The Lateralus Duet - 2 - Reflection
by Valyssia
Thin Partitions
[reviews]
Description: Set at the end of season six. This is a follow up to my nightmare Schism. Buffy and Willow grapple with the effects of Schism. A deep rift is forming between them. As they struggle to repair the damage, outside forces align against them.
Warning: This is some pretty dark, twisted stuff. I'm not one to write sex for sex's sake nor overt violence unless it is warranted by the plot. This plot requires the dark. Look where it started. *wink*
Disclaimer: Buffy, Willow and all things Slayer belong to Joss Whedon and the good folks at Mutant Enemy.
Source Material: In chapter one I directly quote dialog from the episode 'Hells Bells.' A gentle tip of my hat and a wink to the author Rebecca Rand Kirshner.
Fankies: Howard Russell and zingrrrl both deserve kudos for their patience. As per usual zingrrrl is pre-reading and Howard is final punctuation guy.
Lyrics: Tool — Lateralus - Reflection
Feedback: Yes...please... It gives me a happy.
I have come curiously close to the end, down beneath my self-indulgent pitiful hole, defeated, I concede and move closer.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Warm, sweet air, damp from the spring, rain fills my senses. I savor the earthy smells of the meadow. My eyes open again and I look around. The warm midday sun shines off the dew covered wild flowers, grasses and vines, giving the meadow a majestic luster.
My doddering gaze eventually comes to rest on my grandson. He manages to outstrip me every time. His head bounds up and down from behind the tall grass just down the trail, peeking briefly into view with each eager step.
Excitement rings in his voice when the youngster calls back, "Come on, Grandpa! Come see!"
I raise my hand and wave to him.
"You run along. I'll be right behind you," I holler cheerfully, then begin to walk after him.
The warm sun sooths my old bones while I move, easing the aches and pains brought on by the rain. I follow the trail at a slow, steady pace, the impatience of youth goading me on. The forest looms in the distance and soon I'm in her midst. Magnificent ancient trees rise up out of the earth to tower above us.
I pause again to admire the beauty and my grandson's eager voice announces, "Just over that ridge, Grandpa." His face lights up with a bright smile and he's off again. I swear he runs circles around me, covering twice the distance he ought with no end in sight.
I steadily weave my way up the familiar trail in his wake between the great old trees. The forest canopy remains thick to the very edge. Upon reaching the coast I peer from the tree line into the great black expanse and ask, "Do you know what it is?" Lights twinkle in the void in answer to my query.
"The end of the world?" my grandson answers in a voice thick with awe.
I lean out to gaze down the lush green coast. It curves around, cupping the void, but cradling it in turn, each thing existing in a precarious harmony, one with the other.
I stoop down, testing the ground for moisture with my hand. I take a seat at the edge of our world and answer as well as I can, "Or the beginning. It depends on whether you believe the glass half-full or -empty."
The precocious youngster stands beside me and smiles. His voice is soft and thoughtful when he asks, "Has it always been this way, Grandpa?"
"The void has been here since time began and ended," I offer, realizing again that I cannot put this into words.
Briefly meeting his gaze, which is now level with my own, I turn to peer down into the dark star field at my feet. He takes a seat at my side. We sit in comfortable silence, enjoying the company for a time.
Finally, I disturb the tranquility by reaching into my coat pocket and retrieving a well worn piece of cloth. I hand it to my grandson and inquire, "What do you see?"
I observe as he runs his fingers over the cloth and opens it to view a worn image woven in the fabric of a meadow. "It's the meadow back there," he replies, pointing over his shoulder.
"Pull just here," I instruct, indicating a loose thread.
Following my directions, he tugs at the string. The cloth unravels in his hands as he continuously pulls until all that is left is a pile of yarn.
"Is the image gone?" I query pensively.
My grandson nods as he stares at the remains.
"But you still remember it." I say, taking the mass of yarn from his hands. "If you always remember it" — I lift the yarn up for him to see — "does that mean it's truly gone? We could create another image from the yarn. We could make exactly the same image. Would it still be gone then?"
I place the tangle of fiber in my jacket pocket while my grandson sits pondering my words.
Eventually, I begin to clarify, "Each of these lights is a thread" — pointing down into the void — "a choice. See how they twinkle? One goes out as another grows brighter? A hope dashed, a promise broken, a love confirmed, lives churn and change in the void."
My eyes fix on a bright flash of light and I stare at it for a time. I place my hand thoughtfully to my chin as the light grows brighter. "A life altered," I mumble softly and rise to my feet, turning my back on the void. "We'd better be getting back for supper or your Grandmamma will skin us alive," I remark wryly.
As we depart, I place my hand into my pocket to caress the tiny tapestry.
***********
I close my eyes for a moment, blocking out the chaos to take in the smells of candles, flowers, and the crowd. The air's heavy with sweat and perfume. The din of their voices makes me anxious, so I slip a little deeper into the solace I've found, a quiet niche in the storm. I used to love people. I used to enjoy being the center of attention. That was before.
My eyes flutter open. I make them. Peering out of the corner of the room, my gaze comes to rest on Xander, who's standing near the bar. I almost feel sorry for him. He looks so confused—so torn by all the stuff going on around him. He should be happy, but happy would mean that everything in his life is right...and it's not. In a big way it's not.
I can totally appreciate the sentiment. He's trying to placate. I watch the people—all strangers to me—relatives and family to him, move around him. It's like watching frenzied sharks circling a bunch of chum in the water. I chuckle. My poor 'chum,' Xander. I wonder if that's where that comes from.
My attention briefly drifts to his father. I've only met him a couple of times, but I know who he is. Xander's watching him. I can see the nervousness. I can smell it. It pours off my friend like a disease. His thoughts are almost tangible. Like I could reach out and touch them. Mr. Harris—the senior—has already begun to marinade in his 'sauce' of choice. 'The sauce'—that's what Xander calls is—it's really the perfect analogy. Sauces are for dipping. Just a little bit of flavor to spice up whatever—bathing in them: badness. And poor Xander, he's wondering if that's what he has to look forward to.
Mr. Harris turns on his barstool toward the center of the room, surveying the crowd. I blink as D'Hoffryn enters the room with Halfrek on his arm. Mr. Harris notices them. I mean what's not to notice. It's not everyday you see a six-foot tall gray skinned demon with horns and a pretty brunette on his arm. Well, if you're not me, that is. I'm sorta used to it, but Mr. Harris—Mr. Harris is—this is gonna be—
Mr. Harris reaches out from his place at the bar and gropes Halfrek's bottom, then bellows, "Guess I'm not the only horny old man in this freak show."
Uh-boy! Badness! I cringe. I can't help it. If I were just a bit more squeamish I'd be watching this through my fingers.
Halfrek spins on the human. As she turns, her face shifts, turning all yucky. Then she hisses, "Insolence!" and draws back to strike Mr. Harris.
I should stop this. This is working its way posty-hastey to 'train wreck.'
D'Hoffryn catches her arm, stopping the attack as he levels on Mr. Harris. A wolfish grin sets on his features before he growls, "Now, Halfrek, remember why we're here." His gaze trails up the length of Mr. Harris, halting when their eyes briefly lock. D'Hoffryn communicates everything he needs to with a single piercing glare. After reclaiming Halfrek's arm, he amends, "This mortal's time will come. Far too soon for his liking if he doesn't learn some manners."
Mr. Harris slips off his barstool, staggering to his feet. He blinks furiously for a moment at Halfrek. Glancing back and forth between the two demons, he turns back to the bar, catching the bartender's attention. As he orders the next round, D'Hoffryn and Halfrek move on. I breathe a sigh of relief.
My attention turns briefly to Xander. Embarrassment shows plainly on his face. He peers at the floor when D'Hoffryn and Halfrek brush past him. Mr. Harris pounds back his shot and peers over his shoulder, grumbling, "Circus freaks—damned touchy bunch," and Xander cringes. I can't help but feel bad for my friend. It could've been lots worse, though.
As I watch, Xander is allowed only a few moments of peace and the feeding frenzy resumes. The first shark to arrive is a little old man I don't recognize. He says, "Excuse me," in a soft, polite voice. Not much of a shark, really. It gets better when Xander's Uncle Rory steps in and tries to inquire about the 'photographer.' Then, my sister, Dawn steps in, pulling on Xander's sleeve. The final shark to arrive is his mother who demands, "Honey, please listen to me." Xander turns from face to face, the stress apparent in his posture.
Again with the bad. I wish I could help him, but I'm barely helping myself. This is sorta his thing anyway. I'm not sure what I can do. Not much without making a scene. I don't know anything about the photographer and I certainly don't have a clue about his mom. I think I'm grateful.
"Xander?" Dawn prompts insistently, "Xander, one of Anya's presents got loose!"
The old man starts to pull anxiously at Xander's sleeve, offering more demanding words, "Please, I really need to talk to you."
Xander mumbles numbly, "Got loose?"
I lean back against the wall in my corner. Yeah, I need to do something soon. This is gonna escalate to full scale riot without an intervention.
***********
My lungs are empty, like the wind was just knocked out of me. Drawing in a deep breath, I gag. As I choke, an acrid taste rises in my throat. I swallow thickly, pushing the sickness down. Suddenly aware that I'm doubled over, I fall back onto the bitter, hard ground. Agony burns through me, pain so intense I can't think straight. And cold—cold like—I've never been so cold in my life. Clenching my jaws to stifle my chattering teeth, I open my eyes. The big black blur turns to a big grey blur. Bloody helpful, that.
I force my stiff arm to bend. Ignoring the discomfort, I run my hand over my bare chest. A thin layer of viscous fluid coats my skin. My movement causes something strange to happen. I feel pressure against my skin. I struggle to make sense of this. I thought I was alone. Several soft, slimy objects slide off my body, slipping out and gliding away. I feel alone now, completely exposed and even colder. If that's possible. I should feel violated, but I don't. The fear's too strong. It tears at me. I blink, hoping my eyes will clear. Am I blind? I wipe my eyes, scraping off some slime. I still can't see.
I take another breath, trying to calm myself. I'm shaking and I'm not sure if it's the cold or the terror. There's a thick, pungent smell in the air. I retch again. As I fight for control, the odor triggers a flash of memory. I see a large, spotted, green mollusk. There is no truth. The words hang in my mind, cutting at me.
Lights flash around me and I blink. I'm not blind, but I can't see. I can't make out the shapes. They're just flashes, nondescript and indistinct.
A muffled alien voice quivers through the haze, "You were the one, The Chosen. You were our best hope. You failed. We are driven further underground by your war. Our homes lost. Our territories and numbers dwindle."
I'm what?
I flinch away, trying to escape as they return. They slide under me, despite my weak, painful thrashing.
I'm moving. Where are they taking me? I reach out, flailing my arms and legs, trying to find some way to stop. I can feel my heart hammering against my chest. I beg them to stop, but my parched throat snuffs the words out.
The voice sounds through the haze once more, "You have been judged. You will find the path and repair the line. You and your kind are to blame. You believe yourselves wise—fit to rule all. The chain is broken. The tapestry unravels. Yet you remain ignorant. You will answer the call."
Water rises up around me, bathing my skin. What the hell? I gasp one last, deep breath before they tow me under. The water engulfs me. Then suddenly I'm alone again. They left me to drown. I try to blink the haze from my eyes, but they refuse to clear. I rub, hoping the water will wash away the haze. The gray remains unchanged. Unsure which direction is up, I start to frantically swim. The water's warm. At least there's that. It soothes my aching muscles and joints. At least I won't die frozen and trembling.
***********
She's moving. I can feel her. She rescued me again. It's what she does. She's my angel...which is a pretty strange thing to say since I've actually had two. I never call her that 'cause it'd just be confusing, but that's what she is. I hope Anya wasn't upset. It was sorta my job to help her—mine and Halfrek's. I just couldn't face it. Who needs tradition? Why can't the best man help the bride prepare for the wedding? Well, yeah there's usually the obvious, but—
She's crossing the room behind me. I dunno why—I mean I don't get the 'why,' but with everything that happened I can sense her.
I haven't taken my eyes off him in fifteen minutes, but Xander's too wigged to notice.
I feel the press of her body against mine. Her arms wrap around me and I ask, "So, whatcha think, Will?" ignoring the slippery feel of the awful dress. These dresses are way past horrible. Anya outdid herself. Funny thing? Willow's beautiful. It'd take more than a horrible dress to change that.
Her chin rests on my shoulder and I clasp the hand that's on my tummy. Her other hand's left free to wander and it does. The room in front of us is alive with movement and muddled voices. She replies in my ear, "Looks like a not-so-natural disaster waiting to happen." The faintness of her voice as she murmurs in my ear causes my body to flush. The words aren't important. I hear them and understand she's simply agreeing with me, but my body has different ideas.
My breathing hastens and I struggle to press the sensations back. Xander's staggering father comes to my rescue in the strangest way. He raises his glass and bellows drunkenly, "On the brighter side, marriage has probably saved me from a nasty dose of the clap," then he chuckles, adding, "Here's to ya," and tosses back his shot.
I turn my attention to Xander again and I mumble, "Pretty much. Is it time to make with the big rescue?"
The old man vies for Xander's attention. Willow obviously sees him too because she responds, "Looks like someone mighta beat us to it."
"Who's the old guy? You know him?" I ask with mixed interest.
"No clue. Might be family. Sorta looks a little like Xander," she answers in a soft, pensive tone.
I move my hand to my witch's forearm and give it a quick caress before snarking, "Family's exactly what Xander needs right now." After reluctantly slipping from the embrace, I append, "I'm going in. Cover me." Weird how brave she makes me.
I cross the room, weaving past the tables and people. Xander glances up. He's not doing well. I can see it in his eyes. He's amid preparations for hari kari. No sword thankfully, but the thoughts are still there.
The old man falls silent when he sees me. I watch him slip away. There's something I don't like about him. He gives me a major wiggins. Spidey sense is all tingly.
I don't say anything. I don't need to. Xander accepts my outstretched hand. I put on my own personal version of 'game face' and glance around the room, defying them to question. No one does. Big surprise. They never do. What I lack in bumpies and fangies, I make up for in glare. When my challenge goes unanswered for a moment, I turn and slowly head toward the entrance with Xander at my side. As we walk casually through the room together, he leans in to remark, "I think it's about to hit critical mass."
I reassure him, in a soft, snarky voice, "Nah...that's only about half-mass, Xander." He chuckles. It's the first time I've seen him laugh all day. It'll all be good.
Willow passes us, making a beeline for the bar. I hear her ask for three glasses of champagne. I slow my gait, stalling to take in the show. She chirps a 'thank you.' She's always polite, even when she's not. I pause by the door with my hostage and turn back to watch. "This should be good," I comment wryly, gesturing vaguely at the bar.
After sliding our drinks aside, Willow reaches over the bar and jerks the bartender up to face her by his shirt. I can feel the energy building inside her as she growls, "If you serve another drop of alcohol before the wedding you'll spend the rest of your life in a cage," I grin. She means it. Dropping him, she adds, "We clear?" The bartender hastily straightens his shirt, looking like he's seen a ghost. I can imagine what he's seen. Her back's to me, but I know Willow. She made him see whatever scares him most.
She glances down the long, wooden bar toward Xander's father. "Coffee for the gentleman," she commands, motioning toward the severely drunken elder Harris. It's not a request. I can tell by her body language, even with her back to me. As the bartender rushes to fill her order, she neatly balances two of the three glasses in her right hand, collecting the last one with her left.
I take Xander's hand when she turns toward us and lead him from the building. As we step outside, I inhale deeply, breathing in the moist, chilly air. Go figure, in a town called Sunnydale, it has to rain on Xander's wedding day. We huddle under the overhang together to stay out of the rain.
I offer apologetically, "Sorry, looked like you could use a hand," knowing full well he's grateful.
"Nah...it's good," he replies vaguely. The fresh, moist air starts to lift some of the oppression we both felt inside the church. Neither one of us is doing great. The reasons are different, but the emotions are similar.
My gaze turns to the ground at his feet before I ask, "Second thoughts?"
"And third, and fourth...many thoughts," he confirms wryly.
I glance up to take in the worry etched on his face, then remark distantly, "You and Anya are good together." I direct my attention to the ground again. It's hard for me to look at people when I talk to them. I don't understand why. It just is. After clearing my throat, I try to explain, "No clue why or how, but I don't have to get it to see. It'll be fine, Xander." I look up to smile reassuringly before I tease, "Remember your lines?"
He returns the smile as he nods.
She's almost here. He seems to sense it too. Maybe he just hears the door creak. Anyway, he moves to help her and ends up with a glass in his hand for the trouble.
I stand still with my eyes fixed on the ground in front of me. When she hands the champagne flute to me, I accept it. She raises her glass and says, "To family." I look up to join in the toast, raising my glass. It's what she wants. She smiles sardonically and taps her champagne flute against each of ours.
***********
Swimming for all I'm worth, I pray that I'm going the right way. I tried floating to the surface, but it didn't work. I can't imagine why. At least my body feels better. My muscles begin to loosen and move as they should.
I need to surface. My head pounds its agreement. I need air. My eyes spot as my body begins to give out. Holding perfectly still, I pray again for a miracle that won't come. The understanding hits me: I'm going to die. Without air I will die. I will pass out and I will reflexively breathe, then I will drown. Unable to see, I start to panic. Why am I not rising to the surface?
Another minute passes, or is it ten? I have no concept of time. I just know it seems like hours since they abandoned me here. I feel myself going limp. I struggle to fight it. The pain returns as I hang, suspended in the dark.
I don't understand, when I take that first breath. There's not enough of me left to care. I just know I start to tremble. Convulsions cripple me. I feel my body giving up. Then I expel the water, reflexively drawing in another lung-full. It feels good in my aching chest. I'm breathing. It's not air, but I'm not drowning.
There's just what you believe. The words give me hope. I open my eyes and look around. It takes several moments for them to clear but, when they do, I make out a faint luminescence at my three o'clock. I swim towards it, unsure what else to do. It takes forever to reach the faint radiance. God, how big is this place?
I peer muzzily into what looks like a tight, horizontal shaft. The water that flows from the tunnel is warm, sort of like a hot spring. It feels wonderful against my tight, aching muscles. I swim closer to try and figure out what the light source is. Tentatively, I reach out to touch a dim, glowing orb. It feels supple with a squishy surface that depresses under my touch. As I caress the strange object, it moves against my hand. It's alive. I pet the little life form and it opens. It's almost friendly, pushing into my touch. I can't go back. Be kind. I've had a bad day.
I extend my arms in front of me and enter the passage.
***********
"So, who's the old guy?" I question Xander pensively, taking another sip of my champagne. I have to drink—well, I'd rather not think about it, but the little bit of alcohol takes the edges off.
He glances anxiously back and forth between us before he replies, "No clue. He wanted me to touch some ball. Said he was from the future. Whatever."
I can't suppress a snicker. Shaking my head at the badness that is me, I tease, "Guessing you know better than to touch some strange old man's balls, right, Xander?"
He rolls his eyes and smirks crookedly.
The amused grin finally wears off Willow's face and she remarks, "The future?" She cocks an eyebrow and asks politely, "Buffy sweetie, when you finish your drink would you please go find our friend."
A coy smile pulls at my lips and I whisper playfully into her ear, "Yes Mistress." I feel the heat rise to my face and examine the concrete at my feet. She knows now. I need her.
***********
As I swim, the passage narrows. If this gets any tighter I'm screwed. I can't turn around. At least my eyes are clearing. These little plants thrive here. They line the entire surface of the passage. The squashy little life forms caress the surface of my skin while I move. It's strange. It almost feels like I'm being reborn. Or at least I can imagine this is what it is like. It feels like they're helping me move.
The water gets hotter. I hope this is it. I take a breath and my lungs ache. My leg muscles strain with the heat. I feel like I'm sweating. It's impossible to tell.
A short distance further my right shoulder snags something sharp. It digs in and I wince. I can't stop it. They're pushing me and I can't stop them. Oh God! As I feel my skin tear open, I search frantically for something to hold onto. I need to stop them. I can't speak. I can't ask. I tip my shoulder, but it's hopelessly wedged. I have to find something and maybe I can turn. All I feel are squishy little bodies. They push again and the rock digs deeper. Wisps of blood stream into the water. As I thrash, they mix. The water turns cloudy. I had no idea you could smell blood in water like this.
I finally manage to twist just right and my shoulder slips underneath. The plants propel me forward and the rock lays my flesh open. I feel it draw a line from my shoulder to my arse. Submitting to the pain helps me focus and it hits me: any movement on my part is irrelevant. Fact is, I can't move. If I do, I hurt them. I force my body to go limp.
The heat is getting painful now. I'm actually grateful for the rest. The little life forms press against me, massaging every centimeter of my skin. The sensation is vaguely erotic. I lay still, enjoying the feel of their caresses. Stinging in my back and bum reminds me of the price. It's okay though. It'll heal.
I shut my eyes. The heat turns intense while I lay there. With every breath, my lungs feel like they're on fire. I try not to breathe any more than I have to. My mind drifts. Incoherent thoughts plague me and I struggle to stay calm. There's nothing I can do. I have to accept it. I hate feeling helpless, but I am.
Finally, it occurs to me and I wonder, 'Are they plants, or are they like the mollusk? Am I being judged again?'
An answer echoes in my mind, 'yes.'
I flinch at the unexpected reply, fighting to remain calm. I counter, 'Okay, so...what happens if I fail the test?'
A chorus of voices, all speaking in a strange harmony, rings through my mind, 'We feed.'
As another sharp object digs deeply into my chest, I panic. It cuts into my breast. How deep, I don't know, but it stings horribly. I feel my eyes burning behind my closed eyelids. The creatures keep driving me forward. I scream out in anguish. My pleas sound muffled to me. They're as irrelevant as my movements. I force myself to calm. Nothing I do has any meaning in this passage. I am irrelevant.
***********
Another night spent around the fireplace, basking in the warmth. Lounging back in my old rocking chair, I enjoy the company of my grandson. He sits perched on my knee. I watch the amber light of the fire flicker, illuminating his cherub face. My gaze travels around the room. I take in the rough, log walls and crude furniture. I built this place with my hands. Other folks might think it's not much, but it means everything to me.
"Grandpa, are you sure you hafta go?" my grandson asks.
I set him down and rise, striding across the small room before I reply, "I'm afraid so." I embrace my wife, leaning back to cup her cheek affectionately. "You take good care of your grandmamma until I return," I instruct. Young men like being made to feel responsible.
Turning for the door, I bid my wife to walk with me. We step outside and I offer sullenly, "You take good care of Elijah. I'll miss you." I'd rather not leave, but I must. I've put it off too long as it is.
She draws me into a tender embrace and asks, "Are you certain you must do this alone?"
"I wish there was another way, Cassie, truly I do," I answer frankly. After giving her a peck on the cheek, I set off through the stand of old forest surrounding our home. I soon clear the forest and enter a rolling meadow.
Slipping my hand inside my pocket, I pass a finger over the tiny tapestry and peer up into the night sky. Rovam hangs over head, looking like a great saucer in sky. I turn my gaze eastward toward the void and Kulos guides my way. I stride along the path I know by heart. My grandson and I passed this way today. How many times have we exchanged those words? Thousands, perhaps tens-of-thousands, I don't know. Enlightenment, speaking to innocence with a purity of spirit, never grows tedious. The words are meaningless. What matters is the exchange.
As I make my way across the meadow, I hum a wistful tune to pass the time. I tread carefully when I reach the forest, alert to stay on the path. Upon breaking through into the older growth of the forest, my pace increases, but only slightly. The thick canopy shields me from the light of the twin moons. Darkness presses in around me. I know this path by heart and there's no reason to fear the absence of light.
I arrive at the edge and Kulos greets me. I peer into the slowly swirling star field, searching for the disturbance. When I locate the churning ball of light, I turn toward it and plunge into the void.
***********
Didn't I just ask for things to normal up? I was even nice about it. I know I was. I throw myself at the demon and the guests—demon and human alike—go scattering. Funny how things change. This gorilla was a little old man a moment ago. Didn't look like he could hurt a fly. The beastie snarls at me and sidesteps my attack. Always critics—even if they go all nonverbal, there's always complaints. His hands close over my shoulder and hip. Hey now! Watch the hands! You'll rip my dress! I rise into the air, over the demon's head. Wait! I want that. I fly through the air seconds later. Maybe I'll get lucky and he'll tear the dress so bad I'll get to go with the burlap and blood larva.
I try to be slick and spring neatly to my feet, but the dress kills it for me. I land on my ass with the stupid thing wound around my ankles. If I live through this, Anya and me, we're gonna have a serious talk. I finally manage to roll to my feet and the demon looms over me, brandishing a candelabra. I punch him with all my strength square in the stomach. He doubles over. Standard reaction. I grab the sides of his head and twist. No muss, no fuss. A satisfying cracking noise issues from his neck and I let go. I clap my hands together and walk over to Willow. "What's a wedding without a little wanton violence and death?" I remark sarcastically, glancing back at the corpse.
Willow quirks an eyebrow and replies, "Normal."
A subtle grin warms my features, then I chirp amusedly, "Well, we wouldn't want that." I take my witch's hand and walk up to the front of the church to join Xander. Then I mumble, "Clean up on aisle three," as I watch Clem and some teenager drag the fallen demon from the room. Scratch the 'teenager'; he's a demon. The funny ears totally give him away.
Willow gives me a quick kiss and steps in place beside Xander, whispering to him, "How you holding up, big guy?"
Xander shrugs and gives her a quirky, lopsided grin. "Think Buff would slay my father at the reception?"
I just catch Willow's muffled reply, "I'll mention it. If he pukes in another one of her purses, it's pretty much a guarantee." I take my place next to Halfrek and snicker.
I wink at Giles, who's sitting in the front row, waiting to give the bride away. Bet he can't wait for the 'giving away' part. Trouble with the 'giving' is that it doesn't mean 'staying.' Oh well, can't have it all.
Fixing my gaze at the back of the church, I breathe a muffled sigh of relief when the organist plays the wedding march. At least Anya got a pretty dress.
***********
My neck sags, unable to hold my head up anymore. I watch one of the tunnel dwellers transform from a bud into a flower, opening its petals. It occurs to me that it looks something like an octopus, with suckers on each of its wide tapered petals. The flesh of the creatures has the same appearance as a chemical glow-stick. As I draw closer, I can see the individual veins that spider-web out, illuminating its translucent flesh.
I hurt again. It's different now, though. The heat makes it different. I can feel every gash, but they're all numb. It's like the pain's far away. I know it's because my skin's scalded. I can feel my life leaking away, staining the water. With every heartbeat, I grow weaker. I struggle to hold my breath because I understand that each one brings me closer to death. My rational mind tells me this. Instinctually, my body cries out desperately for air. My rational mind's losing the fight. When I can't stand it anymore, I suck in a lungful. The pain is unreal. I feel the tissue sear inside my chest. The scant bit of oxygen in the hot water makes the agony all the more senseless.
I can feel them. They demand answers I don't have. Images stir, flashing into view as they force my mind open. Everything's so dull, so distant; I don't know what's real.
A demon hoists my limp body into the air like I'm some grotesque over-sized doll and declares, 'Buffy Summers is dead!' My head lolls back. Through half-open eyes, I peer out foggily over an inverted sea of demons as the sound of helicopters fills the cavern. Is that who I was—I mean, am?
My vision clouds again, causing the translucent glowing creatures to turn milky. I feel something slice into my hip and barely wince. As the world around me dims, turning black, I consider these words: 'The power of a single name.'
***********
The flowers flip end over end through the air. I stretch and bounce ever so slightly. This is sorta cheating. I catch the bouquet one-handed, holding it briefly like a torch. After giving Willow a quick sideways glance and a wink, I lower my hand.
Anya looks back at me and rolls her eyes. Turning to Xander, she brandishes a wolfish grin just before she purrs, "You owe me twenty bucks, mister."
I ignore the others and gaze into my witch's eyes. Go figure they'd make a bet like that. Get used to paying up, Xander. I am. Passing the bouquet to my Willow, I take her hand and draw her into a tender embrace. The crowd thins around us and I kiss her. Grateful that the guests are all following the 'happy couple,' I melt into the touch.
Forcing myself, I withdraw from the kiss just enough to whisper, "We should put in an appearance. Then find a place to lose these awful things." I pull at one of the slick ruffles of her dress to indicate my meaning. She smiles brightly and nods her agreement. Taking her hand, I lead us into the reception room.
Xander's face lights up when he sees us. He rushes over and takes Will by the hand. I take the bouquet back when he ushers her into the group of bachelors. I'm clueless at this point so I lean against the doorframe to watch. Xander has a quick talk with her and she crouches down with the men.
Xander slips the garter from Anya's leg and then stands, his back to the bachelors. Yeah, okay this part's pretty plain, but what the deal with Will is—no clue. I guess 'cause she's the best man. Stretching the garter over his shoulder like a rubber band, he blindly shoots the loop of frilly material towards the group. Quirking an eyebrow, I watch its flight path skew slightly left. What he said to Will musta been good 'cause she raises her hand and catches it with one finger. An athlete she's not. She can barely catch a Frisbee without magick.
Xander smirks at her and comes to get me. Oh yeah! I'd forgotten this. No wonder Will was all bad with the mojo. I'm glad she was. I couldn't imagine sitting through Clem putting that on me. I couldn't do it. He whispers as he leads me to take the seat left vacant by Anya, "Tradition says: the further up your leg the garter goes, the longer Anya and me do the 'happily married' thing."
I sit down and pull my skirt up to just above my knee. Talk about cheating: a slayer to catch the bouquet, a severely motivated witch to snag the garter with magick, now this. My gaze rests on Willow. I focus on her and tune the others out. She gracefully kneels at my feet. After my earlier sparring match with big and scaly, I'm adequately impressed; these dresses suck.
I raise my right leg enough to accept the garter, watching her thread it past the heel of my shoe. I take a deep breath and clench my jaw as her soft hands caress their way up my leg. I will not gasp. I grit my teeth. I will not gasp! I clamp my hands over the seat of the chair. I will not gasp! My knuckles turn white. Self-control...composure... I will not break the chair. I loosen my grip. I will smile and look bored. Yup.
The hands disappear under my skirt and I steel myself to suppress the trembling. While the tips of her right fingers drift over my hip and linger, her left hand presses firmly against my panties. I loose it. A muffled groan slips out and my face flushes. I glare at Willow in slack-jawed disbelief while laughter and applause erupt around us. I drop my head in my hands to hide my face.
Her hands trail slowly down my thigh and she stands, leaning in to whisper, "I'll be back for that later." I can't bring myself to look yet, but I can feel them moving away and breathe a sigh of relief. I hear Xander whisper, "Knew you two wouldn't let us down."
I'm still searching for my dignity when she offers me a hand. I dutifully take it. After rising to my feet, I follow her lead. We move to a pair of chairs along the dance floor held open by a beaming Giles. I seat myself next to my watcher.
Giles places his arm around me and leans in to whisper, "You are aware that, as tradition would have it, you two are next. You have both my blessing and my love should that be your choice."
I nod in response. A nod is all I have to offer and all I need to say. Words are meaningless. I clutch Willow's hand in my lap and listen to the soothing sounds of the string quartet. The song is by Pachelbel. I can't remember the name, but it's beautiful. It's all beautiful. Any remaining unrest dissolves in the moment.
My gaze rests on the newlyweds. The warm light centers on them. They look so happy together. A sentimental tear slides down my cheek and I reach up to brush it away. This is why. Moments like these are what make the struggle so worth it. Soon, other couples join the newlyweds and Giles removes his arm to have the customary dance with the bride.
Rising to her feet, Willow offers me a hand, leading me to the dance floor. She pulls me into a gentle embrace and leads us in a waltz. As we move together, I gaze into her eyes, reading the wash of emotions. There's this old expression, 'she wears her heart on her sleeve.' That's my Willow. I always know what she's thinking. It's written all over her face. Right now her face is filled with adoration. I saw her look at Tara this way and was happy for her—for them. I never expected her to look at me the same way.
I hope this doesn't upset her. All I want is to please her, but I need to feel her. I settle into her arms. I can't help it. I rest my head on her shoulder. I know the right way to do this but, right now, the right way is the wrong way for me. I need to be closer. The dance changes into a simple slow dance with the cadence of a waltz. She still keeps time with the soothing music. I feel her relax and just enjoy the contact. She trails her hands down my back. Her breath catches in her throat. She needed this too.
***********
Distant, muffled sensations break through the haze. I'm being moved. By what? To where? I don't know. I haven't the strength to care. The movement slowly draws to a halt. I feel my body settle.
There's something here with me. It's curious. More visions. I'm used to them. I don't care. I couldn't move if I wanted. And fighting? I doubt I could sit, let alone stand. Resisting this is laughable. I'm still irrelevant.
A trembling voice sounds out of the murk, "She was a charlatan, a faker, but noble in the same breath. Where do you fit in the puzzle? What thread?"
I force my eyes to open. A blurry form stoops over me. As I struggle to breathe, the acrid smell of the thick air burns my sinuses. My eyes water. I blink furiously to clear them. Surely they needed to be cleared.
I peer up into the smooth face, searching for some indication of intent. It's impossible to tell. Its face looks like an unfinished statue. Like the artist got bored and just wandered off. It has no eyes, so I stare into the shallow depressions where the eyes should be.
As I watch, the carved surface turns translucent. Behind the mask I swear I can see the kindly, winkled face of my grandfather. I blink again and the illusion is broken. My gaze travels down the smooth, lustrous figure. Wings, but not...like a manta ray or something. I must be losing it.
I should be scared. I'm too tired. My head slumps back. Somehow I know he won't hurt me. As he begins to study me again, the world around me turns dim. And even if I'm wrong—even if he did—would I notice? Muted sensations, fuzzy images, and finally I bathe in a comforting wash of blackness.
***********
A thick pout pulls at Willow's lips. It's playful, but not. She means it when she whines, "But I don't wanna." I glance up from buttoning my work shirt to see her slip into her dress. My gaze lingers. I can't help it. This dress, unlike that green monstrosity, clings in all the right places and flows beautifully in all the others. I want to rip it off her. That'd be a total shame, but—
She's trying to tie the halter herself and doing a great job. I almost want to just watch her finish. She has her hands behind her neck. Her bare breasts are pushed out and the burgundy taffeta clings to them, revealing every—okay, so...I should pull my mind out of the gutter and focus. If I don't I'm gonna be late to work.
I abandon the buttons and rise, closing the couple of steps that separate us. Gently I take the silk from her hands and run it through my fingers. I love silk. The texture is a little coarse, but it still feels amazing. I tie the halter in place and she turns.
Her eyes are devilish, mischievous, I'm not sure 'evil' works, but she's really pushing it. An impish grin replaces the pout as she parts the material of my shirt and drags a nail between my breasts, trailing down my stomach.
I lower my eyes, peering at the scar on her shoulder. She's my mate. Then I turn my gaze to the floor. And she is Mistress. I don't call her that much. It makes her uncomfortable. But it's understood, I do what she says. When I don't, she punishes me.
She's looking me over, studying me. I feel self-conscious. My head hangs lower.
"I don't wanna either, but I gotta," I whisper sheepishly, "Remember? Us making a life together, Hellmouth be damned?" She knows I'm right, but in a weird way I'm challenging her authority. The 'why' doesn't matter.
I half expect her to rip my pants around my ankles, bend me over the bench, and paddle my bottom. I shouldn't, but I want her to. I know it's wrong, but I want her to, so much it hurts. Instead she just says, "Uh-huh...but—" She falls silent and starts to button my shirt. I'm sweating. I hate sweating. When she finishes, she leans in and purrs in my ear, "I still just wanna take it off you." Her arms rest casually around my waist.
I take a deep calming breath. "Later," I confirm with a smirk. I say the word as much for myself. The reason is different, but kinda the same. She trembles as I run my nails over the bare skin of her back. Looking up, I lean my forehead against hers and murmur, "Now I have just about enough time to scarf a piece of cake and bail. Hope they're not too pissed with the disappearing act."
"They'll forgive us," she states frankly. The impish smirk returns, transforming into a wolfish smile before she amends, "Besides, it's tradition. The best man's supposed to lay a bridesmaid after the wedding, right?"
I chuckle and muse, "Well yeah...I've seen a few movies, at least." Patting her gently on the bottom, I withdraw from the embrace. Chills run down my spine. I'm not sure I can wait. I tuck my shirt in and straighten it. There. I look like a good rent-a-cop now. I turn, making my way out of the tiny dressing room. I just have to keep it together for a few hours.
She follows me out of the dressing room. I slow to put an arm around her and she says, "I'm a real softy for a good tradition." I don't want to leave. As though she hears my thought, she directs, "No later than one, Buffy." I smile. It amazes me she knows me so well. It shouldn't, but it does. I lean in and whisper, "Thank you, Mistress."
***********
I've done all for her I can. Her breath still issues, raspy and broken. I wish I could do more, but there's only so much an old man can heal. She needs the attention of her kind. I stoop down, carefully taking her in my arms. I feel shameful for touching her. She's been through so much. I was right. She is special. I cradle her head against my chest. She will understand.
As I move across the cave, I focus my will. A rift opens and I step through into a forest. Taking a deep breath, I lean down and place her at the foot of a great oak. After pausing to caress the ancient tree, I gaze down at her haggard face. Care for her.
I turn my back on her. A twinge of regret aches in my heart. Dutifully, I pass back through the portal. It is my purpose to see the balance restored. I reach into my pocket and brush my finger over the tiny tapestry. It will mend.
***********
A moist, gentle breeze blows up from the west and I stop along the dimly-lit path to look up at the sky. Dark, wispy clouds waft overhead, partially obscuring the stars. I watch a tuft of gray cloud drift lazily over the three-quarter moon. After inhaling an extended breath, I turn to make my way down the trail toward the edge of campus.
A flash lights up the western sky. Another storm is about to pass through. My work shoes splash in a puddle from the afternoon's rain and I reach down to zip my uniform jacket. Another flash turns night into day and I begin to count, one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand. The rumbling clap of thunder stops the count. Three miles, give take. Give it fifteen - twenty minutes and the only thing comfortable out here might be a duck.
As I skirt the most remote border of the campus, I slow. Lightning flashes again, illuminating the grounds and the woods just beyond them. After the flash, a light remains in the forest. It burns dim and goes out. I hear a stifled sobbing noise and freeze. Thunder crashes, seemingly in answer to the soft cry. I turn my head, uncertain which direction it came from. The sensible plan is to go to where the light was. Sensible, yeah that's me.
I spring to life, moving off the cement path. The dense, wet vegetation soon soaks the legs of my uniform pants, but I don't care. I stop when I enter the forest. My eyes search for the source of the noise. A subtle trace of movement catches my eye. I cautiously close the remaining ten feet between myself and the source of the sound.
As I round the trunk of the tree, my jaw goes slack and I reach for my radio. Keying the mic, I say, "Officer Summers reporting, nine-one-one in the southwest quadrant. Just off G-trail in the forest. Do you copy?" I release the button and wait. Stooping down next to the beaten, naked young woman, I feel for a pulse. My skin crawls. There's something really familiar about this and I can't—I dunno what it is and it wigs me out. The radio sounds back, "Hold your position and await backup," and I clip it on my belt.
Relief comes in the form of a weak pulse. It's short lived. Everything about this freaks me out. She's bruised and cut so badly she wears a layer of caked blood. Removing my coat, I drape it over her and drop to my knees. It's partly because I need to see her and partly because I'm having trouble standing.
I grab my radio again and ask, "Morgan...Summers again, if you could, send someone with a blanket?" When I release the key, Morgan's voice sounds back, "Copy that, Donny?" A second later, another friendly male voice replies, "On it."
I'm afraid to touch—more afraid to look. It's irrational and I know it. I clip my radio back in place and turn my attention to her. The bit of un-crusty skin I can see looks like it's been burnt. None of the cuts are uniform, like she was cut with some kind of crude knife.
I stroke her long, blonde hair back from her face, making a few soothing, hushing sounds. Lightning flashes again through the trees. My gaze fixes on her face and I fall back, terrified. My heart races. It's not me. Thunder crashes. I jump. She's not me! I swallow thickly and gulp in a deep breath. Sweat beads up on my skin. I want to get up and run, but instead I clamber back onto my knees.
I'm trembling. I'm not cold, but I can't stop shaking. I'm suddenly aware I'm hyperventilating, I hold my breath and slowly exhale. I focus and inhale with equal care. The air catches raggedly in my throat.
I raise my hand to touch my face. It's wet. Am I crying?
Lightning crashes. There's no pause this time. Her face lights up as the rain begins to fall. Her face is fuller than mine. Her body too. If it wasn't for the—she'd look healthier than me. It's still like looking in a weird mirror. Like I'm looking at the 'me' I was four years ago. Before the Hellmouth—before it killed me.
A drop of water splashes on her face. Her eyes flutter. She clenches them closed. When they open again, she peers blearily up at me. I glance away, unable to meet her gaze, and she says my name.
I jump again. She knows my name. "How do you know—?" I gasp and puzzle over the English accent. It catches me completely off guard. I expected the voice to be similar too. She's not me! I take another breath and crane over her to block the rain.
Her voice is very weak. Tilting my head, I lean close to listen and she says, "He said you'd come."
He? He who? I sputter the obvious question, "Did he hurt you?" feeling like a bit of an idiot when she replies, "No, he rescued me and brought me to you."
***********
He explodes and a shower of ash coats my skin. I drop to my knees. My body's on fire. So alive. I need so badly. I want so much it hurts. I tumble over onto the ground. The wet grass sticks to my bare skin. I can't. She won't let me. I hang right on the edge of climax, praying for release. My breath issues in ragged waves. I lay still, relaxing, focusing on breathing.
As I calm, I drop the piece of wood and peer at my hands in the moonlight. Blood coats my fingers. Is it mine? I examine myself carefully. No, not mine.
My gaze rests on my wrists. I look at the pretty silver bracelets. They're hers. I have no idea how she did it. I just woke up one morning and they were there. I tried to take them off. They're too small to slide over my hands. I can't bend them. I can't move them. They're just a part of me now. I never asked. The bracelets are the mark she gave me. She is Mistress.
I set off, weaving swiftly between the stones, back to claim my clothing. She'd be mad if she knew. Again, I can't help it. I don't even know what made me this way. It's like there's this huge hole. I get so confused. She told me it was bad and she had to take it. I was hurting myself. I just wish I understood.
All I know is this feels right. She hates it. I don't want to disobey. I don't want to upset her, but it just feels so good. How can it be wrong? I feel so free. I feel so alive. My body clenches when my thighs rub together. I need to cum.
I stop at the tombstone where my clothing lays in a pile and dress. The damp clothing clings to my skin, making me cringe. I wish I could just pick it up and run home. If I could have exactly what I wanted, she'd be here.
I glance at my watch as I put it on. Oh shit! It's almost two. She's gonna be furious. Where'd the time go? She gave me an hour. Once the reality sinks in, I start to rush. The clothing drags across my skin. It feels nasty. I slip my shoes on and start to run. I should've just gone home.
I run as fast as my legs will carry me. Standing in front of the house, I peer into the dark windows. I swallow thickly and tiptoe up the steps. When I slide my key in the door, it swings open. She doesn't say a word. I fight the urge to drop to my knees. Hanging my head instead, I follow her into the house. I can feel it, I don't need to see her face. She's disappointed.
As I enter our room, I see the chain. It's resting between our pillows. I step past my mat and sit down on the bed. She walks around me. I hear the closet door. She removes her robe. I take off my shoes, ignoring her movements. I know I've been bad. I know the price: one swat for every minute.
She crawls onto the bed and sits behind me. Her hands reach around me. As she unbuttons my shirt, the sweat beads up on my skin. She slides my shirt off and freezes. I can feel—she's upset—almost angry. She bites off two harsh words, "Shower, now," and cups her hand over my crotch.
I try to stand, but fall to the floor as the spell takes effect. I'm dying, or I want to. I begin to crawl toward the bathroom. My body feels like—I'm not even sure—like I just spent a week in bed with the world's most incompetent lover. I'm so aroused that everything aches. The sticky clothing grates against my skin as I move. I make it to the bathroom and climb to my feet. When I peer into the mirror, I see the ash plastered to my skin. I strip and start the shower. Cold is fine. Good even. I wash quickly. I'm not sure how well.
When I'm done, I return to our room. She leads me to the bed. I lay face down and she locks the chain to my bracelets. I don't look. If I make eye contact, it's worse. I gasp when she grabs my ankles and jerks me down until the chain snaps tight. Manacles close down over my thighs. She bends my legs and clamps the other end to my ankles. My legs are folded. I can't do anything about it. Her hand slips under my belly. She lifts me up and tucks my legs under me. The nightstand drawer opens, I nervously glance over. She pulls out a blindfold and covers my eyes.
I have no clue what to expect.