The Kitten, the Witches and the Bad Wardrobe - Willow & Tara Forever

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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Five (Oct 31)
PostPosted: Sun Nov 04, 2012 4:08 am 
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4. Extra Flamey

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Great chapter again! The first from Willow's point of view, and we learn there's more to her than met the eye before, even the magically perceiving eye of the apothecary. We learn that she is in a dangerous position that makes her require a bodyguard and made her the aim of an assassin and we learn that she is a capable fighter who mamaged to defeat the assassin even with a bullet wound. We see that she feels guilty for everything bad which befell the ones close to her. And we feel how achingly lonely she is inside the walls she build around herself to hide her emotions, alone in a house she only bought to give her best friend a home to come back to (who will never come back to the house and her now). She seperates herself from Giles not only by the shield in the car but also by thinking of him only as her steward and part of her staff and not the father figure I think he is to your Willow as he was to the Willow in canon. I just want to reach in and hug her and tell her everything is going to be allright in the end (it will, won't it, it's the kittenboard after all).
And through all this dull ache which holds her in its claws her caring, loving personality glimpses through in her compassion and concern for Tara whose pain and despair she read just as astute as Tara read hers.

I'm glad I won't have to wait long for the next chapter...this story is really addictive!


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Five (Oct 31)
PostPosted: Sun Nov 04, 2012 4:11 pm 
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6. Sassy Eggs
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I have just enough time for a quick chapter update, so here we go!
(I'm on business in Boston, which is one of my favourite cities in the world!)


~6~
Poverty
(who needs to talk to God anyway?)


The moment Willow stepped through her front doors she was nearly bowled over by her Husky puppy. He started wagging his tail with such enthusiasm that his entire back end wiggled back and forth. He crowded her legs and licked her hand when it strayed near. She looked at him and laughed for the first time that day; his paws were so big and ungainly, and his every movement screamed of puppishness and innocence, even though he was already near as tall as her knees.

His eyes were the most remarkable blue

(Tara blue)

set inside his white face blazed with black on his forehead. One ear was folded over and his nose was wet and cold. Willow didn’t care a snit about her clothing; she dropped to her knees to give him a big hug, rubbing his back and thumping his rump.

She finally hauled herself to her feet and slipped off her shoes; a custom she had adopted after living for a time in northern Alberta. Willow started walking through the entry rotunda, occasionally tripping over the puppy who ran first in front of her, then behind her, then even between her legs, unsure where in the large house they were going. Directly in front of her was the grand staircase that led to the upper levels. The rotunda had various niches lit with precious naphtha, the warm lighting casting blurry shadows over the busts and statues within.

“This way, Jupiter,” she announced as she ascended the stairs, taking the right fork towards her living chambers. This hallway had diffuse lighting as well; soft potlights that illuminated paintings hung on the walls two metres from each other. Caravaggio, Monet, Blake; Willow paused as she often did at the painting Whirlwind of Lovers.

(Tara had naphtha lamps

and her lips were)


Willow shook her head and took the next door on her right, which led into her dressing room. It was a cavernous space with walls for her shoes, endless drawers for her jewellery, long mirror gilded closets for her clothing. Various settees and divans were scattered throughout, along with room dividers made of elegant Nipponese cherrywood for privacy. The room automatically lit as she entered and the vid screen on the wall became active. She tapped it once and it showed a picture of the outfit she was wearing. There was a low hum and a closet door slid open, showing her the precise spot where she had taken the clothes she was wearing.

Jupiter wiggled around her legs as Willow stripped off her clothing. Wrinkling her nose at the smell, she tossed them into the laundry chute instead of putting them away. She also stripped her lacy bra to have it laundered; clad only in panties, she moved to the computer again, tapping it a couple times until a new closet door slid open. She pulled on a sports bra, tank top and yoga pants that clung to her shapely and well-defined muscles. She whistled to Jupi as she left the room and the lights automatically dimmed as she left.

Just around the corner was her washroom. There was a clawed tub on a raised platform in the corner, with antique shelves holding oils and fragrances and other bathing delicacies. This space was lit again with expensive and extravagant naphtha. So often as she flicked on the switch, the lamps flaring into existence, she was reminded of her childhood, having to make do with oil lamps until her parents could afford electricity. The ceilings of her childhood home had always been dingy with smoke produced by those lamps, and her carefully mended second-hand clothing always had the faintest stench of that poverty upon them.

Willow advanced up to the basin and gazed at herself in the looking glass. She combed her hair and remembered the soft touch of Tara’s fingers. Tying her hair back into a ponytail, clipping the ends around her ears, she filled the basin with warm water and began washing her face. Soon she had erased all her make-up, save for the last trace of lipstick on her lips. She touched them with her fingers, ran her tongue over them, and let them be.

Then she pulled aside her tank top and her bra, to look at the new scar near her shoulder. It was still slightly pink and inflamed, though it was healing fairly well for being a three week old gunshot wound. Willow probed at it with her finger, examining how deep the ache went, and shook her head. She hated getting shot.

(bullet number six)

Barefoot now with Jupi at her side, Willow made her way back down the hallway and the grand staircase. She wandered to the kitchen that was set along the back of the house. Miss Calendar was in there, humming to herself as she read from a book and stirred a pot of something on the stove.

Jupiter tried to run to the chef, but his paws slid and scrabbled on the polished tile floor. Jenny looked up from her book and smiled, both at the dog and at her employer. “Can I get anything for you, Miss Rosenberg?” the woman asked.

“I can manage fine, thanks,” Willow replied, making her way into the spacious kitchen. This most cozy of rooms was laid along the back of the house. Patio doors made an exit onto a wood-drawn deck, and a spiral staircase led down from this deck to the lower patio. Willow would often drink her morning coffee while standing on this deck, looking over the vast splendour of her estate, watching the sunrise over the trees of Miller’s Woods.

“What are you reading?” Willow asked as she opened the fridge. It was fair to bursting with fresh produce and other foodstuffs; Miss Calendar cooked for the entire live-in household. The smell coming from the pot was tantalizing, magnified by the scent of fresh bread in the oven.

Taking out a bottle of spring water, Willow leaned against another counter, sipping slowly to counter the aching coolness of it. It would not do to get a water cramp just before training.

“Just something Giles lent to me,” Jenny said, flipping idly through the pages.

(it’s no C.S. Lewis, is it?)

Willow tried to force her attention back to the present

(imperial jasmine and the lion, the witch and the wardrobe)

as Jenny began to speak enthusiastically of the shamanistic rites of the Northern Mongols.

(don’t think!)

“They do it when you’re conscious, you know,” Jenny concluded.

Willow blinked her eyes, realizing she had been staring at a bar of sunlight on the kitchen island, not hearing a single blessed word. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I guess the listening comprehension part of my brain went to Florida for spring break. I’ll just courier it back home and you can repeat what you just said.”

The dark haired Romany woman smiled. “Trepanning. They do it when you’re conscious.”

“Trepanning? That’s all with the wooden drills and the chanting and the deliberately inflicted holes in the skull, yes?”

“That’s right,” Jenny replied.

“And they attach some sort of mystical importance to this ritual? I mean, I hope they do it for more than a token paragraph in some book.”

“It’s a whole chapter.”

“Well, that’s all right, then.”

(Tara smelled so damn good. Why did she behave like that after we)

“It says that only the most dedicated and powerful of shamans are allowed this rite. They do it to communicate with the gods.”

“I guess heaven is a little remote for a cellular signal,” Willow agreed, feeling distant, disconnected from her body. “Still seems a little on the extreme side of the spectrum. Who wants to talk to God anyway?”

The words flew from her mouth before she could force them back in.

Jenny’s worried glance spoke all the words the Romany woman would never say to her employer, her saviour.

(God died with Buffy

violently)


Her throat suddenly burning, Willow took another sip of water and looked at the clock on the wall. It had been built by a blind monk in the seventeenth century and was worth more than two million dollars.

There wasn’t much more time until the Armsmaster arrived.

“What’s for supper?” Willow asked, as much from curiosity as from a desire to change the subject.

“Manhattan clam chowder and fresh bread,” Jenny replied, equally relieved to be back on safe ground. “Probably an arugula salad on the side.”

“Arugula,” Willow snorted. “It sounds like a sneeze.”

“I can change it, Miss Rosenberg,” Jenny quickly replied, but Willow quickly shook her head, controlling an inward sigh.

“It sounds delicious, Jenny,” she said. Tipping the bottle, Willow drained the last of her water, then tipped the bottle into the mandatory recycling bin. “Keep Jupi up here like usual, please. He can get rather distracting.” She mock-glared at the puppy as he perked his ears at hearing his name.

“Of course, ma’am.”

Willow could have slumped. She hated being called ma’am. What was she, forty? She had just celebrated her thirty first birthday last year; that was hardly ma’am material. She addressed her staff by their first names; well, all except Giles, and each of them reciprocated mostly in kind. Giles remained as strait-laced and bald-faced as any Briton had a right to be, what with the scowling and polishing of eyeglasses and brewing of teas. No wonder Britons made the best Stewards.

The best Armsmasters.

Willow recalled his first day on her staff, some four years ago. He had actually ironed her newspaper before presenting it to her on a metal tray, just to get rid of that pesky crease. Buffy, pretending to be sombre, took it and shook it and demanded a cup of tea. Sencha, to be precise, with a squeeze of lemon. Willow couldn’t contain her laughter, and told her Steward to never iron the newspaper again.

That was back when she used to laugh. When she had riches of mirth stored in the vault of her tongue and soul.

Now she had poverty.

Willow glanced through the impact-proof kitchen windows to see the narrow driveway that led to the garage directly underneath the kitchen in the walk-out basement. Beyond the drive were sculptured parterres and orchards and stone-worked patios. The trees surrounding her property were all glowing in the vibrant August sun. From here she could see the dark bald head of her Master Gardener, Robin Wood; he was working with his apprentice gardener in clipping the hedges into geometrically enhanced forms. At this very moment, as anxious and confused as she had been when she first walked out of Tara’s den, Willow wished she didn’t have an appointment with the Armsmaster. Then again,

(better safe than sorry)

she had experienced sorry enough lately.

That March night with Buffy had been so magical, so needed after the horrors of Persia. Despite the news she had to relay, the report she had to give, Willow was so content to be at Buffy’s side, eating marzipan, listening to jazz and the crickets, looking up at the vastly maternal moon. The horrors of the underground chambers, the terrifying secret about Buffy she had unearthed; all seemed faint and shadowy next to the glory of this night, Buffy grabbing her hand to place over her womb to feel the faint girl-kick inside. Such grown-up wonders and delights, so different from the crass delusions of their youth. Something changed inside Willow when she felt Buffy’s baby kick her hand. Suddenly the aspirations of her youth seemed brass; tasted like a penny in her mouth. She suddenly wanted something deeper, something better, the same something that Buffy had found in Riley.

If only she had been more careful, if only she had trained harder, if only she had truly understood the message she had to bear, the history she had unearthed, the terrifying possibility it held for her best friend. If only

(wishes and buts were candy and nuts

don’t think of Persia either)


Turning abruptly, she felt Jupi gambol next to her until a sharp whistle and a promise of a treat sent him back to Jenny’s side.

Did she imagine the attention of her chef upon her, a look of consternation and despair?

(who needs to talk to God anyway?)

A flight of stairs led from the kitchen to the basement level and she descended deep in thought. The cool water had not lessened the memory of Tara’s heated lips. She allowed a brief moment to stop on the steps and remember

(the depth, the perfection of those lips

the firm pressure of her breasts

the desire to kiss her again and again in such a manner

oh the soul-forge)


and a fluttering obsidian butterfly took residence deep in her chest, stunning for both its beauty and its sharp edges.

For the first time in many months, night could not come fast enough to suit Willow’s desires. She yearned for her cool silken sheets, all satiny and smooth on her skin, yearned for the privacy that would come, privacy enough to finally dwell in fulsome delight upon all aspects of her encounter with the Apothecary, voluntarily omitting her last memory of the woman’s face all closed and hostile.

(was it really me? was I a bad kisser?)

Finally she would get to dream of better things

(of puppy dog tails and bright berry pails and fluttering butterfly wings)

a dream she had purchased to ease the ache in her heart, all the while knowing that an even deeper ache did exist beneath Buffy’s death, knowing that to heal the one would be to reveal the other, an ache never filled, not with Xander, not with Oz or Jesse.

A dream purchased with fifteen thousand dollars, and how she remembered the aching of her teeth as a teenager when her parents couldn’t afford dental, the aching of her feet in the shoes that pinched her growing toes, the aching sense of exclusion from the finer things in life.

There had been a time when fifteen thousand dollars seemed astronomical and extraordinary, as out of her reach as the very stars in the firmament. She only had the cheap taste of ramen noodles in her mouth, the scratchy upholstery of furniture scavenged from dump sites, those awful oil lamps casting their swath of poverty all over her ceiling.

Back then she had a map stolen from the library edition of the National Geographic magazine on her wall. She had placed tacks on each of the locations that drew her the most: Nippon, Lapland, the Antarctic. Peru and Belize, and the ancient sea-faring ports of Turkey. Every location was as impossible as the next.

Each achieved by the time she had turned 28 years old.

It was all she had wanted back then, in her days of oily poverty. All she desired. Damn her for thinking so meanly, for having such mediocre dreams. She would tell her younger self a different story now, that the pursuit of financial freedom was fraught with different perils. Family was all that mattered; even surrogate family like Buffy and Xander.

Home was where the heart was. Was it any wonder that she drifted now, rudderless and broken?

Buffy was dead. Xander was gone. All Willow had left was this big empty house with a million ghosts of memories floating along the halls. They would strike her with maleficence and dread intent and Willow had no defences for them, no way to keep those memories from slaying her time and again.

She had no god now to protect her from such evil. No saviour.

She was a wisp and a shadow, ensnared and caught now with a devil’s kiss.

(Willow, stop this tomfoolery

do as you’ve been taught

embrace the now)


Willow resumed her stride down the stairs, settling herself into the present moment, aware of the whisking sound of her yoga pants, the light padding of her feet on the steps, the cool air that wrapped itself around her as she emerged on the basement landing.

One last illicit moment, to touch her lips and remember.

It was the only way, Rosenberg. You wanted this dream, remember? Once you heard of her gifts, you vowed that nothing would stop you; you would do anything in your power to get it. Even hacking into the blueprints and mapping strategies and emergency exits both. Even choosing the sedan over the rolls and scouting the location through the use of the poppy den. Even drawing that awful smoke over your lips and ignoring the disappointment and surprise on Giles’ face.

(I kissed her

and I loved it)


~

To be continued on Wednesday with Chapter Seven: Drill


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Six (Nov 4)
PostPosted: Sun Nov 04, 2012 4:31 pm 
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9. Gay Now
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Location: Kaskinen, Finland. Citizen of Kitopia
Yay for great update-y goodness... Good to find out more about who this Willow is and what kind of life she had...

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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Six (Nov 4)
PostPosted: Mon Nov 05, 2012 10:51 am 
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2. Floating Rose
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Location: A Hoosier in Eugene, OR
Feelin' listy today :)

1. Awwww! Folded puppy ears are just the cutest! And yeah, after a day like she’s had, there’s nothing better than some puppy lovin.

2. Her closet sounds amazing. Although, I can’t really imagine having enough clothes to warrant something that hi tech... :P And well defined, muscle-y Willow is just so very :drool

3. Okay, Willow has been shot? :cry I’d be interested to find out what exactly went down three weeks ago.

4. Tara’s just everywhere, isn’t she? I mean, she’s just about all Willow can even think about. Willow doesn’t let go of things easily, does she? Buffy. Tara. Persia.

5.
Quote:
“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I guess the listening comprehension part of my brain went to Florida for spring break. I’ll just courier it back home and you can repeat what you just said.”
She may be a kick ass fighter now, but she’s still so very Willow. Love it!

6.
Quote:
That was back when she used to laugh. When she had riches of mirth stored in the vault of her tongue and soul.
Now she had poverty.

That is just incredibly beautiful writing.

7. I love how you show the transition from the financial poverty of her childhood to the crushing, aching reality of all she has lost now. I think it just reinforces the hurt she feels from Tara’s rejection, and my heart just aches for her.

So yeah, another great chapter! And thank you for getting the updates out so fast, even though you’re out of town. That’s dedication! Enjoy Boston, and safe travels!

ps. I’m gonna pm you my thoughts on The Lamb, so be looking out for that :)

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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Six (Nov 4)
PostPosted: Mon Nov 05, 2012 2:46 pm 
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12. Recently Gay
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I savoured the glimpses of the old Willow - her joy with her puppy, that little bit of babble of about her brain going to Florida - a glimmer of hope that all is not lost.

Weird thought of the day - When you had Jenny discuss the book and the trepanning, how hard was it not have have Willow say " Trepanning? I need that like I need a hole in head!"

Favourite lines (for no other reason than just liking them)

Quote:
When she had riches of mirth stored in the vault of her tongue and soul.


Quote:
a fluttering obsidian butterfly took residence deep in her chest, stunning for both its beauty and its sharp edges.


Quote:
She was a wisp and a shadow, ensnared and caught now with a devil’s kiss.



That last quote, so full of Shakespearean portent.

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People grow through experience if they meet life honestly and courageously. This is how character is built. Eleanor Roosevelt


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Six (Nov 4)
PostPosted: Wed Nov 07, 2012 8:18 pm 
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6. Sassy Eggs
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Finally some spare time for fb... we had a tremendous snowfall in Edmonton today - businesses shutting down, roads sheer ice, and I'm all cozy at home with my music and another update. I'm missing Boston already (I got home last night), though I'll be going back in February. Seriously my favourite city in the United States.

waitnsee - you nabbed the dibs for chapter three, well done! Thanks for sharing your favourite parts - I like knowing what catches your interest. You also nabbed the dibs for chapter four, much to the chagrin of wills redemption. Yes, the discs are new, and I can't even remember where they came from now. But they have their part to play as well. And again, the dibs for chapter five - you're going to be the dibs maven for a while! I'm glad you enjoyed the first chapter from Willow's point of view. I enjoyed your list for chapter six. The sentence about riches of mirth and the poverty of now is one of my personal favourites as well.

zampsa - I'm glad to see you reading along and hoping for the best, as always. The dream is coming soon - only a chapter or two away, so you won't have too much longer to wait. Congrats on the dibs for chapter six. It's always fun creating the life story of a character.

paint the sky - I am also amused with what pops into your head (walrus and carpenter?). I'm glad I could assist with a break between studying human resource management. Which topic sounds as dry as the Mojave so I certainly hope you enjoy it. In your comments on chapter six, I had a major lol moment with your comment about Willow needing trepanning like she needs a hole in the head. Sheesh! Thanks always for sharing your favourite lines - I really appreciate it.

wills redemption - I'm glad you enjoyed chapter three - yes, Laura is new. She's there to prove a point. Which you'll have to wait a while before you get the reveal. In your craving for this story, it's a good thing I'm updating twice a week, isn't it? Thanks for your comments on chapter five, I appreciated your insights on Willow's guilt and loneliness.

And for all the lurkers out there - thank you for continuing to read. Just a few more chapters before things really start to change from the last draft.

Enjoy the following update!

Jen
aka Tara the Phoenix


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Six (Nov 4)
PostPosted: Wed Nov 07, 2012 8:22 pm 
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6. Sassy Eggs
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~7~
Drill
(don’t think of Persia, either)


As she expected, Giles was already in the spacious basement dojo as Willow arrived. He had also changed into training gear, clothing swift and economical of style, no looseness, no quarter. He padded about on bare feet, inspecting the weaponry mounted on the walls, handling the steel with reverent and knowledgeable hands. Before she could announce her arrival he said, “Miss Lehane will be here shortly, Miss Rosenberg.”

Willow allowed a smile to emerge on her face. When he had first entered her service with his oath of protection she had been astounded and discomfited by his uncanny perceptions. She and Buffy had actually made wagers to his having eyes surgically implanted in the back of his head. Since then she had come to realize that his senses were honed to a vivid perfection by extensive training.

It was a skill worth having in their line of work.

Another wall held every training implement imaginable. Willow walked there and took down a yoga mat. She rolled it open and began a Sun Salutation. Deep inside her breath, her chi, her attempt to wrap a white blanket around the circumstances of her day, she could still hear the arrival of her driver and her Armsmaster.

Willow ignored them long enough to finish her Salutation, limbering her muscles and her mind. She had to admit a certain level of intrigue regarding Faith. This was the first time she had invited her driver to join her personally; in the past three weeks since she had been hired, Faith usually duelled with Giles alone.

It was time that Faith realized that Willow didn't need a bodyguard, and wouldn't have a bodyguard had Giles not insisted on it.

(I can take care of myself)

Once finished, she rolled up her mat and replaced it. Only then did she look at her Armsmaster. His platinum hair clashed rather splendidly with his dark eyebrows. He was not particularly tall (yet still taller than Willow herself), but his body was hard, supple and quick. He had a dour, sarcastic view of life, with just enough self-flagellation for past sins to infuriate Willow.

He was also one of few people who didn't try to ingratiate themselves with her. "Ready to work, Willow?"

"Ready when you are, Spike."

"Excellent. We'll start with the standard drill, seeing as we have a guest tonight. We'll work with hauks first, with a bout to three blows." Willow caught him leering at her driver; a look reciprocated by the voluptuous girl. Willow supposed that some women would find her Armsmaster handsome. When Buffy had gone through her own rebellious phase, she had slept with Spike, much to the disgust and chagrin of Xander.

Much later, Buffy found Riley, and got her storybook wedding.

(does Tara kiss everyone like that?)

Giles had gathered hauks from the wall; long weighted wooden cylinders much like staves. Faith looked indignant at the bland choice of weapon, but another scowl from Giles silenced any verbal complaint. Spike separated them for the warm-up drill, setting Giles with Willow and taking on Faith himself.

(everyone?)

Padding to one end of the dojo, Willow tried to embrace the now. She felt the slightly cushioned floor under her feet; she could smell the wood polisher on the columns set at the corners of the dojo; she could hear the heightened breath and heartbeat that preceded training. She nodded at Giles, who nodded back.

(or just me?

stop making a fool of yourself, Rosenberg. It's her job)


While she was woolgathering, Giles almost made the first touch on her before she could engage her hauk and defend herself. She found herself counting the cadence of the drill, just as she had been taught, and soon the room was filled with the solid clacking of the staves against each other.

Trusting her peripheral vision to interpret the movements of his body and muscles, Willow studied his eyes, engaging them, a battle of will as much as a battle of reflex and movement.

(read your enemies eyes and conquer them)

No matter how she tried, the drill remained ragged, her responses just a microsecond too late, and Giles got two touches on her in a row. As they circled each other to re-engage, Willow knew that part of her mind was still in the poppy den with Tara

(still kissing)

and that Giles knew it, too. He was trying to engage her recently injured shoulder, nearly catching the soft pink bullet scar with the butt end of his hauk. There was no looseness here, no quarter. There was no such thing as fake drill.

There, that old weakness on his left side, remnant of a spear wound.

And in nine economical movements, she struck him three times, ending the bout. He stood back, holding the hauk in his hands, his face impassive, no regret in defeat nor sense of celebration for Willow's win.

Buffy used to make him laugh, even when she had him on the ground, groaning in agony.

Willow walked to the edge of the dojo and went into a resting crouch, watching the last of Faith's bout with Spike. She knew the girl was an accomplished warrior; she had done a complete background check on her before hiring her, but how good was good?

(after three years of military service she was eventually recruited to the national guard, and even spent a few years guarding the President himself)

Spike must have made two touches on her; her cheeks were slightly crimson with effort and there was a welt and bruise forming on her upper arm. She still held her hauk with confidence, and used her speed and quick reflexes to her advantage.

There was something familiar about her fighting style. Willow narrowed her eyes and dissected Faith's movements, recognizing standard military procedure taught by the United States Army, but with the subtle variances of technique reminiscent of Lo Pei, the legendary blade master rumoured to have trained the national guard.

That move there. It held a hint of Berlin, of a stiff-necked Kraut. Where would Faith have learned anything like that?

Faith caught her staring, and her own eyes narrowed. She went into a controlled flurry of movement, and soon Spike had been disarmed, his hauk skittering across the floor, the butt end of her staff against his throat. Classic Lo Pei Laughing Jackal with an unknown variant.

Well then.

(did she deliberate wait for me before finishing the bout?

did she want me to see her win?)


Faith lowered her weapon, concluding the engagement, and Spike looked at her with new appreciation in his eyes. "So you did learn something from Wilkins after all, didn't you?"

"I'm not just a pretty face," Faith countered, swaggering slightly and brandishing her hauk. She looked hot and triumphant, poised and confident, and a sharp barb of envy lodged itself in Willow's throat. "So, did I earn my steel?"

Spike looked at Willow and Willow nodded. "Sure, you can have a bout with blades," Spike replied. "Against Willow."

Faith looked at Willow, weighing her up as if she were cattle for sale. A sharp quiver of nervousness raced down Willow's body. She was a long time away from high school and her public humiliations in physical education class. Back then she had attended the first day of the mandatory unit on blade work, and managed to give herself the flu for the rest of the week.

(well, a reasonable facsimile of the flu, enough to convince my mother and the school nurse)

Spike was already choosing weaponry from the wall, taking down a couple of scimitars. Even looking at the curved blade made Willow's blood run cold.

(Giles' cheek and Xander's eye

don't think of Persia, either!)


Nonetheless, Willow took the proffered blade and walked to the centre of the dojo. Soon Faith was facing her, naked steel in her hand. "Do I actually get to hit my employer?" Faith asked.

"You can try," Willow replied.

Her feet moved involuntarily, stepping into fighting stance, her blade poised and ready.

Faith's eyes were brown.

Her elbow lifted, the blade cut through the air, and Willow met the blade with her own, sliding it along the curved edge and flicking it away as she whirled to the side

(reed in water)

A thrust to her belly was also stymied, and for the next few minutes Willow remained on the defensive, feeling out Faith's strengths, her weaknesses, any areas of hesitation or old wounds.

(two towers

coiled cobra

singing vine)

Willow soon discovered that Faith had no muscle hesitation, no old wound to exploit, just an uncanny knack of meeting Willow blow for blow. As they worked their way around the dojo, Willow realized that she might have underestimated her new driver. It had been a long time since she had such a constant bout, testing all her stamina and skill.

Her shoulder began to ache from the strain. She pressed her own attack harder, knowing that if Faith discovered her weakness, she would be finished.

Her feet quick and purposeful, Willow began a sequence that Buffy had once taught her. A difficult sequence to create; yet it had always resulted in victory. No one she had ever battled with knew the counter-move.

(conjuring dawn)

Swift, economical precision. No looseness, no quarter.

(oh Buffy)

She caught the underside of Faith's elbow with the flat of her blade and twisted while stooping to sweep Faith’s knees.

And Faith jumped and spun, and with one movement sliced open a gash on Willow's arm, and with the next she crouched.

And heaved with her strong back, smashing into Willow's ribs, a new pain to go along with the fire of her arm wound, and Willow crashed into the floor, her teeth clacking over her tongue. She saw the bright flash of steel that swept for her throat, and heaved from the ground in one powerful jump, another of Buffy's legacies.

Blood from the cut on her arm arced through the air.

Obviously Faith hadn't expected Willow to regroup so quickly; she had to back up several steps to give herself room for defensive strokes. Willow could feel her lungs creaking with the pain of cracked ribs, she could feel that line of blood-fire on her arm, but it would take more than such surface wounds to defeat her.

She had anger now, and she welcomed it.

Carefully.

A parry, a feint, and a thrust to Faith's wrist, spinning the scimitar out of Faith's grip, then a sweep of Faith's legs so her driver fell to the ground.

And then the cool kiss of her pointed steel on Faith's throat.

Wildness in Faith's eyes, quickly tamed. A tiny birthing of respect.

(how did she know the counter-move to conjuring dawn?)

Willow retreated, handing her scimitar to Giles and taking the proffered wad of gauze to put over her arm. Spike bent to help Faith up, but the woman waved him away, getting to her own feet, rubbing her wrist.

"You're better than I thought," Faith had the audacity to say.

More anger pooled behind Willow's jaw. "You're both dismissed," she abruptly announced, gesturing to Spike and Faith.

Her Armsmaster frowned. "No need to get shirty," he said. "I was going to congratulate you on your improvement with this weapon. You must have been practising."

Willow didn't answer. She just stared at them both, her eyes flint knives. Spike got the hint first, and tugged on Faith's elbow. "Let's go, slayer," he said. Faith turned away, albeit with a small show of reluctance; she turned back on the last step out of the dojo with a strange expression of near-respect on her face before vanishing from sight.

When they were finally gone, Willow blew out her breath, her knees suddenly trembling with the exertion of the fight.

Giles was waiting, and she turned to look at him, her hand clapped over her wound, her chest afire, and she couldn't fathom the expression on his face.

That damned man and his damned masks. No looseness, no quarter.

(he used to smile)

Willow was not the only one forever altered by Buffy's recent death.

"Let's get that cleaned up, shall we?" he asked, leading the way into the recovery room off to one side of the dojo. He prepared the needle and thread; Willow looked at the tiny sliver of metal and remembered that she used to be scared of needles once, and leery of blood, and a complete basket case when it came to pain or horses.

(that was before)

"Would you like anything for the pain?" he asked, his back to her.

(just dragonsbreath, Giles

just the poppy den

just

stop thinking)


"No."

He grunted and began cleaning the cut. Minutes passed in this unacceptable silence. Then he applied bactine and began to sew the wound shut, using small and precise stitches. Willow looked at the walls, her head reeling, her ribs aching, nausea clouding her stomach.

"Perhaps we should strengthen the enchantment on the practice blades," Giles suggested.

"I don't think so. It's good to get cut once in a while. Reminds you of what is important."

(her hair, what happened to her hair?)

"And what is important, Miss Rosenberg?"

(how did Faith know how to counter Buffy's move?)

Willow couldn't look at him. His pity was suffocating her.

The ticking of a clock, the scratchy hum of fluorescent lighting. Bright orange bactine, sharp and offensive.

The memory of Buffy stuffed in every corner of this room, this house, stagnant and rotting away, the stench of her absence permeating every part of Willow's existence, a hole both deep and wide and everlasting.

(I miss Xander, too)

"Will you not confide in me, Willow?" Giles gently asked. Her first name. The damned man used her first name.

(black cat, black cat bring me luck. if you don't I'll tear you up)

"Not yet, Giles."

"As you wish."

The impromptu surgery complete, he rose to wrap her arm in a clean linen bandage, and then stripped off his latex gloves and washed his hands in the basin. Willow rose slowly from the bench, her hand on her ribs. "Don't move yet, Willow," he said. "We have to wrap your ribs."

She suffered through yet another uncomfortable expanse of time as he wound a bandage tightly over her ribs, his clinical detachment a blessing and a curse at the same time.

Whatever sense of family had once existed in this house was dead and gone.

The evening meal that followed was yet another exercise in frustration and regret. Jenny's eyes had narrowed at the bandage on Willow's arm, but the Romany didn't say a word. Willow sat at the head of the table, eating slowly, trying to savour each bite. Her live-in staff ate in stone silence around her with Giles across the table from Jenny and Faith across from Robin Wood, the gardener.

When Faith first arrived, she had expressed more than a little disdain for his seemingly undignified position as keeper of the grounds; that lasted as long as it took for her to spit the dirt from her mouth as he unceremoniously flipped her to the ground.

Hopefully Faith was smart enough to realize what no one would say outright.

(we're all warriors here, and for a reason)

Giles didn't play his usual role of raconteur this evening; conversation around the table was thin and fleeting. When Willow decided she simply couldn't push food around her bowl any longer, she placed her napkin on the table and started to rise.

At Giles' sharp glance the rest of the staff rose with her, chair legs creaking, then stayed standing while she pushed her chair back in.

(does he insist on alienating me completely?)

"Good night, Miss Rosenberg," he said quietly, the rest of her staff murmuring likewise.

"Thank you. Have a pleasant evening," she managed to reply, inwardly cursing the Steward while knowing that they would enjoy themselves far more now that she was not in their presence. Gone were the days that Xander would flick chunks of broccoli at her, and Buffy would eat every morsel of food upon the table before asking to eat the discarded slightly burnt pie.

(it's not blackened, it's cajun. cajun pie)

Even Jupiter wouldn't follow her out of the room; he hovered by Jenny's ankles, waiting for small slips of food.

So be it.

It was still too early to go to bed, so Willow made her way to the library. The moment she entered the room, she wished she hadn't.

(Tara would love this place)

In all fairness, this room couldn't quite be labelled a library; it was more a personal museum. It encompassed two floors, with the upper level looking out over the lower. The walls were resplendent with shelves and cabinets, all made of jovial cherrywood and decorated with exotic mouldings. The light was diffuse here; the windows angled to protect her more valuable possessions from direct sunlight. The now westering sun lit the room with a soft glow.

While the shelves held her books, the cabinets held ancient maps and charts, outdated astrological equipment, and instruments used at sea and upon land by cartographers. Among them all were placed small but immensely valuable mementos of her travels, and spoils she had been permitted to keep.

Unlike Tara's den, all these books and objects were painstakingly valued, catalogued, and curated. Books were filed by genre, by author, and year of release. Every year a curator from the Briton Museum would come and catalogue her recent acquisitions; both Jenny and Giles watching and learning as much as they could.

(trepanning

they do it while you're awake)


Willow tapped the wall to reveal the computer screen, which quickly led her to the book she was looking for.

It was not a first edition, nor was it signed by the author.

It was still bound in leather, had gold leaf on the edges of the pages. Willow took the book and settled into a chair, wincing for the pain in her ribs, her arm aching worst than ever.

When she found the page that she had halted at earlier, by the return of the apothecary

(and her altered hair)

Willow realized that she wasn't looking at the words anymore. For the first time since she left the den, Willow allowed her eyes to close, and painted herself back into that moment when she saw Tara come back into the den through the curtain, as beautiful and remote as some shining star.

Willow had gone in expecting a dream, not a kiss. After this night, which would she remember more?

(I kissed her)

So she thought of Tara's lips, the way they were soft and pliable, warm and addictive, and a new breed of pain began to consume her chest, a hollowing, a deepening, a tight little ball of pent-up desire. Now she could imagine those lips doing other things, sensual things, she could imagine her fingers in Tara's hair, a kiss on the corner of Tara's mouth, making her way down her jaw line, imagining the apothecary's head tilted with pleasure, leaving her throat open for Willow's lips.

The daydreaming Willow blushed; she had never thought of a woman in this way before. She felt almost naughty for allowing it.

But to think of the kiss would be to think of what happened after, how Tara's face had changed, her body transmogrifying into some stone monster of disdain and revulsion, her eyes those of a basilisk, her demeanour slaying Willow through the heart.

Willow had no right to desire her. Tara kissed everyone like that. There was nothing that made Willow special.

(then why can't I stop thinking about her?)

An aching, gnawing sensation began to squirm in Willow's breast; she felt it for several moments before finally classifying it.

(why did she close herself to me at the end?)

It was not shame, nor jealousy, nor even illicit desire. Willow reflected back upon Tara's eyes, and all she felt was sorrow.

~

Jen
aka Tara the Phoenix

to be continued on Sunday with Chapter 8: Dream


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Seven (Nov 7)
PostPosted: Wed Nov 07, 2012 8:37 pm 
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2. Floating Rose
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Joined: Tue Feb 17, 2009 3:51 pm
Posts: 44
Location: A Hoosier in Eugene, OR
And.... Dibs! :bounce
Now off to read!
*******************
And back with the feedback!

- I know I keep saying this, but I love that Tara is so constantly on Willow’s mind. Not only does it show us more about Willow and her feelings, but it also keeps Tara around in these Willow-centric chapters. Awesome!

- So, Willow got shot three weeks ago. And Faith was hired right after that, presumably?
Quote:
(I can take care of myself)

If you’re getting shot at, Willow, you might want to rethink that a bit...

- I like the bit of background on Faith, and the way Willow recognizes her fighting techniques. But what is up with her attitude? Even Spike treats Willow with more respect! It definitely adds to the mystery that is Faith.

- Willow and Faith fight! So awesome!! I absolutely, completely love this change from the original. So many questions!! How does Faith know those moves?? <-- these are rhetorical... I know the answers will come eventually :P

- Giles seems harder in this version, and it makes sense if he and Buffy were as close as they were in canon. Willow is not the only one in pain here. :(

-
Quote:
(it's not blackened, it's cajun. cajun pie)
love this line! :D

-
Quote:
It was not shame, nor jealousy, nor even illicit desire. Willow reflected back upon Tara's eyes, and all she felt was sorrow.

:cry

So yeah, these chapters just keep getting better and better (I lovelovelove all the changes you’ve made)! And now the dream! Excellent!

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I wanna do right, but not right now...
~Gillian Welch


Last edited by waitnsee on Sat Nov 10, 2012 10:18 am, edited 1 time in total.

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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Seven (Nov 7)
PostPosted: Thu Nov 08, 2012 5:36 am 
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9. Gay Now
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Location: Kaskinen, Finland. Citizen of Kitopia
Yay for excellent update-y goodness... Good to read about Willow's home life before the fecal matter hits the rotating cooling device from the nightmare... I hope Willow goes to ask Tara why her dream turned to a nightmare, and that Tara tells Willow why truthfully...

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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Seven (Nov 7)
PostPosted: Fri Nov 09, 2012 3:24 pm 
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4. Extra Flamey

Joined: Sun Nov 20, 2011 9:59 am
Posts: 160
Another two great chapters!

In chapter 6 the sentence I was waiting for:
Quote:
God died with Buffy

violently


If I recall correctly, this theme will reoccur in the future. It just touches me every time. It makes me wonder how oftenshe sees a bloody, dead Buffy in her inner eyes...

Another sentence which greatly shows the dark mood Willow is captured in almost permanently is this:

Quote:
The memory of Buffy stuffed in every corner of this room, this house, stagnant and rotting away, the stench of her absence permeating every part of Willow's existence, a hole both deep and wide and everlasting.


The extense of Willow's unending sorrow and despair about Buffy's death makes me wonder if Willow felt more for her than "best friend love", maybe even without realizing it herself...

The fightscene was intense, proves that you are also a master in writing action scenes. The most obvious answer to the question how Faith could have known the counter attack would be that she learned it from Buffy too...But that would mean that Willow missed something very important in her background check regarding Faith...

Now I'm really looking forward to the dream chapter!


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Seven (Nov 7)
PostPosted: Sat Nov 10, 2012 3:13 pm 
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32. Kisses and Gay Love
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Posts: 9572
Topics: 7
Location: Texas, Y'all
Well first off welcome back and hope life is treating you well.

I remember this story from before and it's hard to remember if you've changed anything in terms of major story/plot points but if feels quite smooth if that makes sense. I love the portrayal of each character during their focus if that makes sense. During Tara's focus her analysis and observations make her seem educated, mature, almost magical (probably actually magical). I love the way she is a mix of manipulating and leading her clients. She sets up her situation and space in a way that gives her power by taking them off balance and it seems that Willow is not entirely vulnerable to that. She seems to be able to sink into the space and Tara's presence and power. Her reading TLtWtW so relaxed is very lovely and charming. Did you ever watch the show Lie to Me? It makes me think of Tara's person reading ability.

I'm a little facinated and puzzled by Willow's role in life. She's obviously made a super fortune but she seems to be involved in mystical battles along with Buffy and Xander and Giles in some world-wide way. I'm very interested that she was able to show such vulnerability and unease in dealing with Tara yet she's so powerful with everyone else.

I remember a bit more than you've posted here such as what the dream/nightmare is like and who one of Tara's other customers is but not much more.

Waiting for more.

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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Seven (Nov 7)
PostPosted: Mon Nov 12, 2012 4:43 pm 
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Location: Edmonton, Alberta
Sorry the update is a day late, but here we go!


~8~
Dream
(even this I am denied)


It was 10:30 in the evening when Willow left the warm crackling glow of the fire in the reading room, walking through the echoing stillness of the foyer to climb the grand staircase to her bedchambers. It felt a little strange not to have Jupiter crowding her feet; her last summons to Giles of the evening was for him to take the dog over the night and to reiterate that, short of the apocalypse, she was not to be disturbed this night.

Hell, even an apocalypse would simply have to wait.

His disapproval etched her skin like acid, but she told herself she didn't care. She would have her dream, no matter the cost.

She would bring Buffy back, if only for the opportunity to say goodbye.

If only to whisper the last great secret, bought in Persia by Xander's eye and Giles' cheek, thwarted forever by the mysterious assassin the night of marzipan and jazz.

If only.

Willow stopped in her closet first, donning a pair of silk shorts and a camisole for sleeping. She paused to study herself in the looking glass before putting on the camisole; she looked at the pink scar on her shoulder, her wrapped ribs, her small breasts, the bandage over her arm.

She barely recognized the woman staring back at her.

Perhaps she should have all the mirrors covered.

Stepping into her sleeping chamber, Willow programmed the computer not to wake her in the morning. She ensured her blinds were tightly drawn. She locked her door. Nothing and no one was going to interrupt her within the dream she had paid for.

Had kissed for.

Her nightly ministrations in the lavatory did not take long, and soon she was sliding between the sheets; the satin blessedly cool against the heat of the cut on her arm. For a while she tried to read a book, Stephen King's latest anthology, but she couldn't wrangle any sort of coherence from the words.

She extinguished the naphtha lamp with a soft touch, and her room plunged into warm and expectant darkness.

Her heart was beating too fast. She counted cadence with it, harnessing it with her breath. She allowed herself the delectable luxury of dwelling upon the events of the day, and between one blushed reminiscence and another, she was asleep.

"Will? Wills? Earth to Willow."

Willow spun her head; Buffy was holding two ice cream cones and an infuriated expression. Taking one of the cones from Buffy before it melted into a slow line of luscious gloop, Willow blinked. "Um, I was paying attention," she said, quickly licking one of the more adventurous cavalries of cream.

"Yeah-huh. Then you can tell me exactly where I left off in my most important story before your brain decided to go all Willowy on me."

"Willowy? You mean I am my own metaphor? That's kinda cool in a..." Willow's voice trailed off as Buffy stared at her. "Sad, bad sort of way," Willow swiftly concluded. "Uh, cheerleading?"

"Face it, Wills, you did a total zone-out. What on earth were you looking at? Was it a cute boy? Does he breathe? Is he available?" Buffy spun her golden head around, seeking among the crowds the object of Willow's intent.

Willow also glanced back, surprised by a sudden ache in her seventeen year old midsection that couldn't be analyzed or labelled. Besides, whatever phantom in grey silk she had seen had been swallowed by the crowds at the fair, leaving Willow to wonder if she actually existed at all.

Yet Willow recognized her, or thought she did, though her name was also lost in the throng.

She could have sworn the woman in grey silk had been staring at her.

(I give it with a kiss)

"Thought I recognized someone. It's nothing," Willow said, licking her ice cream again. She was content enough for now to follow Buffy's lead, and convinced herself not to look back as they ventured further and deeper into the midway.

Besides, Buffy was oblivious. She continued her story as if nothing had happened. "Okay, so you remember me telling you that Cordelia's nose job went horribly awry and she tried to pretend that it was some sports injury? Please, people don't hurt their noses like that playing tennis."

Willow's cheeks blushed crimson, and she touched her own nose. Buffy laughed. "Seriously, Willow, no one remembers that. It was so last year."

"Xander remembers."

"That's because he's the one that hit you, and had to make it up by taking you to your cousin's god-awful wedding reception. With a pink cummerbund, as you'll also recall, because all the other 'manly' colours had been taken. He remembers everything where you're involved."

"No, he doesn't," Willow weakly protested.

"Yeah-huh. When I first moved here last year he told me about the time that he broke all your crayons in kindergarten because he was mad at you for beating him at tetherball and all the boys teased him about what it felt like to be beat by a girl."

(and in Persia he screamed while his eye was gouged out)

Willow blushed again, then cursed as someone bumped into her, making her drop the remains of her ice cream. Buffy, who had long devoured hers and was now seeking new refreshment, didn't even notice. As always, Buffy seemed to ooze with supernatural grace through the crowds of people, all of them with bright faces and rupahs in their pockets, ready to lose their piddly coins to the barkers in hopeless attempts at winning kewpie dolls and other assorted prizes. The smell was almost as cacophonous as the sound; mingled horse manure and hot oil, sweating bodies and the smudge pots that kept the worst of the mosquitoes at bay.

"He stole a lolly from the teacher's private stash to make it up to me later," Willow mused, the memory causing a little balloon of joy to inflate in her chest. For as long as she could remember, Willow wanted

(Tara)

Xander to be more than a friend. Despite all her efforts, Xander simply did not reciprocate those feelings, but Willow couldn't stop herself from trying.

Then Buffy Summers moved to town. Xander had fallen for her at first glance, and Willow wished she could just hate and despise and vilify the poised blonde bombshell. Her teeth gnashing and writing of various death scenarios did not last long; Buffy had extended an unexpected hand of friendship, and eventually Willow took it.

How surprising that Buffy became her best friend, as close as a sister.

(my sword partner)

Even now, though, when she thought of Xander, Willow still wished she had more of Buffy's confidence, more of Buffy's chutzpah, and certainly more of Buffy's money. Several stolen kisses from him did not a boyfriend make.

(can you loan me a tenski, Will?)

"See? I'm right again. He also told me he remembers watching Charlie Brown Christmas with you every year, in your house, under the noses of your parents, and how you all felt like little devils to try such espionage on your family. Mind you, there are probably things he wouldn't mind forgetting," Buffy said in a slow drawl, stopping at a hot dog vendor.

Willow stared back at Buffy with as much asperity as she could muster, which really wasn't much at all. She simply could not puncture Buffy's oration, and Buffy continued with a smirk, "I never did hear your side of the candy apple incident."

"My lips remain sealed," Willow said. She freely grinned as Buffy bought two hot dogs, both for herself of course, and they continued walking through the fair grounds. At spying Cordelia ahead with her band of automatons known as the Cordettes, Willow felt elated to have Buffy at her side, because Buffy invited her to go to the fair.

And Cordelia, probably under some Buff-ish manipulation, had actually been leaving Willow alone lately. It had been some time since the cheerleader's last snide remark.

(nice to see you've found the softer side of Sears, Willow)

With Buffy at her side, calm, beautiful, witty Buffy, it was easy for Willow to tell Cordelia to put it where the sun don't shine.

Well, she didn't exactly say it, but she did think it. Naughty Willow.

"Uh huh," Buffy replied, stopping for a box of roasted tomatillos. "I bet sometimes you wish that your lips weren't sealed."

"Buffy!"

"Come on, Wills. Surely there is some boy that you wouldn't mind sharing your... ice cream with." Buffy leered a little, probably at the naughty innuendo.

Which Willow missed completely.

"He can get his own damn ice cream," Willow growled in laughter, blushing once again at using a swear word.

Naughty Willow.

Buffy sighed and popped a blackened tomatillo in her mouth. "Too bad Xander couldn't come tonight," Buffy mused. "I mean, there's still two days of school before the summer vacation.”

“At least working with his uncle keeps him from the draft,” Willow mused. “Though I thought I told you not to remind me how awful my summer is going to be, with Xander gone and you and Dawn in LA with your dad leaving me all alone to do my research all by myself.”

"Stupid mother with stupid buying trip to Ur for the stupid gallery," Buffy replied.

“At least she kept you from the draft, Buff. Not everyone gets that chance.”

Somehow in the space of her nonstop chattering, Buffy had managed to put away the ice cream cone, two hot dogs, a box of tomatillos and an ice-cold root bear. She paused at the booth of another vendor, who gave her a Cracker Jack box for ten rupahs.

"Speaking of your mom, doesn't she ever feed you?" Willow asked.

Buffy rooted around in the box, spraying tiny bits of caramel-studded popcorn and nuts to the already bedraggled ground. "She was just saying the other day that she wished she had a trough. I thought that was a little rude of her. Dawn was no help and completely violated the sister code by actually agreeing with her. Stupid family."

"At least your mom is better than my mom. She can spend an entire day in her office without eating anything but her own liver. I'm telling you, Buff, my mom is the most competitive non-sport person I know."

"I hear she crucifies people with words," Buffy said, stuffing a handful of the snack into her mouth and chewing ferociously while hunting for the elusive prize. Willow stood back to watch.

"Take some of this, Will," Buffy said, tipping some into Willow's hastily lifted palms.

"Not so much!" Willow laughed. "Remember the roles of our little group? You're the human garbatron, and I'm the walking computer."

"And what, pray tell, is Xander?"

(altered now)

"I believe he provides the comic relief."

"I so want his job," Buffy muttered. "Aha!"

From the box tipped a tiny plastic sleeve, with a faint glob of something or other inside. Tucking the box by her elbow, Buffy ripped open the plastic sleeve and spilled the cheap ring into her palm.

(cracker jack ring

she can't speak to you from the dead, Willow)


Something thrummed deep inside her at the sight of this ring, a tremor long and deep. There was sweet bitterness on her tongue, a hint of imperial jasmine.

Buffy grinned. "For you, Will," she said, placing the ring in Willow's palm. Willow opened her mouth in a small O of surprise, her throat thickening.

"Why me, Buffy?" Willow asked, holding the ring tightly in her palm. It had its own heartbeat, its own secrets. One axis of the world was drawn through its centre.

"Because you're not just Xander's Willow any more," Buffy replied, her voice serious yet light. "You're my Willow, too. And not just because of the homework privileges." Buffy smiled larger, and wheedled, "But you're still going to help me with the final computational math problem, aren't you? If I help you with blade work?"

(I would walk through fire for you, Willow)

Something heavy and thick obstructed Willow's throat. A smile erupted on her lips, beautiful in its sincerity. Buffy smiled back, and only then did Willow wrestle that ring onto her pinkie finger, her heart more elated than it had ever been in her life. Buffy was more than a friend. Buffy was family.

Buffy was forever.

(I would mount an assault on the very gates of hell)

Heartstring connected them, and side-by-side they continued along the lanes of the fair, Buffy's grace now sifting over her, an aura of peace and contentment.

(I would dance with the devil himself)

Soon Buffy was pausing outside the strong man booth. "Step right up, step right up," the barker was calling. Both Buffy and Willow stared at the heavy sledgehammer and the bell, mounted so impossibly far up the pole.

(because)

"Let's try it, Wills. It's only five rupahs."

(you're my Willow too)

The barker was looking at them with calculated contempt, his oiled moustache and barrel chest screaming stereotypical midway. All he was missing was the suspenders and the plug of tobacco in his mouth. "I don't know, Buffy," Willow ventured. The bell was so very high. "I'm not exactly the strong man type. Heck, I'm not even the strong woman type. Now if there was a game for resequencing DNA or, or reciting pi to a thousand places, or listing all the actinides and lanthanides of the periodic table, I'd totally be the girl."

"Will, this is the midway. The only scientific game that exists here is the one that gives you your weight and tells your fortune, neither of which need be public knowledge, ergo the strong man booth."

"Did you just say ergo?"

"Yes, and I even used it correctly in a sentence. Now pick up that hammer."

Willow hesitated, looking up the pole once more. Hovering even higher than the bell was a large and pregnant moon, also coy, also secretive. Even among the pinwheeling lights of the ferris wheel, the paper lanterns on strings, the neon blazing of booths and games the moon seemed to hold its own far and distant majesty.

It knew such things, so many things that Willow didn't know.

Willow suddenly tasted marzipan on her tongue. Such a grown-up taste, all sophistication and almond. The lights grew creamier, and there was the faint squealing of jazz. Was she really this Willow, or another one?

(are you sure that's what you found in Persia, Will?)

Willow stared at Buffy, convinced that Buffy had just said something vital, but Buffy was already making her own way to the front of the line. As Willow made to follow her, she stepped on crackling foil paper, the liner transparent with grease.

"Come on, Will," Buffy urged.

The jazz was getting stronger. A sugary mocha curdled in Willow's stomach, implications of Persia rippling through her mind.

(Giles' scar and Xander's eye and the price we pay in blood and pain)

Beyond and away the crickets were singing and Buffy began to glow. Evanescence beamed from her very skin, set her hair alight with glory. Too much for this paltry earth. Too much.

(it couldn't have been me, Willow. You must be mistaken. I don't believe in that kind of stuff, and neither do you)

Feeling tinny and lightheaded, chilly now even though it was a beautiful Sunnydale June evening, Willow lingered in the line for the strong man booth, sensing more than seeing another world imposing on her.

(I'm only dreaming)

Buffy handed over her clinking rupahs - there were plenty more in her purse. "You first, Will," she said, marching behind Willow and pushing her forward. A small crowd pooled behind them and Willow wished she could hide from them, because she was really quite puny, with arms like weenie match sticks, elbows like limp noodles, and the shirt she wore was quite obviously purchased from the second-hand store (she had ripped out the tag that proclaimed it as Harmony's property).

"Remember the DNA, Buffy?" Willow protested. "The tennis injury? The way I can't walk and talk and chew gum at the same time? I didn't bring my body armour."

Buffy raised her golden head and laughed, a gentle rain of sound. Her face continued to glow, now with a certain sense of pride, and she put her fingers on her belly as if more than hot dogs and ice cream lay there.

Riley's gift.

The unborn girl-child she was going to name after her dead sister. Dawn.

(that sort of evidence would make a believer out of anyone, Buffy. I am sure, and I'm sorry)

The heavy handle of the hammer was pressed into her palm; for an anxious moment, Willow couldn't even lift it from the ground.

(where do we go from here, Will?)

Crooked by the weight of the sledgehammer, Willow glanced one last time at Buffy for salvation.

(I wish I knew)

Willow was staring at Buffy, but it wasn't really just Buffy anymore, and they were no longer at the fair. They had been transported to the lamplit streets near the Bronze nightclub, near doubled in age now, standing side by side while listening to the jazz and the crickets, Willow rehearsing this imaginary conversation in her mind, trying to muster the courage to say the words aloud. Were these the words Buffy would have spoken, had Willow been able to share her news?

Willow still held the hammer in her hands. She looked at it and frowned. Not her normal choice of weapon.

It turned into a rapier, well-folded and honed, light on the wrist, keen of edge. Part of the spoils from a previous campaign in Spanish Morocco. She carefully slid it into the scabbard hanging from her hips.

And when she looked up, it was to see that the time for telling the truth had run out. This conversation did not actually occur, and now it never would. Willow's design was flawed.

Buffy seemed to explode with blood.

(with this same dream every night no wonder I needed the apothecary

just one night of peace

and even this I am denied)


And Buffy died there, on the sidewalk, within her belly an unrisen Dawn. She died there, to the crooning of the jazz and the singing of the crickets, and the words of the secret died on Willow's tongue.

(I will not be caught by surprise)

Willow spun, the rapier sliding from her scabbard with a steely whisk of sound, plunging into the body of the person lurking behind her.

That well-folded and honed edge slid in so very easily, shearing past grey silk and bone to erupt on the other side like a bloody volcano. A thin line of blood trickled from the woman's mouth. In desperate horror, Willow let go of the hilt and the slim sword hovered there, skewering the Apothecary like a Kurdish kebab.

The sound of Tara's knees striking the pavement was obscenely loud, like buckshot.

Willow caught the beloved body before it could slump forwards onto the blood-violated sidewalk; she sank into a crouch, oblivious of the red stain soaking through her clothing. "Tara?" she asked, even though she didn't even know she knew this woman's name until she said it aloud.

(soul-forge)

Tara lifted her bloodied hand and touched Willow on the cheek, leaving behind a smeared fingerprint. As Willow rocked her back and forth, Tara's sleeve was pushed up, revealing a small mark on the inside of her elbow, hauntingly familiar yet elusive.

Tara didn't speak again before she died. Her eyes said everything her lips could not.

(did you really think you could run from responsibility forever, Willow?

can you afford to dream your life away?

night comes

and there's no Dawn)



~

Next update on Wednesday!

Jen
aka Tara the Phoenix


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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter Eight (Nov 12)
PostPosted: Mon Nov 12, 2012 7:26 pm 
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2. Floating Rose
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Dibs?!?!

:bounce
--------------
- I love the thread of Stephen King that runs through your stories. He’s one of my favorite authors, and I get all excited to see him mentioned. :)
-
Quote:
"Willowy? You mean I am my own metaphor? That's kinda cool in a..." Willow's voice trailed off as Buffy stared at her. "Sad, bad sort of way,"

Aah! So Willow! So adorable! I love it! :)

- I am very intrigued by the draft that Xander and Buffy avoided. Draft for what? And was Willow as lucky, if she didn’t get out of town that summer? Or did they all get drafted later (or not at all)?

- I love the idea of teeny tiny Buffy bing able to put away so much food. It gives me lotsa lols! :lol

- Your description of Willow and Buffy’s friendship is just so beautiful. From Willow’s initial reaction to the cracker jack ring to
Quote:
(you're my Willow too)

...it’s just incredibly powerful. If they were as close as sisters, then Buffy’s recent (violent) death would definitely still be affecting Willow.

- I like how, from the beginning, you had little hints of Tara/reality slipping in. So when the dream turned into the nightmare it didn’t feel like it came out of nowhere. Very effective in building up a feeling of uneasiness turning into terror. It also helped to make the dream/mare more dreamlike. Where there’s things happening that don’t really seem to make sense, or are happening at the wrong time. Great job! And then there’s the end, with the skewering of Tara. I can imagine Willow will be angry that her happy dream was ruined, and will blame Tara. And that feeling of sorrow and loss (since the kiss) that she’s had all day might be complicated some with the feeling of Tara dying in her arms from the dream/mare. Very interested to see what happens! (and to see what changes you have in store for us!!)

Looking forward to the next chapter! :D

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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter Eight (Nov 12)
PostPosted: Tue Nov 13, 2012 6:26 am 
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Yay for excellent update-y goodness... And so the nightmare begins...

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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter Eight (Nov 12)
PostPosted: Thu Nov 15, 2012 5:28 am 
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Very intense update. I almost wonder if Willow will go back. I know Tara was thinking that Willow would not return since she will have Tara's nightmare. I don't know to what extent Tara manufactures the dream and to what extent she ... manufactures the situation in which the dream can happen but it is very detailed. Frequently we read dreams in fiction and they are so ... like it's a big flashing light that it is a dream because it's like ... Willow and Buffy are walking down the street and then the ship turns left and the dog says "why aren't you listening?" This dream is like... if a fic started with it it would seem a little strange but wouldn't seem ridiculous or anything. It would be like THIS DAY THAT WILLOW AND BUFFY WENT TO THE FAIR. I love that the dream seems to be mixture of reality and memory and mystical event and horror movie. Actually that may be what the show is. I also love that the nightmare part of the dream brings Tara into it.

Oh... I'm eager for more.

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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter Eight (Nov 12)
PostPosted: Thu Nov 15, 2012 10:04 am 
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I'm now in California, so I'm going to post a chapter update, and I'll catch up on fb to fb on Sunday's post.

~9~
Jars
(I have such work to do)


The pile of money stayed on Tara's table for a long time.

Tara stared at it, the physical manifestation of her great betrayal. She sat down where Willow had been seated; the squashy armchair softly exhaled Willow's perfume. She picked up the slight volume that Willow had been reading. There was no way to ascertain what part Willow had been reading; Tara wished she knew. She wished she could open the book to the page that Willow beheld last, as if the book itself could be aware of its reader and become a mirror to Willow's heart. Could these words feel the undivided attention of the red-haired enigma, words equally desperate to share secrets and truths of a universe that could have been real?

Maybe there really was a Narnia, and a lion named Aslan, a place where animals spoke and trees came to life, where the pennants of Cair Paravel snapped in a lively breeze as the sons of Adam and daughters of Eve began a true and just rulership. Such were the dreams she created for C.S. Lewis before he ascended.

She wished she could ask Eva, in the apartment above hers, to tell her the truth about Narnia, about the untold billions of other worlds that lay like sheets of paper over this one.

She wished so many things, but none of them came true.

(not for me)

Tara lifted her eyes from the book and the first thing she saw was the pile of money. She got up from the chair, put the book away, and logged the date and Willow's name into her computer. She wandered back and forth between the parlour and her living quarters.

Her bare feet stepped lightly on the Persian rug of her den as she made her way back to the little chintz covered table. The stack of bills was an abnormality, almost menacing in its sheer presence. The very way it took up space reminded her again of the difficult choice she had made.

(don't come back, Willow)

With her breast thickening in remorse, Tara sat down again in Willow's chair, the caress of the perfume once again surrounding her. Tara closed her burning eyes and gripped the armrests of the chair as she settled even deeper within it, and then she brought the recent memory to the front of her mind.

Willow's tongue running over her lips, teasing them open. A soft press, then a harder one, her breasts lightly touching Tara's own, their clothing sliding over each other in earnest reflection of their lips. As Willow kissed her, tentative at first, then stronger

(deeper!)

Tara had felt like a woman again, beautiful, enchanting, essential. For that moment Tara could forget the emptiness of her bed, the untold number of nights she spent alone within the cool sheets, the screams that erupted from her mouth like verbal lava each and every night, and try as she might, she couldn't make the memory of this one stolen kiss erase all the evil that came before it.

Evil that Willow must have witnessed in her own life, evil mirrored in Willow's desperate eyes. Stormy eyes, wracked with remembrances of shattered swords and gouged eyes and scars on cheeks.

Willow had been just as desperate for this kiss. Why was it that no one loved her?

(I cannot love her

remember Laura)


But Tara found she wanted to love her. She wanted to create a complete fantasy out of this stolen kiss, a fantasy that would lead to other, better kisses and other, better memories. The depth of her emotion did not entirely surprise her; fantasy was all she was allowed.

Yet a tiny seed of truth remained, the connection that first attracted her to this woman when she saw her in Anya's poppy den. It was almost recognition. She had felt compelled to watch Anya teach her the way of the pipe and the dragonsbreath, how to light the bowl, how to hold the precious smoke in the mouth for a moment or two, until it penetrated her blood.

And when even the cloud of poppy could not hide her despair, Anya did as she must, and told Willow of the Apothecary, and the chance for a dream, the most perfect dream, a manufactured dream for the dark watches of the night. Who would not take the opportunity to relive again some moments of bliss, or to find fake vengeance for slights or wrongs?

Her green eyes blighted, clouded with opium, Willow should have been just one of thousands. Really, there was nothing remarkable about her at all.

A kernel of doubt remained. There was something about her, but she couldn’t waste time trying to think of what it may be.

True to her iron willpower, Tara then forced all thoughts of Willow from her head. She rose from the chair, picked up the overdone stack of bills and transferred it to the safe in her living room. With a tap on the vid, she activated the alarm in the stairwell, to warn her should someone come from either direction. If she was lucky, she would get another client today, but she would need some warning now that it was time for her other work.

She saw herself in the looking glass as she went back into her living quarters. Much of the blackness had receded, leaving a stark contrast with her natural blonde. She shook her head and pulled her hair into a ponytail. It was warm in her apartment but not unbearable; this August had been surprisingly chill for California.

Tara picked up the vial that held Willow's disc in the water and took it to her bedchamber, placing it on her bedside table. She wondered what colour it would be in the morning.

Tara then went to her workroom, unlocking the door and stepping inside, the tiled floor blessedly cool against her bare feet, and flicked on the cheery electric lights. This room was similar to her library in function; six foot high shelves surrounded the walls and formed aisles. Instead of books, these shelves held thousands upon thousands of little jars and packets and bottles. Inside these containers were powders and petals, oils and unguents and essences, liquids and silicates and scrapings and more, nearly every substance available to man. Unlike her library, all these containers were carefully labelled, organized and catalogued in Tara's precise handwriting.

Against the far wall was another shelf, each with vials identical to the one she had placed in her bedchamber, each labelled with a date and a name, though no date went further than the last eighty years. Her most recent clients held the premium space. Tomorrow, this is where Willow's vial would go. The vials belonging to every other client had shades and hues of colour. Many of them were dark, almost black. Less than half were light in tone.

She made a quick assessment of the vials, to see if any had changed colour or had expired. Strategically placed in plain sight were three vials that were suffused with a flashing golden colour like captured sunbeams.

The last cabinet in her workroom was made of steel with a triple barrel lock. Tara glanced at it as she made her way to the worktable at the back of the room. It was not as full as it should be with the gallon jugs of inky oil she produced at night. She had a quota to meet for her Master, and she could never be certain when he would decide to pay a visit and collect his bounty.

(I have such work to do)

Her worktable was of warm, wooden construction, perfectly clean and waiting for her true work to begin. Near one corner was a mortar and pestle, and on a shelf below was a tablet computer. She sat at her ergonomic chair and closed her eyes, bringing her breath under control, waiting for inspiration straight from the subtleties of her subconscious mind.

She smelled Prada instead, and felt the strong cords of Willow's neck with her fingers. She saw Willow's face, guarded, apprehensive.

The first press of her lips, genuine and bold. Remarkable. Unintentional.

(make the dreams, Tara)

She could not begin her work with such mutinous thoughts crowding the corners of her mind. She climbed down from her chair and returned back to her living quarters. She hesitated a moment before going back to her parlour and locking her front door. She wanted no other clients today. She returned to her living space, where she had converted one corner into a meditation area, complete with a small altar with icons from three different world religions. She lit a stick of incense and sank on a zafu cushion.

It took longer than she anticipated, but soon she had cleared all rebellious thoughts from her mind. She floated on a white cloud of possibility and chi, the events of the day as far and unfathomable as distant dimensions.

Only then did Tara mindfully rise, to return to her workroom and wander amongst the aisles, touching a jar here or there, stopping to choose one and another. When her arms were cluttered with half a dozen containers, she took them to the worktable and returned back to the shelves for more.

When all the ingredients had been gathered, Tara sat at her workbench, pulling the mortar over. She opened each of the containers and began to measure out precise amounts into the stone bowl; a little this, a little that, a few grains of volcanic sand, a pinch of red powder, four drops of some oil, a crushed leaf of nettle, making notations of each in a vast database held in the tablet computer she kept at hand. When she felt she was finished with adding ingredients, she grasped her pestle and began to grind the ingredients together, always breathing slowly and with purpose, her mind floating and still.

(I am the apothecary

and I am damned)


Then she breathed upon it, and the carefully constructed dream was ready. She poured the contents into a little waxed brown envelope and sealed it, making a small notation on the corner to identify it. Tara then returned all her materials back to their respective places on the shelves, and began anew.

Hours later and absorbed in her work, her mind greatly taxed with keeping thoughts of Willow at bay, she nearly shrieked as a hand touched her shoulder. Tara whirled, her hand slopping some of the essence of lavender she had been about to add to her latest concoction.

Eva had already taken a step back, to look at Tara with an expression of mirth and confusion. Tara looked from the catalyst to the open door of her workroom, then to the covered plate of food that Eva had in her hand.

"Well, Tara, I haven't been able to sneak up on you for at least sixty years," Eva said.

"Fifty six years."

"Fine, let's quibble over details." The woman looked at Tara's hair, then back to Tara's eyes. "I don't understand; it doesn't look as if you've had a really bad day."

Tara chose to let that comment rest, knowing the only response would be a long and hard one, and one she wasn't about to share with the woman who would eventually take Willow away from her, as she had so very many of Tara's clients.

(what Willow?

you don't want her to come back, remember?)


"I guess I was just concentrating," Tara meekly replied, putting down the bottle and wiping her hands with a nearby towel.

"I'd have to agree," Eva said, looking pointedly at the array of jars and the neatly labelled brown envelopes lining the top of the desk. "You missed supper."

Just as Eva said the words, Tara realized she was ravenous. She hadn't eaten since very early in the morning. The smell from the covered plate was tremendously tantalizing. "What time is it?" Tara asked as she got up, her lower back screeching in protest. She half shuffled to a nearby basin to wash her hands, aware of Eva's eyes on her.

Eva was even better than Tara at reading people. Tara had always been careful not to lie to her.

Well, not to lie very much.

"It's nearly ten in the evening. When you didn't come up for supper, I assumed some client had either killed you or managed to seduce you."

Tara blushed as she wiped her hands dry. Eva enjoyed being seduced, by man and woman alike. Tara, on the other hand

(I wait

for those who will break my heart altogether)


"That's not very likely, Eva," Tara said, taking the plate from Eva's hands and shooing them both from her workroom. Eva made a rather interesting harrumph of sound, which Tara decided to ignore.

They sat down at the small kitchen table; there was a vase of calendula and asters on it. "Did you have a good day?" Tara asked as they began to eat.

In the winsome glow of the naphtha, Eva looked every part of the seductress she was. Eva was not a member of Tara’s race; her species was even more hunted than Tara’s own, if that could be believed. Tara sometimes wondered about the true nature of Eva’s capture by their Master; it was a story never told by the captivating woman across from her. With glossy black hair and enchanting green eyes, Eva was the most skilled hunter Tara had ever known. No wonder it was her duty

(and pleasure?)

to act as catalyst for the unfortunate fools that Tara and the other apothecaries around the world prepared for her.

(the fools, the damned)

Not all who bathed in the poppy smoke were desperate enough to make the trek up to an apothecary's den. Even fewer were those whose unhappiness and despair propelled them further up the stairs to Eva's parlour. While this poppy den was her primary home, Eva also travelled between the other near-forty poppy dens scattered across the globe, acting as the catalyst for each one.

The world was so very corrupt, and mankind was petty and weak. Despite the fraction of people who eventually needed her services, Eva was still kept busy. As much as Tara detested what the catalyst was forced to do

(as I detest and loathe what I do)

Tara was glad of her company, and her cooking. Anya, the matron of the poppy den downstairs, took her work obscenely seriously

(money is the only thing she is in love with)

and kept the poppy den open for customers until just shy of curfew each night. She rarely joined Tara and Eva for supper. She didn't really need to eat mortal food anyway, and found some human customs to range from quaint to downright bothersome.

So Tara and Eva ate alone, and for Tara all food was ash in her mouth, lumps in her stomach, fuel and sustenance alone for an existence without purpose and joy.

It had been so much easier before she was trapped in human form, and had to start eating and drinking and sleeping. A physical body is such a frail, capricious thing. Totally unsuited to the vast intricacies of her mind and soul.

"It was a quiet day," Eva replied to Tara's question. "Spent some of it watching a very hot chick smoke cigarets at the curb tormenting the urchins. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place her. The gentleman with her would have been completely uninteresting was it not for a conspicuous scar on his cheek."

"Mmm," Tara murmured, her mouth full. She looked up at the clock, startled to find it was so late.

Eva noticed and asked, "Don't you have an alarm in the stairwell? I thought no one could sneak up on you."

"I was busy," Tara said between bites, her voice icy.

"Fine, fine," Eva replied, lifting her palms in a gesture of peace. "Keep whatever secrets you must. You better hurry up if you're going to deliver everything you've prepared."

Tara didn't need to be told. She finished wolfing down her supper, and then stood, Eva rising with her. "Thanks for the meal, Eva. I better be on my way."

Eva took the plate from her hands and said, "Be careful tonight, Tara."

"I'm always careful."

(uh huh. what do you call what happened this afternoon?

liar)


~

To be continued on Sunday with Chapter 10: Remember Laura (one of the first drastically different chapters)


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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter 9: Jars (Nov 15)
PostPosted: Thu Nov 15, 2012 10:20 am 
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2. Floating Rose
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Location: A Hoosier in Eugene, OR
DIBS! :whip
Ooh, a Tara chapter! *runs off to read*
---------------------
And now I'm back!
As wonderful as it’s been to get some chapters from Willow’s point of view, it’s really nice to get back to Tara. And to see that she’s thinking of Willow just as much as Willow was of her. I really like the image of Tara sitting in the chair, trying to soak up as much of Willow as she can before she must move on. Her lingering perfume, the money sitting on the table, the book she was reading (and oh, the description of the billions of other worlds... so, so good!), the memory of the kiss. Each one producing a different kind of feeling. Very awesome. The parallels between these two women are striking. Both have lost things in their life that have hardened them. Willow, with Buffy and some innocence, perhaps. Tara has lost Laura? And because of her Master, her freedom. So it’s interesting to see how they deal with that loss. Willow trains and fights and is distant and reserved with her staff. Tara throws herself into her work and forcefully puts Willow out of her mind. There’s obviously a lot that has to happen before they can get together. But since they so clearly need each other, (despite Tara’s best efforts to keep them apart!), something will bring them back together.

Ooh, and we get a little more info about the discs. Cool! But I still have so many questions about them, though, lol! What color will Willow’s be, I wonder? And did their kiss have an effect on how it turns out? Hmmmm. Well, I can’t wait to find out! :) I love the description of Tara creating dreams in her workroom. The mixture of science and inspiration - she’s like a Master Chef at work!

And then, with Eva’s arrival, we get a little more info on their pasts. And a little about Anya, too (always the money lover!). And now we find out Tara is trapped in her human form. For how long? Has she been human before? Gah! You know, I really do love how with every new chapter more is revealed, but also, there are just as many new questions. And since I am very curious, I will be wondering about all of those little details until they are all revealed! :grin

Anyway, this was another great chapter! And I really, really can’t wait for the next chapter! I’m so interested to see all the changes you have in store for us. :bounce I hope you’re having a good time in Cali, and that your travels are safe and easy. :)

_________________
I wanna do right, but not right now...
~Gillian Welch


Last edited by waitnsee on Sat Nov 17, 2012 9:03 am, edited 1 time in total.

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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter 9: Jars (Nov 15)
PostPosted: Thu Nov 15, 2012 1:48 pm 
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Yay for great update-y goodness... It seems that Eva knows Faith & Giles. That can't be good...

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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter 9: Jars (Nov 15)
PostPosted: Sun Nov 18, 2012 7:29 am 
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Willows dream/nightmare was very powerful. The way you foreshadowed the nightmare in the happy beginning was brilliant. Buffy's "love decleration" and Willow's childlike joy about it was so touching. And you make the readers wonder about so many things again: what draft took place that summer, was Willow drafted, and if so, what did she have to do, just "research" as she mentioned, if so what, if not was this the start of her becoming the fighter she is now? And what was this secret she found out in Persia and was never able to tell Buffy about?

By the way I love that you don't tell us bluntly that all this takes place in some dystopian other reality, you give us only slight hints that this reality differs from ours: we learned that in this world there is still (or again) physical punishment in school and fighting with swords part of the education, that a family consistent of two acadamics and only one kid is at the bottom of the social and financial scale instead of in the middle class as it would be in our reality, that there is some sort of draft (probably every year) for male and female teenagers which you can evade if you are needed for some work or if you're taken out of town (or the country - what and where is Ur?).

And the hints you've dropped about Tara haven't made us any wiser about who/what she is either: she's immortal, a slave, trapped into human form some time in the past and working as an "apothecary" for 80 years (which makes me wonder if there are normal apothecaries in this reality too or whereelse you get your pain killers etc.). How old she is, in which shape or form she existed before being forced into human form, how she fell into slavery - all still complete mysteries...

I'm really looking forward to the next chapter and how you change this story from here - and what's the story behind Lara of course!


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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter 9: Jars (Nov 15)
PostPosted: Sun Nov 18, 2012 6:10 pm 
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Some fb to fb before I post the next chapter...

Waitnsee - Congrats on the dibs for chapter eight. I'm glad you enjoyed the fight scene with Faith - it was a pleasure to write, and one of the first mentions of the title for this entire series "Conjuring Dawn". (That's if I get around to writing the two stories after this one...) Giles is certainly harder here than he is in canon, but boy do I have my reasons! You'll just to "wait and see" (dumb joke, I know.) :blush

On Stephen King, he is one of my favourite authors, so it's fun to say his name every once in a while. I just read his JFK novel, which was stunning beyond belief. Ah yes, the draft. More to come on that, much more. So fun to write about Buffy eating everything in sight, I'm glad you enjoyed that, too.

And holy dibs queen! All three updates were dibsed by you. I rather like answering some questions in a chapter and raising even more. Keeps the tension going, I think.

Zampsa - Yes, it's good to have a glimpse into Willow's life before everything goes wrong. And with Eva recognizing Faith and Giles, we have another layer of complexity and secrets. Oh, it's so much fun to write!

wills redemption - I'm super glad I kept the sentence that you remembered all the way from the first edition. It's one of my faves, too. About Willow's dark mood, Xander will have something interesting to say about it in Chapter 12. Good catch on Faith knowing Buffy's move and that Willow probably missed something in her background check.

I'm glad I was able to introduce the draft, a change from the first edition which will eventually make sense. Thank you for commenting on the state of reality here - I certainly didn't want to hold up a sign saying, "Alternate Universe Ahead, Take a Hard Right Turn!". Laura's story is imminent, and I hope you like it. Thanks for reading!

Just Skip It - Hey, Deb, so nice to see you again. Thanks for dropping by. So far I haven't made many really noticeable changes, but you'll start seeing them in Chapter 15 ish. As interesting as it is to write power struggles into this fic, I don't think I can ever touch the depth of status in power that you did for Waiting for Dani. Which is still one of my all-time fave W/T fics.

On your fb for chapter 8, I was intrigued when you mentioned how Tara may manufacture the situation in which the dream can happen. Hmm. I hadn't thought of it from that perspective - thanks for taking me there, and thanks for reading and taking the time to fb.

Okay, kittens, here comes the update!

Jen


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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter 9: Jars (Nov 15)
PostPosted: Sun Nov 18, 2012 6:12 pm 
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6. Sassy Eggs
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~10~
Remember Laura
(damascus rose)


Ten minutes later Tara emerged from the back entrance to the poppy den, the seven packets of fresh made dreams in the pouch of her belt. She was clothed in the garb of the Hunter; tight black pants, a black V-neck shirt that hugged all the right curves, her boots with doe-skin soles. She had pulled her partly blond hair back into a clip, and one strand kept fluttering by her face.

She stood for a moment at the back entrance, the rank smell of the neighbourhood almost visible as fog. An enterprising rat was rummaging through a small pile of refuse that had collected near the storm drain. She found, with some surprise, that she occasionally missed working at the poppy den in Los Angeles. As the capital city of the United States, Los Angeles was far cleaner and better managed than a backwater burg like Sunnydale.

Then again, the distance, though scant, from Los Angeles was actually quite a blessing, all things considered. The further she could be from her Master, the better.

Tara consulted her watch; she had just over an hour left to make her deliveries. Wrapped in the magic of the Hunter clothing, Tara walked down the alleyway making no sound whatsoever, even when her booted heels crunched over rocks and assorted litter. Her mind had once again sunk into calm depths; she walked, having no clear destination in her mind, heeding the subtle call that no one but she could hear.

She paused near the locked shed at the edge of the property, asking that strange floating sensation in her mind whether she needed to drive anywhere. The answer came as a small yet emphatic yes; she touched the lock with her fingers and it sprang open without a key. Mediocre glow from the street lamp revealed her motorcycle, and she wheeled it out of the shed.

Mounting her bike, she touched the tiny vid screen on the dashboard. It responded to her fingerprint and came to silent life. Running on electric power, it made very little sound. Tara pushed off with that rebellious tendril of hair streaming out behind her; she never wore a helmet.

Moments later Tara was driving down the streets of Sunnydale, following the unbidden directions produced by the calmness in her mind. It was nearing curfew, so there were only a few people on the streets, trying to enjoy the mild summer night while staying conscious of the time. She could motor right past them without being noticed; wearing enchanted Hunter clothing, she was as good as invisible.

After a few minutes, Tara found herself smiling. She knew every hydrant, every tree, every alley of Sunnydale. She had watched it swell and grow from its rustic beginnings of gold-panners and bootleggers, going through the phases of the iron revolution, the Twelve Years War, the small yet emphatic nuclear crisis with the Mongols only twenty years ago. It had eventually settled into a town of largely middle class families, complete with a university campus and various museums.

The inordinate amount of cemeteries spoke to Sunnydale's somewhat rocky history.

Soon Tara was on Revello Drive, a slightly seedy street with mature trees and houses that had verandas and mosquito zappers. She drove directly to one house, then stopped and parked her bike. There were two large fir trees dotted on the front lawn, and the house was white with brick trimming. The veranda was wreathed in shadows and the house was dark.

She made mental note of the address - she would need a name to record, should her mission be successful.

She walked up the narrow sidewalk, noticing that the lawn was one or two days overdue for mowing. There were chubby ceramic gnomes peeking behind the trees and Tara wondered who had put them there. She narrowed her eyes at them; they almost seemed to be staring at her.

Yet she did not hesitate as she approached the door. She touched the lock with her finger and she could hear the deadbolt slide open, and another click as the lock disengaged. The door swung open soundlessly and Tara stepped inside.

The house was bordering on immaculate but there was a disturbing sensation in the air, as if the person who lived here was close to just giving up. No hope for a happy ever after. Once again, Tara's senses had been completely accurate. She would give this person a dream, and in the morning, the house would feel lighter for it.

As long as the occupant accepted the dream. Sometimes they didn't. Either way, her lifeforce would also be spent.

Tara had never been in this particular house before, but she still knew exactly where to go. The stairs leading up were directly in front of her, and she began to climb them. Her instincts warned her of a squeaking fifth step, so she bypassed it in a longer stride.

She paused on the landing. There were a number of doors here, all of them open and shyly revealing their contents. Two bedrooms obviously belonged to girls, and also obviously had not been occupied for a very long time. They were suspended in space-time like corpses awaiting reanimation with soul and spirit.

Tara continued onward, opening the door at the end of the hallway. In the faint light Tara could see paintings on the walls, low shelves with various sculptures and other pieces of art. She turned to the bed and saw a mature woman lying there, sleeping on her side with a frown on her face.

Her hair was a tawny golden, and with a rippling shock of ice in her system, Tara understood exactly who this person was.

Buffy's mother.

Oh, yes.

Tara rummaged in her pouch for one of the labelled packets, knowing instantly what dream she had created earlier would be best for this woman. She quickly opened her compact and placed a disc on her thumb. Placing her compact back in her belt pouch, she ripped the dream envelope open. She breathed on the contents one last time, and they began to glow. She quickly tipped her head back and swallowed the contents of the pouch, then bent down to kiss the woman on the forehead, simultaneously touching her throat lightly with the disc. Then she retreated, keeping her thumb very lightly pressed on the woman's neck to wait and see if the dream would be accepted.

A tense moment, the dream squirming on the woman's skin. Then it flashed golden, and was absorbed.

The blackness seeped marginally further down Tara's hair.

Tara smiled and pulled her thumb away. This was the only part of her existence that she even remotely enjoyed. These dreams would never have the intense focus she provided for her paying clients. These dreams were generic visions of loveliness, of hugs and puppies and sunshiny days, of family and warmth and bliss. If Tara had a choice, these would be the only dreams she would make.

Alas that her choices were rarely her own.

(he has me collared)

Tara lingered for a moment in the room, sliding the disc into a tiny waxed paper sleeve until she could transfer it to a vial back at home. She looked down and watched the woman sleep, her eyelids beginning to flutter as Tara's dream infiltrated her consciousness. A tense moment as she shifted, only to snuggle deeper in her sheets.

Tara left the room, closing the door behind her. She consulted her watch; if she hurried, she might make one or two more deliveries before midnight came and they lost all their power.

She looked down the hall instead, and then ignored the voice in her mind that told her to leave.

She rejected one room outright; it obviously belonged to a teenager. A dead teenager, with a painted plaque over the mirror that revealed her name to be Dawn.

The other room was more mature, but still had a general essence of youth and impetuousness. There were some packed boxes in one corner, but the bed was made up, and jewellery was still on the bureau. On the mirror above the bureau was taped a number of pictures, and Tara's throat knotted to look at them.

A much younger and long-haired Willow was in this picture, along with Buffy and a young man. Tara's eyes roved over the apparent timeline of pictures taped along the edge of the mirror, watching as the three of them got older, pictures on the beach, pictures at the White House in Los Angeles. Pictures of Buffy's family, the woman in the bedroom, the gangly teenage Dawn, and Buffy herself, something in her eyes that resonated deep within Tara, a pool of courage mingled with sadness.

The teenage girl dropped off the pictures quite suddenly, and Tara understood more of the latent sadness in this house. Dawn must have died young.

The last picture wrenched at Tara's heart with galvanic force.

Buffy in a wedding dress, a tall and boyish-looking man holding her hand. Several militant looking men stood next to the groom. Willow and that same young man from their early years stood next to Buffy. Tara lifted her finger to touch Willow; puzzled by the aura emanating from the photograph.

This was not as happy a situation as it should have been.

Before she could stop herself, Tara took the picture down from the mirror and tucked it down her shirt so as not to wrinkle it. Let the consequences come, should the mother notice the picture was missing.

Turning on her heel, Tara left the room and exited the house the same way she had entered. With a touch of her fingers she re-engaged the lock on the door. She walked to the curb and looked up at the midnight sky. Well past curfew now, and the streets were empty. The stars were easier to see as the lights had dimmed to conserve energy.

There was probably time for one more delivery before midnight.

Tara mounted her bike and began to drive, turning aimlessly down the dimly lit streets until she stopped outside a tiny house on the outskirts of town. She blinked as she looked at it, as if surprised to find herself here.

She had driven here many times before, always at night, always in Hunter clothing. She would stop and sit on her bike and look at the house. She would imagine that the occupant would be awake and looking out of the window at that exact same moment, so their eyes would collide as their worlds once did. The dial of time would be turned back, decades would fall from this house, this neighbourhood, peeling away the dirt and grime of ages.

So strong was this fantasy that Tara actually parked her bike and turned off the engine. She even dismounted, and as she walked up the well-kept sidewalk she kept imagining those years falling away, leaving all of this scraped clean, almost raw with newness.

There was no glow behind the curtains, no sign of alertness or life. It was not obscenely late, but the occupant would be sleeping. The desire to look upon the sleeping form came to Tara as a noose about her neck, tightened to the point of discomfort, tugging her feet to the front door. She obeyed the sensation without rationalizing it or fighting it as was her custom. This day had dissolved all her ordinary walls, etching through her barriers like strong acid.

The paint on the door was slightly cracked with the assault of sunlight. The knob was cool to the touch and seemed to rejoice in the familiarity of her fingers. The lock sprung open almost gleefully.

By the time she opened the door a few inches, Tara had regained some of her senses. She should walk away, lock the door behind her and get back on her bike and leave this poor person alone. She should not vomit up the past and gorge herself upon the wretched leavings, for it would only scald her tongue and burn her heart. Not to mention what it might do to the occupant of this house.

But then she smelled Damascus Rose, and between one luxurious sniff and another she was standing inside the foyer, closing the door behind her. There were more scents underneath this most beloved one, scents of laudanum and ambergris, a faint tang of urine and bleach and the smell of old skin. It was Damascus Rose that encircled her, that sang to her a memory of dryer-hot cotton, sun-struck red hair, and a summertime of delight that unfurled in majesty like the petals of a rose.

Tara breathed deep to allow the beloved scent to extend its luxurious fingers into the very depths of her lungs, to travel from there along the byways of her blood vessels, to the home of her heart and beyond to her very soul. There it would remain, engaging body, mind and soul, even alighting upon the edges of Tara’s silence.

Now that she had come this far, she would go farther. The noose was even tighter about her neck, studded now with thorns of Damascus Rose.

Not a single sound emerged from her enchanted footstep. Tara walked slowly and purposefully along a hall that led to the back of the small house. She put her hand upon the closed door of a bedchamber and opened it.

Light suddenly flared from a lamp, and Tara crouched slightly in defence, lifting her arms to repel certain attack. In the next beat of her everlasting heart, she relaxed, noticing the woman sitting in a rocking chair next to the lamp.

“I had the house consecrated, Tara,” the woman said.

Tara nodded, her throat suddenly thick. Mortal food and mortal pleasures were ash in her mouth, unquiet sustenance for her ancient soul. But now her eyes feasted on this night-time apparition as if she were desolate, nigh unto death with starvation and about to perish for lack of nourishment.

Seated upon this cushioned chair was an old woman, her long white hair in a thick braid that was tucked over one shawl-covered shoulder. Despite the warmth of the August night, the woman was layered in night-clothing that covered her from ankle to wrist. Her skin had a million lines; they were all her stories, comedies and tragedies alike. There were numerous smile lines around her eyes and mouth, but she was not smiling now.

“A blessing on the house and its occupant, to alert me of danger,” the woman continued. “You are dangerous, aren’t you, Tara?”

Oh, to hear her name on this woman’s tongue! To feel it soar through the air and land upon her shoulders.

To hear the truth that followed, for truth had a funny way of vibrating at times.

(I am dangerous)

“You look…

(beautiful)

well, Laura,” Tara said quietly.

“I’m doing all right for being ninety two years old,” Laura replied, shifting her old bones upon the cushion. “You look the same as ever.”

Tara gulped over the sentiment and the Damascus Rose in her throat. She felt assaulted by the light of the lamp and the golden aura of the woman in the rocking chair. Laura seemed to have attained that serene countenance that was sometimes the blessing of the very old; a belief that there was nothing life could do any longer to disrupt the ocean of stillness and peace inside. 92 years had done their work, had scoured and tempered and cleansed body and soul until there was nothing left to do but shine.

Her silence remained, so close now, closer than any lover.

There was so much noise and darkness inside Tara, so much that was malignant and awry. She felt dirty standing here; felt that she had tracked her bleakness behind her like mud-stains on the floor. Laura did not deserve this; Tara should not have come.

“Any special reason for the visit?” Laura asked. “If you had given me notice, I would have made you butterscotch squares. You professed to like them, once.” That familiar maddening smile was on her face; both of them knew full well that Tara would never give notice, would never come by in daylight like a real person. They would never sit over lemonade on the porch and talk of little things.

“I was j-just driving by. Felt like stopping, so I did.” Tara grimaced slightly at her stammer, and the smile vanished from Laura’s aged face.

“Making your deliveries?”

Tara nodded, her eyes filling with tears. She swiftly turned away from Laura’s knowing gaze, but there was little respite to be found elsewhere in view. Instead of seeing the face of her once-lover, she saw the pictures on the walls that depicted Laura’s life. There was a man in many of them, and pictures of their small brood. Just like the pictures on Buffy’s mirror, these photographs told Laura’s life story, of family and marriage and children and everything a woman wants from her life.

Tara could see the small crack of time that represented their few years together as a complete lack of pictures. The Apothecary’s face would never be seen on this wall, despite what they had shared so many years ago.

Tara heard a creak and turned her head in time to see Laura rise from her chair, her wrinkled and liver-spotted hands gripping the rests as she hoisted herself up. The room was small; it did not take long for the thin and frail woman to cross the space between them, space that was cluttered with memory and longing.

The hand lifted, and Tara felt Laura touch the tears that were eking their pale and miserable way down Tara’s cheeks. “I have missed you, too,” the woman said, her aged voice breaking on the words. “Why do you think I returned to this hellish town after Kent died? After the dire fortunes of my daughters?”

Tara turned into the warm and dry palm, closing her eyes. The ache in her heart was so fierce she felt she would perish of it. She heard a soft cluck from Laura’s throat before feeling Laura’s hand travel from her tear-stained cheek to her altered hair. Laura caressed her ear and tucked the half-blonde, half-black hair behind it before folding Tara into an embrace. The hands that trembled on her body were the same hands that had worshipped her body, once upon a time.

All the many years passed away yet tenderness remained; tenderness and the heartbreak that had accompanied their separation, the agony of that long-ago decision. Tara gratefully hugged Laura’s body, feeling the frailness of her limbs, the thinness of her muscle and sinew, the granite streak of resolve that could not perish, no, not with this mean slice of time. What was a hundred years to the indomitable spirit that was Laura? What was a thousand?

Tara touched Laura’s aged neck, ran her hand up and beyond into what used to be brilliant auburn hair. For long moments they breathed together as they once did, and when the longing grew too great, Tara leaned back to look into Laura’s green eyes, and then she leaned forward to kiss her softly on her lips.

The breath behind those lips hitched and faltered; the kiss was broken swiftly as Laura turned her face away, breaking the embrace. “I can’t, Tara, I can’t,” she said, croaking out the words.

Her chest burning with remorse, Tara leaned back on her heels, about to run away when Laura caught her lower arm with an outstretched hand. “No, please,” Laura begged. “I’m sorry, Tara. This old heart can only take so much. Seeing you, it’s beautiful and painful all at the same time.”

“I’m sorry I came. I shouldn’t have bothered you.” Tara turned to leave again, but again felt the tug on her arm.

“Would you stop?” Laura said, a familiar ember of impatience in her voice. “Now, you must have had a particular reason for coming tonight. What happened today?”

Laura let go of her only long enough to grab her hand and pull her to the bed. They both sat down on the edge of it. Tara felt huge and awkward next to Laura’s small and ancient beauty. “I kissed a client today,” Tara said quietly.

There was a twinkle of merriment in Laura’s eye. “My, my,” she murmured. “Have we come to confess?” The merriment swiftly died, replaced with resignation. “That’s what you do, Tara. You kiss people. Every day.”

“Not like this. Never like this. Not even you, when we first met.” Tara blindly squeezed Laura’s hand, immensely comforted to feel the lined warmth of her fingers.

“Tell me,” Laura said quietly, squeezing back.

Her tongue felt drained, yet the tale emerged, of Willow’s arrival in her den, how the redhead had captivated her with her desire to dream of her best friend, Tara’s resolve to make a perfect dream for her to entice her to return, she had to return, Tara was running out of time…

Her tongue sputtered there and died, and Laura looked at her with knowledge as old as her very bones. She looked a queen here, regal in her white hair, her elegant posture, and this regal and infinitely beautiful old woman lifted her hand to touch Tara’s neck, the unseen collar that was there, that had been there long before a youthful and vivacious Laura had come to Tara’s den, pregnant and aching for a dream.

(fifty nine years)

“Will she return?” Laura asked.

“I hope not,” Tara sighed. “I hurt her as much as I could stand. I even unknowingly gave her part of my nightmare when I kissed her on the lips. She will not return.”

“Part of you wants her to,” Laura said knowingly. When Tara blinked her eyes in shock, Laura continued in a voice of melted chocolate, “Dear heart, it’s all right. Look at me. Look at us. We haven’t been together for nearly sixty years. You have such a generous spirit, such fire, doused and collared for so long. It’s only natural to want to feel again, if only for a moment. Heaven knows I can’t give you what you need. Unfortunately, I don’t think there is anyone who can. Not with this around your neck.”

Another soft touch on Tara’s perfectly smooth neck.

“I can’t be strong much longer,” Tara whispered. “I’m breaking, I feel it more and more every day.”

“You can and you will because you must,” Laura objected. “I know you, Tara. You are deeper than any Master, you are greater than any collar. You are eternal, and you can’t know how much that means to me,” she continued, her voice growing pained under the weight of the words. “You can’t realize how much comfort it brings to know that even though I will die soon, part of me will live on forever in your memory.”

“Can that possibly be enough for you?” Tara asked. “To become only a memory?”

“Most people don’t get even that,” Laura replied. “Most people are swallowed by the silence of their death, and have no one left to speak on their behalf. I have you.”

“You’ll have me forever.”

“I suppose I may have to share you with this Willow-girl, though. Redhead, huh? You seem to be partial to redheads.”

“I like white, too. Especially on you.”

“Flattery, even? It has been a long time since anyone bothered to use flattery on me. I think I’ll be able to think about this night for a long time. It might even last me until the next time you suddenly decide to drop in.” Laura lifted her hand to lightly tap Tara’s cheek. “Well, warrior, you may be able to handle late hours like this, but my body simply cannot.”

“Let me tuck you in,” Tara offered. There was a flush of warmth and colour to Laura’s cheeks, an almost shy smile. The sheets were already rumpled from Laura’s precipitous departure when she realized who had just broken into her house. Tara smoothed them out and helped Laura tuck her legs underneath, before pulling the thin coverlet up to Laura’s chest.

Then she held Laura’s beloved face and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll love you forever, Laura,” Tara whispered.

“Same here,” came the breathless response. Her eyelids fluttered shut and stayed shut, and it didn’t take long for her breathing to become slow and deep. When Tara was convinced that Laura was asleep, she reluctantly left the bedside to extinguish the glow of the lamp.

Still she remained for another minute, looking down upon this woman, wondering if the path that Laura had trod would be the same path for Willow. A brief dalliance with the Apothecary, albeit a torrent of love-filled days and nights, and then decades apart. Willow’s body would also grow old and frail, and one day in another sixty years Tara would be here again, this exact same spot, kissing her beloved on her wrinkled forehead.

Just before leaving the darkened house Tara drew out the photograph that she had stolen from Buffy’s mother’s house. The colours were faded here in the dark, but Tara could still see the outline of the figures in the picture, the glow from Buffy’s wedding dress illuminating the others. She touched Willow’s face with the tip of a finger and felt her heart wrench with loneliness.

No. Not again. This was too painful. The decision she had made earlier in the day would have to stick. No Willow. Not now, or ever. The lesson of Laura was hard learned.

~

To be continued on Wednesday with Chapter 11: The Hanged Man (the Willow that Was)


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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter 10: Remember Laura (Nov 18)
PostPosted: Sun Nov 18, 2012 7:32 pm 
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2. Floating Rose
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Location: A Hoosier in Eugene, OR
Well, if I am the dibs queen, then I guess I must DIBS!! :whip :grin

Wow. I mean, seriously, wow. What a tremendously amazing chapter. So much changes, now, huh? Tara’s love is still alive. And knows who/what she is? The only thing that kept them apart is what? Tara’s immortality? Or something deeper (her Master)? And your description of their longing is just so heartbreakingly real. And now we get a little more insight (kinda?) into why Tara is reluctant to see Willow again. I mean, is it just because Willow would eventually age, and Tara doesn’t? Is it the fact that she’s not really free to do or be what/who she wants? Laura says she’s dangerous. How did she experience that dangerousness? Did Tara/their relationship put her in some kind of danger? Willow is a warrior, so if the danger is physical, then I’m sure she’s more than capable of taking care of herself (as she has said herself). Not that Tara is aware of that fact, though... Is it just Tara’s guilt over what she is forced to do that causes her to run away from love? I seriously can not wait to see how this all unfolds! Oh, and thank you for the image of Tara’s Hunter wear and her on the motorcycle. Very yes to that! :drool

And, ok. Can I just vote YES on the continuation of this saga? (‘Conjuring Dawn’ sounds like it would be amazing, btw) A big, fat, emphatic, million billion times yes. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! In case you’re taking a vote, or something... ;)

Amazing as always! Thank you! :clap

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Last edited by waitnsee on Mon Nov 19, 2012 5:08 am, edited 1 time in total.

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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter 10: Remember Laura (Nov 18)
PostPosted: Sun Nov 18, 2012 10:10 pm 
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9. Gay Now
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Yay for excellent update-y goodness... Good to find more about the world they live in... Yay for Tara giving Joyce a happy dream... So Laura still lives, I'm glad that Tara told Laura about Willow. I guess that when the Master found out about Laura he made Tara pay...

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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter 10: Remember Laura (Nov 18)
PostPosted: Fri Nov 23, 2012 9:28 am 
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6. Sassy Eggs
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Sorry it is late! Enjoy the update.


~11~
The Hanged Man
(the Willow that was)


Midnight was long gone when Tara returned to the poppy den, locking her bike in the shed and climbing the back stairwell to her loft. Once inside her home, she pulled out the picture and propped it up against the vase on the kitchen table. She took out the disc she had pressed against Buffy's mother's throat and placed it in a vial with water. She threw all her leftover dreams in the trash before changing into light sleeping clothes, and then placed the vial next to Willow's vial on her bedside table.

She sat on the edge of her bed with a pocket of nausea curdling her stomach. She dreaded the nightmare to come.

No use waiting. The first month after her enslavement she had tried to bypass the nightmare by the simple expedient of trying to stay awake. A rather futile and foolish conclusion. No one could ignore sleep forever.

Mounted on the wall above her headboard was a scream catcher. It was circular and twelve inches in diameter. The rim of it was made of twisted doe-skin. The mesh of threads in the centre was white and unmarked.

Every apothecary in the forty some dens across the world had the same device on the walls over their heads.

(he is the most clever and maniacal human I have ever encountered

how long can we keep him from Dawn?)


Tara was exhausted by her mental efforts of the day. She settled into her bed and allowed herself the luxury of Laura-thoughts, her neck, her wrists, her lips as they had once been.

She tumbled into a dream with catastrophic swiftness.

The fair was a melting pot of sights and sounds, its narrow lanes crowded with a mob of humanity. Posters revealed the date to be the second last day of June, and the second last day of the midway. The lights were a din, a mixture of neon and soft paper lanterns and cables of fairy lights draped over some of the booths.

Tara was standing in the middle of a causeway and even though the crowds were thick, no one touched her. She was wearing the same grey silk dress that she had worn earlier in the day.

There could be no mistaking the red hair of Willow, the golden hair of Buffy, even assaulted as Tara was by the rest of the fair.

The teenage Willow was staring right at her.

(trepanning

do the gods speak?)


Soon enough Willow's attention was ripped away. Tara followed the two girls at a distance, her stomach churning with worry, wondering when the nightmare would begin. What would happen to Willow here? Would someone eviscerate her with a serrated blade? Would some booth choose the exact moment to topple over on her teenage body? Would a ride malfunction and cut off her head?

Tara could not hear the words they were saying, but her heart ached to see Willow so vulnerable and joyful. This Willow was so very different from the Willow she had kissed in the poppy den; this Willow was young and eager, the starry cable lights magnifying her spirit.

(this is the Willow that was)

This was indeed the dream that she had created for Willow, tapping into Willow's most precious memory through the connection to the photograph of Buffy she had brought. There should be no reason that Tara would share this dream. Her nightmares always involved her clients, but the very worst manifestations of them. This is not the Willow she should be seeing. She should be seeing a Willow with darkened veins over her skin, blackness in her eyes, malice and hatred so great it would shoot from her very palms, assaulting enemy and friend alike.

(the hanged man, flayed)

Tara had never kissed on the mouth before.

But was the Willow from the den really so different from the rest of them? Did silent ambition cloud her wealth, leading her to blackmail, bribe and steal? Did unseen blood stain her palms, did technological malevolence incite her to hack computers and plant viruses and undermine governments?

Was it only Buffy's death that changed her so? Making her hard, making her brittle, and thus even easier to crack?

Oh my.

The cracker jack ring.

Willow burst into elation, as if Buffy had given her the keys to the universe instead of a cheap plastic ring made in Formosa and dumped into a mix of caramel popcorn and nuts. Looking at Willow through the curtain of people, Tara again felt that hard punch to her chest.

(I would give anything to have her be so happy again

but that's not in my power to give)


Something was changing. Tara felt it, and knew the screams were soon in coming. There was a solid two feet of cork sandwiched between all floors of the poppy den; Tara would never disturb Eva's or Anya's sleep, no matter how she shrieked in the night.

The other tribute continued as the dream progressed, the alchemy sustained by Tara’s very lifeblood and strength.

The scene flickered, and Tara drew closer. Superimposed on the fair was an image of the street near the Bronze nightclub. Jazz, and crickets, and Buffy's belly swelling with her little gift. A sledgehammer in Willow's hands that somehow became a sword.

Almost time. Tara could taste it.

The moon itself was distant and sere, laughing as it remembered every evil on earth throughout all ages of time. It was a magnifying glass, a mirror, a silent and malevolent witness to atrocity and pain. When wickedness came, the moon feasted on it, until it was as bloated and venomous as a spider.

Tara stood behind Willow as Buffy's forehead cracked open with blood, and then her body slumped to the ground like a discarded rag.

With one smooth and swift movement, embodying all the grace of a skilled hunter, Willow simultaneously turned and thrust with her rapier, and it slid through Tara, and Tara could feel the coolness of it, the icy edge of the blade as it sheared through her muscles, lungs and bones, erupting, erupting on the other side.

The pain was shocking in its reality, and blood bubbled through her lips.

(I will never wake again. Willow has killed me)

Tara's knees could no longer support her, and she fell to the ground, the hard crack of her impacted knees shattering her already overpowered nerves. To her great astonishment and wonder Willow crouched with her, her face a symphony of surprise and regret. Vast anguish blazed from Willow's green eyes, and barely heard through the rushing of Tara's blood, Tara could hear Willow call her name.

Dying, Tara lifted a bloodstreaked hand and touched Willow's face. She left a bloody fingerprint like a tattoo on Willow's cheek. To her even greater surprise, Tara discovered she had a message for Willow from the floating universe that rested within her, but important as it was, she couldn't quite say it.

(did you think you could run from responsibility forever, Willow?

can you afford to dream your life away?

night comes

and there's no Dawn)


Tara screamed herself awake, her body jerking spasmodically in her bed. Sweat sprang on her forehead, and not from the summer night. Tara eased her heart from its fury, harnessed her breath. When she had regained her wits, Tara looked to the scream-catcher, visible by the feeble streetlight through the window.

It was nearly brimmed with ink, the physical product of her screams. Her movements automatic after nearly 500 years of waking the same way, Tara pulled a bowl from her bedside cabinet. Her fingers trembled slightly in memory, and she was somewhat astonished to discover there was no sword protruding from her chest. She reached up and took the scream-catcher and emptied the accumulated ink into the bowl. It was nearly full.

(with this ink my Master will pen the last will and testament of this world)

It was her curse to fall asleep again so swiftly. She prepared herself to see Buffy's mother turn into a psychotic murderer, or an abusive parent, or a manipulative businesswoman.

She saw nothing, and woke depleted in the light of morning. There was no extra ink in the scream-catcher.

A great fist seized her heart. Her hands trembled as she opened the two vials by her bed. With an eye-dropper, she suctioned some of the ink from last night's bowl. Three drops in Willow's vial, and then she paused to watch as the ink activated the disc, dissolving it, until the liquid in the vial shone a murky blood orange.

Not surprising, not really.

Three drops in Buffy's mother's vial, and it was here that she held her breath.

(please no)

The disc dissolved in a majestic swirl of lustrous light, like motes of fine golden dust hanging in the windowpane of a sweet summer afternoon. The power of it nearly cast shadows. The sight of it stole her breath and her bearings. Her silence trembled with the exertion of maintaining the dream.

Tara had an urge to pour it down the drain and destroy it with bleach.

There was a sudden pain in her throat.

She put on oven mitts before handling the vial again, hiding it in the crevice between a potted plant's cheap plastic bucket and the ornate planter.

She would make no record of her dream delivery in the house on Revello Street, but Tara still had to know her name. It was dangerous to use her computer; should her Master wish, he could see every moment of her activities. In the end she used the last copy of a black market algorithm that would protect her research for up to two minutes.

It took less than thirty seconds on her computer to discover the name of Buffy's mother: Joyce Summers, divorced of Hank Summers, two daughters Buffy and Dawn Summers, both dead. Curator of ancient art with a specialty in Sumer and Babylon.

And her silence shone golden.

Tara signed off with twenty seconds to spare.

For a few moments she sat at her desk, staring into space. She made the decision without knowing she made it; Tara rose and stumbled

(I need to be restored)

to her meditation area. From a cabinet under the cloth-laden altar she withdrew a doll’s eye crystal and a pack of Rider-Waite tarot cards. She lit a stick of incense and then placed the crystal on the silk cloth.

Calmly seated on her zafu cushion, Tara looked into her crystal. There was a tiny flaw at its core; she felt her awareness seep towards the crystal and then slip through the cracks of this dimension through that miniscule flaw.

Heat swelled through her aching body. She was connected to the Source now, in a far deeper manner than any surface meditation. She shuffled the cards and counted, shuffled and counted and then, her eyes never leaving the crystal, her hands laid out the Querent’s Cross five card spread on the cloth of the altar.

Dancing on the licking flames of the Source, Tara mindfully took her gaze from the crystal and beheld the cards, seeing all of them at once, understanding the message of the universe in all pureness and simplicity. Past, present and future, the path of the devoted seeker.

(reversed magician)

A manipulator in her midst, seeking to upset the scale, who did not have Tara’s best interests in mind. Either an extension of her own ego, or the actual representation of another physical being.

(five of coins)

A grim and hard situation currently at hand, a quagmire fast and deep, yet there is hope, determination.

(king of wands)

Soon a test must be endured, an all-consuming fire of purification.

(eight of swords)

Although bound and blindfolded just now, surrounded by swords at every turn, she must gather courage and risk being cut by the swords to escape bondage. The longer she remained in bonds, the harder it would be to let go. There was only one path to the future, and it lay between the honed edges of many swords, many trials, many difficulties.

Tara then looked at the Potential card, the last and most important in this particular spread. If she were to follow the instructions of the universe herein given through the tarot, this card would signify one possible future that would erupt. Her breath stopped.

(the hanged man)

The destruction of self brings everlasting life to humanity.

Tara stared at the spread of cards for an unknown length of time. She had been in bondage now for five hundred years. As the decades waxed and waned, she swung along the pendulum of hope and despair. Through the centuries she had found no way to free herself from her Master. It was pointless to wish for emancipation; all she could do was delay his rise to power, delay his abominable design upon the world.

She was just one being, one meaningless little cog in the machinations of this immense world. She was nothing.

Or so she had believed.

Could there be some sacrifice of self that would save humanity? Could pointless little Tara, enslaved and in thrall, actually be of some service to mankind?

(does mankind deserve to be saved?)

Tara looked at the Hanged Man, then the person ringed by swords, all the way through the cards and up to the reversed magician. She could feel a new universe of potential grow within her.

Soft. Fragile.

When her legs could no longer bear her seated position, Tara rose. Her ankles shook with pins and needles as she lurched across the room, the scent of incense in her nostrils and the new world spinning behind her eyes.

One look into her bedchamber and that soft fragile new world splintered. The bowl of ink was still on her bedside table. Next to it was Willow’s activated silence, all blood orange and menacing. Tara could still feel the dream-sword as it slid through her body, could hear the words that never actually escaped her lips.

(can you run from responsibility forever?

night comes and there’s no Dawn)


The pendulum shifted, and despair clouded her eyes. She clutched Willow’s vial in one hand as she carried the bowl of ink to her workroom. Tara opened the locked cabinet near her worktable and poured the ink into one of several large jugs. Apprehension needled her spine as she capped it shut and prepared to restore herself.

(the hanged man

I am no hero)



~

Next update and feedback response on Sunday!

Jen
aka
Tara the Phoenix


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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter 11: The Hanged Man (Nov 23)
PostPosted: Fri Nov 23, 2012 9:57 am 
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9. Gay Now
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Yay for great update-y goodness... Yay for Tara starting her own little rebellion...

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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter 11: The Hanged Man (Nov 23)
PostPosted: Sat Nov 24, 2012 12:01 pm 
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Location: A Hoosier in Eugene, OR
And, my dibs streak is over. :cry I knew it was too good to be true! :lol

It was interesting to see the dream/mare from Tara’s perspective. And that Dark Willow would be the nightmare version of Willow. My heart just aches for Tara, having to suffer the nightmares every night.

Joyce’s golden vial - was that because Tara had no nightmare? Is something preventing/protecting Joyce’s thoughts/dreams from being seen by Tara? There were a couple of other golden vials on the shelf, right? I wonder who they belonged to? And Tara is going to hide it from her Master. I seriously hope that he doesn’t find out - I would expect very bad things for Tara if he does.

I love the Tarot reading! So well done. I’ve dabbled in Tarot for over 10 years now, and this felt very true. With your description of the spread and her reading of the cards, I could see it as if they were sitting on my table in front of me.
Quote:
As the decades waxed and waned, she swung along the pendulum of hope and despair.

I love this description! After being enslaved for 500 years, I can imagine Tara’s emotions are all over the place. Any little bit of hope just gets pushed aside by the unending despair she feels for her situation. How would she go up against someone as powerful as her Master? Would it even make a difference? She’s just kinda stuck in a holding pattern, like the hanged man, hangin from his tree... I can’t wait to see what she plans to do! And how Willow is going to fit into all of this!

I am just loving this story!! :bounce

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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter 11: The Hanged Man (Nov 23)
PostPosted: Sat Nov 24, 2012 2:09 pm 
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4. Extra Flamey

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Posts: 160
Oh my, I just read the last two chapters and I actually cried during chapter 10. I don't even know why this interaction between Tara and the old Lara touched me so deep, but cudos to you!

And then there were of course more, far less subtler hints that this world and its path is extremely different from ours:

Quote:
As the capital city of the United States, Los Angeles...


Quote:
She had watched it swell and grow from its rustic beginnings of gold-panners and bootleggers, going through the phases of the iron revolution, the Twelve Years War, the small yet emphatic nuclear crisis with the Mongols only twenty years ago.


Tara stealing the picture as a memento of Willow was also touching - although I wonder a bit why she took a group photo with so many strangers (Riley and his military guys, Xander...)? Just because it was the most recent one of Willow, taken only a year or so ago?

This sentence also had me wondering:

Quote:
This was not as happy a situation as it should have been.


Why was the wedding not as happy as it should have been? Was Riley just the second choice and Buffy secretly pining for someone else (probably not a brooding vampire, though) :grin

And then we have the dream, screamcatcher, black ink with which Tara's master wants to destroy the world in the end, and the mistery of Joyces vial which Tara can't destroy due to some pain in her neck (around which she carries her "collar"...), but is able to hide...
I have no idea where you'll go with this.

This master is also a great mystery: she refers to him as a "human", but he can't be a normal mortal since he has her collared for over 500 years...

And the mentioning of Dawn is contradictory, paradox:

Quote:
how long can we keep him from Dawn?)


Quote:
night comes

and there's no Dawn


And from the casual way she thought about Joyce's dead teenager daughter Dawn it seems that Tara means another Dawn in these ominous thoughts...

And then we have the description of Dark Willow and the flayed Warren as the expected nightmare image...makes me wonder if the nightmares are really glimpses into other realities...
You really make my head smoke here...

Plus you manage that I love this story even more every chapter...


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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter 11: The Hanged Man (Nov 23)
PostPosted: Sun Nov 25, 2012 5:39 pm 
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Some fb to fb before the next update...

waitnsee - your dibsing streak was still strong for Chapter 10. Wanna know something funny? Laura is almost totally Laura Roslin, because I finally watched the entire Battlestar Galactica series and was so enamoured of her. No one else could tell, it's an inside joke, but I like it. I was a bit nervous about writing Laura into an update like this one, but she is actually pretty integral to Tara's psyche, so in she stayed. More of their story will be forthcoming.

And Joyce. Oh, Joyce. The golden vial means a great deal, and it was very interesting for me to read your interpretations of it. Of course I've always known what the vial means but I forget that my readers don't have a hardline into my brain. I enjoy the thought of the tarot and have had a few readings myself. You're right - Tara's emotions are all over the place - it's a very real struggle for her between desire and fear. I hope you continue to enjoy the updates.

zampsa - I'm glad you're enjoying their world - it's so much fun to throw in some off-canon stuff. There are very few throwaway characters in this story and writing Joyce has been an absolute delight. I hope you continue to enjoy it.

wills redemption - I'm glad you are enjoying the subtle differences between this world and the Buffyverse. What would have happened had Genghis Khan's descendants maintained his vast empire? Very intriguing. I'm glad you picked up on Tara's thoughts regarding the wedding picture. It will become clear, in time. Thank you for sharing your thoughts on the nightmares and so on. I make your head smoke? <grin>

Thank you so much for taking the time to comment on the story. Next update is coming right up.

Jen
aka
Tara the Phoenix


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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter 11: The Hanged Man (Nov 23)
PostPosted: Sun Nov 25, 2012 5:43 pm 
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~12~
Investigation
(do I even know what I want?)


Willow woke to the feeling of Tara in her arms, the limp weight of the dead body cradled against her own, sour bile in her mouth and sorrow and shame so deeply buried within her she doubted she could ever excavate it. Moments passed in the satin sheets, pain in her arm and ribs bringing her from that world back to this one and she couldn’t honestly say which one was the dream and which was the nightmare. Her entire body felt as if it had spent the night squeezed in some giant fist; she ached in every fibre of her muscles.

Yet sparks floated along her bones and blood vessels and within every particle of her body, tucked into every available crevice in her soul, ringing in her ears and setting her spine aglow was the feeling of absolute devotion, love fathoms deep, a grey silken thread connecting her heart to the heart of the demonic Apothecary.

The sensation was damningly familiar for all it felt forced and contrived. Willow struggled against it, tried to banish it from taking over her heart and lips. This was not real love, this could never be real love, this was just a side effect of the dream she had purchased, a chemical love created by a master chemist, a sham love concocted by a con artist.

Anger came, and Willow welcomed it. She used it to bulldoze over the shame she felt at killing the dream-Tara, the inexplicable sorrow and longing she felt as she held the beloved body.

Beloved nothing. Tara was nothing but a devil. Did she plan this, this betrayal? Was she nothing but some sadistic demon wrapped in beauty, determined to spoil and desecrate the few good memories that Willow kept so safely within her mind?

Writhing in the sheets, Willow thought back to that most magical of nights, that most beloved of memories, the night with Buffy at the fair. The laughter, the friendship, and the cracker jack ring.

As if her mind were merely a game of chutes and ladders, Willow’s memories went directly from this bliss of being seventeen to the absolute hell of five months ago. There was marzipan mixed with the ice-cold root beer, and jazz mixed with the barkers of the fair. There was Buffy, holding the ring to her, that tiny plastic ring that had a whole universe within, and then Buffy’s face was gone under a mask of blood and gore.

Osmotic taint, an evil pervasive and maniacal. Her cherished memory would never be the same. It was the one she relied on most, the one she would wrap about her shoulders when loneliness hollowed her, when pain gnawed on her.

Now it was surgically attached to the nightmare of Buffy’s death. One did not exist without the other.

Even worse was the feeling of unconditional and divine love she continued to feel for Tara, feelings of desire and affection imposed on her, forced, like rape it was, and Willow burned even more.

The universe entire seemed to conspire against her these days, robbing her of everything she held dear. Willow would gladly trade in all her possessions, her skills in battle, even her intelligence, if she could but have her whole family back under one roof. Loneliness was an ocean inside her that pressed against all her organs, squeezing out her health and vitality.

That false love pulsed inside her. With her eyes closed Willow could see Tara in her arms, could trace the curve of her lips, tuck her hair away and whisper that she was sorry. The desire was so strong, the longing so great that Willow nearly accepted the falseness of that dream-love, nearly crammed it down her throat to gag on it.

But it could never compare to the real thing.

Willow forced those feelings away, opening her eyes and lifting her hand. Her ribs ached slightly as she looked at the cracker jack ring on her pinkie finger. Instead of seeing Buffy, she saw her hand on a sword hilt plunging into the body of the Apothecary. She saw Tara fall, saw the sword drop from her hands as she caught her, eased her to the ground, to feel that final bloody print on her cheek and see the mark in the Apothecary’s elbow.

Even with her eyes open she could see all this.

Willow yanked the ring off her finger and threw it across her bedchamber. It hit the wall by the window and fell on the floor. Tears crowded her eyes like an angry mob but Willow angrily pushed them back.

(by god I will destroy her for what she’s done)

She rose as implacable as a tsunami that roars from an underwater earthquake. She would destroy everything she touched.

Giles couldn’t keep her indoors. She was persuaded not to run with the results of yesterday’s injury, so she took Jupiter with her and headed into the woods of her estate in a leisurely stroll. She lost track of all time and space and only returned to the mansion because Giles sent Faith to find her.

At which point he took it upon himself to lecture her while he broke the clotted blood seals of her arm bandage with warm water, then wrapped it anew. Another cursory evaluation of her cracked ribs, and through it all she remained distant, elusive.

Implacable. Destructive.

This was her reward for kissing someone, for letting someone past the barriers she had erected. This should teach her a lesson or two about human nature. Evil masqueraded as beauty all the time. Tara was beautiful, and Willow kissed her. She openly kissed evil.

Willow fled from the surgical room while Giles washed his hands in the basin. After changing out of her sweaty clothing, showering and dressing anew, she retreated to the server room. Ten vid monitors curled around a central desk and the room slightly hummed with electricity. Willow carefully sat down for the pain that was throbbing everywhere, and even now she could still feel vestiges of that love for Tara, even now she could feel it curling around her with the sinuous strength of a cobra.

Her resolve for vengeance deepened with every passing moment.

Willow glanced up at the screens. She had spider searches constantly running, seeking out any news related to Buffy’s death. As was her custom, she checked the news engines to see what was going on in the world.

There had been an assassination attempt on the US President while he was on a mission to Ethiopia with the United Nations Council, about to sign a deal for famine relief. The President had been injured, the assassin killed in his escape.

It had been discovered that Canada was building missile silos near the Artic. They said it was to protect against the Mongols and the Shenzhou, but it was still against the Accords signed in the late 1980’s.

And amazingly enough, there was a recent archaeological discovery just outside Sunnydale. Construction for a new housing development in the nearby desert had turned up the cornerstones of what might be ancient human habitation.

Willow read all of it without caring. None of this mattered. None of it was important. Only vengeance mattered now, for both betrayals that ravaged her world. Vengeance against the unknown assassin who had taken the life of Buffy and her unborn child.

And vengeance against Tara, who dared to kiss her like she meant it.

Drowning in her personal ocean of loneliness, Willow was unaware that she was the topic of conversation in the kitchen, where Jenny and Giles worried for her.

“I don’t even recognize her anymore,” Giles was saying, his voice more stricken than Jenny had heard since Buffy’s death. She leaned against the counter next to him and wrapped her hands around his to comfort him. “I should have found some way to keep her from going to that bloody den,” the Steward continued. “Whatever dream she expected to receive, it is now very clear that she was led awry. Damn me for underestimating the Apothecary.”

“You know she has her own will,” Jenny started, smiling wistfully at the pun. “From her youth Willow has discovered that she can achieve whatever she wants as long as she works hard for it. How else could her fortunes have changed so completely?”

“I don’t know what to wish for her,” Giles said. “A contract so she can get out of this hellish town? Or just time to rest and heal?”

“Time is no longer her friend,” Jenny said slowly. “Every day I see it more and more. All that the world perceives as success is now hers, this house, this estate, her work. But these are transient things, and she knows it. None of it can last forever. What she craves, what she needs, is love.”

“I love her. I would do anything to keep her safe. I would die for her.”

She squeezed his scarred hands. “I know, Rupert. I love her, too. Xander adores her. She has no shortage of people who care for her. Familial love is one thing. You love her as a father, as her own father does not. Xander loves her as a sister, a best friend. What she needs is the love that we simply cannot give. Tell me, Rupert, how long has it been since she’s been the object of someone’s desire? Since she’s fallen in love?”

His cratered face was pensive. With one hand he pulled his glasses off his face and rubbed his eyes. “Not since I’ve known her,” he carefully replied. “She and Buffy spoke sometimes of a man named Oz. But even that seemed to fade long before I came to this household.

“She was different back then, Jenny. When Buffy was alive and Xander was home, this whole house was different. There was energy, there was hope.”

“Then there was Persia,” Jenny softly said. She could see the swallow of his throat, the constriction of his jaw muscles. He still wouldn’t speak of it to her. She had to interpret his stories in his grim silence and his new scars.

He looked at her then, impossible depth and compassion in his eyes, and while she looked into his eyes she could feel a piece of her heart tear apart and float down her chest like a flint feather, slicing with every turn. From the moment she arrived in this house she had loved him, as if decreed by fate.

“And now?” he said. “Now all she does is train and seek Buffy’s killer. Bitterness and revenge is accumulating inside her until she will explode with it, to the ruin of all. How can she ever find a companion when she keeps herself locked away, when she does not even look for or even believe there is a key?”

“Keys are found in the most remarkable places,” Jenny whispered. She leaned forward and kissed him softly on the mouth. When she pulled away, her fingers still wrapped over his battered hands, she said, “You better ask Xander to call.”

Giles looked at the clock on the wall, his face so warm and gentle, the scar on his cheek no longer an aberration while his whole soul was loved. “It is late over there in Tehran,” he mused, and then he looked back at Jenny. “Nevertheless, you are right. I’ll see to it.”

Meanwhile, Willow was concentrating on a new project. Leaving some of her computing power to the spider searches on Buffy’s demise, she opened up new applications and started researching the poppy den, dream creation, and the Apothecary herself.

She had always known of the existence of the poppy den – even in high school it was a place spoken of in soft and reverent voices. Its allure was that of adulthood, of mind-bending realities, and the merest of whispers had been spoken of the woman who made dreams. Willow had no use for such a place while all her dreams were coming true.

That she felt she needed this place now both saddened and frightened her.

She opened a facial recognition application and bit her lip slightly as she began building a composite avatar of the demon woman. Her hair was like this, Willow thought, and her cheekbones this. Her eyes, not that blue, nor that one but yes, this one. Was it this nose or another?

She deliberately soured her memories of the woman as she worked, casting one vile imprecation after another, epithets both damning and malicious. There was a bitter twist of memory involved; she had once thought of Buffy the same way, right after Buffy arrived in Sunnydale in grade ten.

(my rival

my sword sister)


The Apothecary’s lips came easiest. Willow could still feel them.

When she was satisfied that the image on the screen was as close to real life as she could recall, she sent out the search spiders over the Interlink. She could have added Tara’s name, but it was probably an alias. Better to stick with the truth she saw with her own eyes.

(tasted with my own lips)

Willow shook her head and settled back carefully in her chair so as not to set her ribs and arm aflame. With her eyes half-lidded, she watched for a time as thousands upon thousands of Interlink files streamed across the vid screens, each instantaneously evaluated for their merit and either saved or discarded.

Willow would not be caught by surprise again. The next time she went to the Apothecary’s foul den, she vowed to be prepared, to know everything she could about the woman so she could properly destroy her.

The possibility of not returning to the den at all never occurred to her. She had no satisfaction thus far in regards to Buffy’s death; she would have to manufacture her satisfaction in other areas. This would do nicely to assuage the guilt that would never cease.

A shrill beeping interrupted her dire thoughts. Startled, an angry throb in her ribs and arm, she leaned forward and clicked her mouse and immediately saw a most beloved face.

“Xander!” she cried, her face cracking open in a huge smile.

“Willster!” the man replied, grinning at her. Through the video feed she could see the bland walls of Xander’s apartment in Tehran, dotted here and there with small framed pictures of the Scooby Gang That Was. Xander himself looked pale and tired but otherwise well, the patch over his eye still jarring to her. “How is my steamboat Willy?” he continued.

“Still chugging along,” Willow replied automatically. “And the Xan man?”

“Doing a fair impersonation of the wicked witch of the west, what with all the I’m melting, I’m melting!” he said, the last few words in the accent of the famous hag. “You know what, Wills, I think we need to start taking some more contracts in Canada. It’s cold in Canada, right?”

“I do believe they celebrate summer in Canada, you goof.”

“Hmm. I wonder how they keep their icy igloo houses from melting every year.”

“I dunno,” Willow mused, delighting in their playful banter. “Maybe they harness a herd of yetis to move them to the north pole every year.”

“That sounds like fun,” Xander said, leaning back in his chair and yawning. “Maybe I need a new line of work. I wonder where I could get a certificate or diploma in yeti herding. Perhaps some polar academy?”

Willow noticed the yawn and glanced at the clock on her wall that was set to Persian time. “Xander, it’s late over there,” she said. “Why are you calling? You need your beauty sleep, now more than ever.”

“Ha ha, funnybones. I’d rather sleep with a beauty.”

“As far as I know, Angelina Jolie is not available.”

“Le sigh. And after I wrote all those love poems.”

“Xander, really, what’s up with you?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he countered, pointing at the bandage on her arm.

“Tis but a scratch,” Willow drawled in her best Monty Python impersonation.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re a knight who says ni. Next you’ll be chopping down the largest tree in the forest with a herring.” Willow smiled to think of one of Xander’s favourite cult movies, Monty Python and the Search for the Holy Grail.

“Hey, that’s Robin’s job, not mine. I have the supervisory role, you know, with the pointing and scowling.” She illustrated her remarks to Xander’s laughter.

“I didn’t know that Giles gave those kinds of lessons. He’s been holding out on me. Is he turning you into a Briton?”

“He has about as much chance of that as Wesley has with you over there,” Willow replied.

“I should send Wesley back for some pointers in Expert Tea Brewing 101. He’s certainly no Giles. Though in his defence, it could be the fault of the water around here. Brown sludge does not good tea make.”

“Maybe you should come back yourself and get the lessons from the source,” Willow said, half joking. “There’s all sorts beyond Expert Tea Brewing. There’s Polishing of Glasses, and Fancy Pants Fencing, and, and…” Willow’s words dried up in the loving gaze of her oldest friend. Swallowing back the agony of their necessary separation, Willow continued, “And no one around here plays poker with me. I’m terrible at poker, but they won’t take advantage of me. Silly minions.”

“Lackeys, Will, lackeys,” Xander corrected, yawning again. “We’re the good guys, remember? Lackeys are the good guys, minions are the bad guys who need to bathe more often because their personal hygiene lacks the graces of the common Neanderthal. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

The question came out with authority and Willow answered it automatically. “I dreamed of Buffy last night.”

Xander was well aware of Willow’s nightly torture. “Willow,” he chided softly, “do you still believe that it was your fault? You weren’t the one holding the sword that killed her. As I recall, you nearly died yourself. Head injury, coma, broken bones, any of this sounding familiar?”

“I should have known better,” Willow doggedly continued, her throat thick. “So soon after Persia. After you and Giles getting hurt and nearly getting dead. After what we discovered about Buffy, Xander. I should not have been so careless. I should have watched out for her.”

“I wish I was there just so I could knock some sense into your head,” Xander said, ruffling his dark hair with one hand. “If only wishes and buts were candy and nuts, Will. What’s done is done. The past is written, but the rest of the story doesn’t have to be so bleak.”

The thickness in Willow’s throat climbed up to her eyes, stinging them with needles.

Xander was relentless.

“You are the author of your own happiness, Willow Rosenberg. You and I both, we relied too much on Buffy when she was alive. We depended too much on her for happiness, for guidance, for support. Now she’s gone and nothing is going to change it. She’s gone and our little kingdoms of happiness are gone, too? That’s unfair, both for her memory, and for us. We don’t owe her vengeance, Willow. We owe her happiness.”

The needles pricking her eyes opened up small wounds of tears.

“Isn’t that what you want, Will?” he asked, softly this time.

(do I even know what I want?)

“I don’t know,” Willow replied, sniffing back those rebellious tears. “All I know is I miss her and I miss you, and I just can’t stand it sometimes. I want to be happy, but I want Buffy back. Can’t I have both?”

“We’re not considering a little zombii raising, are we?” Xander joked. “Because if you’ll recall, the last time we tried that didn’t turn out so well.”

“I know,” Willow laughed through her tears. “But we were in grade eight occult class, so it doesn’t technically count.” She wiped at her eyes and continued, “I keep thinking there has to be a way.”

“Willow, stop,” Xander said firmly. She blinked her eyes and stared at him through the feed. “Please, just stop. Live your life. Be happy. Stop holding on to the past. If not for yourself, then for me. Please?”

Another addictive thought, all peaceful and smooth. Let go. Move on.

Not a hope in hell.

“I’m sorry, Xander,” Willow whispered. “I just can’t.”

She clicked the window shut over his astonished eye. Her heart pounding in her cut arm and bandaged ribs, she whispered, “I love you.”

The video button popped up immediately, Xander trying to contact her again, but she ignored it. She was implacable now. A force to be reckoned with, and by god there would be a reckoning.

Willow sipped from a glass of water and looked up at the screen showing Tara’s amazing face. The vision of the dream-woman in her arms returned to her once again. Instead of shutting it out, this time she focused on Tara’s elbow. That mark.

Frowning, Willow pulled out an electronic pad and a stylus. Concentrating, she drew an approximation of that mark she had seen on the inside of Tara’s elbow. Correcting a line here and there she finally fed it into the computer and waited. It hovered on one side of a screen while hundreds of symbols from all the major databases in the world were compared to it.

She was nearly dozing in her chair when there was a tentative knock on the open door. Willow opened her eyes to see Jenny standing in the doorway, carrying a tray with food. Blinking and rubbing her eyes, Willow asked, “What time is it?”

“Well past noon,” Jenny replied. “You’ve been in here for hours, and you didn’t eat breakfast, either. I thought you might be hungry.”

“Famished,” Willow realized, standing up and carefully stretching. Jenny walked in and put the tray on a bare piece of desktop.

There was no mistaking it; Willow was watching Jenny as the Romany merely glanced at the computer screens. Her body suddenly stiffened and just as quickly relaxed, as if to convince Willow that nothing had just happened.

Not a hope in hell.

“Speak the truth, Jenny,” Willow commanded.

The oath of service compelled her lips open, and the woman said, “That mark. I recognize it.”


~

To be continued on Wednesday with Chapter 13 - The Farce Must Go On


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 Post subject: Re: The Apothecary - Chapter 12: Investigation (Nov 25)
PostPosted: Sun Nov 25, 2012 5:58 pm 
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2. Floating Rose
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