aside and let you rule the LeFayes? Do you think, if things came down to it, you'd be able to stop her from doing whatever the hell she wanted?

It won't come to that, Willow answered the voice. She loves me. And why shouldn't she love me? What's wrong with me that someone wouldn't?

Oh, I think you know, the sarcastic voice answered.

"No!" Willow screamed aloud, letting the magic explode through her--through her eyes, through her hands, blowing all the dull, restrictive Rosenbergness of her parents' house away in a swirling maelstrom, the forest restored, the shifting silken walls restored, her own feet leaving the floor as the storm she'd created raged around her.

Buffy, Willow was pleased to note, had hit the ground, clawing her fingers into the dirt to keep from being blown away. Maybe she'd even break a few of those perfect nails. Too bad she hadn't bothered with the make-up that morning--it would have gotten nice and smudged.

Little bits and pieces of her parents' lives swirled through the air, some of them striking Buffy where she lay, others getting sucked straight up to the sky. Behind her, Willow felt Morgana--her beloved Morgana--return, her sorcerous energies shifting the fury slightly, so that the two of them stood inside the stillness of its eye. So peaceful there, so quiet, and yet so alive with magic, with power, with everything that gave the two of them life. Willow cried out again, her spirit reveling in the joy of it all, her back arching with ecstasy.

Then she noticed that Giles stood in there with them. Closer to the edge, the wind ruffled his hair and rippled his black coat. His eyes looked deep and calm and very sad, and he held his hand out a little, as if hushing a noisy child, or seeking to calm an over-excited animal.

"It seems only a little while ago," he said to her, in that soft, warm voice she'd once--like the groveling little puppy she'd been--have done anything to hear praise her, "That we all loved one another dearly. Willow, what's become of us?"

He sounded so earnest, and so much as if he truly wanted to know, that Willow felt compelled to answer.

"The thing is, Giles," she told him, hating, at least for that moment, the bitter coldness of own her voice. "It wasn't enough. You never gave me enough."

His eyes closed briefly as he contemplated--and maybe even accepted--the truth of that. Willow knew he understood her, anyway. Only, she suspected that what Giles understood about her wasn't anything she wanted him to know.

That her cheeks flushed pink, and the beginnings of shame began to well up within her, only fed Willow's anger. With Giles. With herself. With everything.

During that brief pause, she grabbed her chance. She could see it all so clearly: the strings that must be pulled, the words that must be spoken. Exultant, she gathered together her forces, and pushed, laughing as Giles flew away from her, out of their bubble of calm.

Where he landed, Willow told herself she didn't care. Maybe she'd never care about anything ever again.