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

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 Post subject: The Apothecary - Ch 26: Law of Attraction (Feb 24)
PostPosted: Sat Oct 20, 2012 1:41 pm 
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6. Sassy Eggs
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Location: Edmonton, Alberta
Dearest Kittens,

Time ran away on me but I have been faithfully plucking away at this story. I myself am enchanted with it and I found I couldn't wait any longer to post some chapters. I had planned on waiting until it was done, but because I know I will finish the story this time (it helps that I finally know how the story ends), I guess I can post a chapter or two for you.

Many of you have read the version of The Apothecary already on this site. I considered asking it to come down while I started posting this new draft, but that may be unfair. All I can say is, if you like surprises, if you wait on Christmas morning to peel away the tape from the presents, then just read this and don't read the other one. Let the story progress on its own, let the reveal come with the softness and majesty of a new dawn, temper your impatience and just savour it.

This story starts out the same, but the differences start to accumulate rather quickly. I can hardly wait to share it with you. In my mind, this is just book one of a trilogy I call "Conjuring Dawn".

As always, I'm just borrowing the Buffyverse, I swear I'll return them to Joss when I'm done. Some spoilers for Season Eight in the comic books. Feedback is welcomed and encouraged. Readers may comment here or by sending PM or email.

This is the best piece of fiction I've ever written. I hope you like it.

Let the journey begin.

Much love,
Jen
aka Tara the Phoenix

ps. Anyone good at photoshop who might have some spare time, I'd love to collaborate on some banners or wallpaper...


Last edited by Tara the Phoenix on Sun Feb 24, 2013 4:41 pm, edited 24 times in total.

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 Post subject: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter One
PostPosted: Sat Oct 20, 2012 10:26 pm 
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6. Sassy Eggs
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PART ONE: BODY


~1~
Above the Poppy Den
(fereste-te de omul insemnat de Dumnezeu!)


Tara could not deny that she had been scouring the live security feed from downstairs, delighted and dismayed to find a familiar woman making her way through the poppy den. The woman wove through the stupefied multitude with necessary tolerance and a nervous lapse of grace, stepping over an arm or leg as needed, her mouth perhaps murmuring useless apologies. She parted through the smoky afternoon haze as bluntly as a corsair through ocean fog, her red hair a beacon as brash as any lighthouse.

Those whom she disturbed did not acknowledge her in any way, even though she had become a common face to them. No one had ever hailed her as friend; she had remained aloof, lounging

(in bleakness)

in feigned ease, the gold buttons of her silk shirt revealing more of her modest cleavage than she ever would in any place but this.

Tara had seen her cough the first time she drew smoke through the poppy pipe, and the lighted coal that kept the tincture hot had barely illuminated the face of a woman flirting with disaster and despair.

That had been five months ago. The unnamed woman did not cough anymore.

Tara would have to change her video feed soon to watch the woman make her way to her habitual spot in the corner, protected on all sides by stout walls and the dread solemnity of her gaze.

Instead the nameless woman continued through the den until she came upon an ill-marked and dingy door. Tara bade the fluttering in her heart to ease as she watched the woman put her hand on the doorknob. Many stopped just there, just outside.

The woman did pause and through the high-resolution video Tara could see a straightening of her shoulders, a tightening of neck muscles, some mustering of confidence and courage to take the next step.

A solid twist, and the woman emerged on the landing at the base of the stairs. Tara fluidly changed the video feed, and the new camera angle showed the woman standing still, looking up. She had come this far once before today, ten days ago to be precise, and had fled too quickly for Tara to track her on the surveillance cameras.

The woman clutched at her purse and then began to advance up the steps, not pausing at the reek of the stairwell, the sweet incense and bleach not quite concealing the odours of burnt poppy and urine. So many faltered there, noses wrinkling at the smell, eyes narrowing at the Shenzhou and skater symbols deliberately spray-painted on the walls. They would not pay the price

(no one is immortal

but us)


and would retreat back to the poppy den, ready to haze their disappointments and regrets with the narcotic blessing of opium.

Whatever demons had possession of this woman, they had finally driven her up the stairs. Through the increased tempo of her heart, Tara could barely hear the woman deliberately making noise as she ascended. Would she know to stop on Tara’s level, or could she possibly be going further upstairs, bypassing Tara’s meagre gift for the astounding art that awaited one floor above?

Tara hoped not. Poppy haze already clouded this woman’s vision, muddied every step she took. She needed only what Tara could provide, no more.

Tara allowed herself one last moment to look at the unnamed woman through the vid screen in her kitchen. The woman’s face was so young and determined, her flaming hair impeccably coiffed, her eyes the blighted green that had first captured Tara’s interest earlier this year. Tara had been afraid that this woman would eventually come to her door.

Simultaneously afraid and hopeful.

(damn me)

Tara finally turned from her screen to put on the kettle. Tea was customary, though the woman did not know that.

Tara could now hear the hard clack of the woman’s heels on the stairs, and she passed the last of her waiting moments by glancing at the looking-glass on the wall. The mirror revealed a pale-faced woman whose cobalt eyes were filled with equal parts excitement and self-loathing. Sleek blonde hair whispered secrets to her shawl-lined shoulders and her entire frame was small and perfect; her beauty a weapon as sharp as any sword and wielded with equal dexterity on men and women alike.

There was no sign on her door. Tara heard a pause in the determined step, then the dull clacking of the wooden bead curtain. The steps were muffled now by lush carpet. Tara waited to hear a tentative greeting, warbled and broken like a bleating lamb brought to slaughter.

No such greeting came, so Tara lifted her hand to part the silk curtain that divided her living quarters from her storefront den, and saw the woman in flesh for the first time.

The woman’s eyes were wide and near childlike as she took in Tara’s strange den. It resembled a parlour more than anything else, with long mahogany shelves crawling across three walls, crammed from floor to ceiling with books. These books were Tara’s one solace and only joy, thousands upon thousands of titles shelved haphazardly, with nary a care for the alphabet. Not merely tomes on dreams or the occult, but also volumes on Everett’s Theory of Quantum Mechanics

(many worlds)

and the latest Stephen King. There was the Bible, the Ku’Ran, the Bhagavad Gita. A recently published treatise on the Silence of Death and the Human Condition. Some were in Castilian, French, Rumanian. Her clients may wonder if she could actually read them, or if she was just being pretentious. Tara let them wonder.

(fereste-te de omul insemnat de Dumnezeu!

beware the man marked by God!)


Still the woman’s eyes roved, and Tara slid entirely through the silk curtain without any sound. Then she stood there, her heart smouldering in impatience, wanting the woman to turn around, to see the entirety of her face for the first time, to see and to interpret what the vid screen could never show her, no matter how long she stared upon it.

(cracker jack ring)

Finally sensing Tara’s presence, the woman turned around, one hand reflexively clutching on the leather handle of her purse.

And Tara knew.

The red hair was a source of constant contention for her as she hovered between short and curly or sleek and long and which would make her appear more mature. She didn’t trust her hairdresser. Freckles were a bane in her youth and only now was she marginally proud of them. She considered her nose to be her best feature, though Tara believed it was her mouth. She wore heeled shoes that gleamed with unutterable precision and care; this was the source of her clumsiness in the den.

The woman was wearing a cautious casual outfit, unremarkable in colour though the cut was considerable, all of it too desperate to be random. She was well-off, or perilously close to it, but it was not inherited wealth. She had worked hard for it, every damn day, and a tiny measure of class resentment shone in her face.

(one step above a tinker, are you?

your parents are academics)


She was around thirty years old, younger than Tara herself, and believed she was a failure in life and in love, despite her money. Her fingernails were unpainted and uncouth, cut short to facilitate using a computer. Today she wore a beautiful watch, all gold and chip diamonds, but Tara understood that she usually wore one with three alarms, two different time zones, and an indiglo light. Her hands were unusually austere for her wealth; she wore but a single ring on the pinky finger of her left hand, which Tara knew came from a cracker jack box and was a source of constant hope and despair for her.

(oh my lost one)

Did the woman sleep with that ring on? Did she remember the hands that gave it to her, the sharp smell of horse manure at the fair, the dancing lights and the laughing music, the crunch of popcorn from the cracker jack box?

Some destinies transcended all dimensions. There was blood in this woman’s past, and it spilled out into the future.

Would Tara’s gift be enough to ease her?

There was a conflicting scent arising from her; she had washed her hair this morning with a strong coconut rinse and then spritzed herself with Prada, hoping it would help her appear confident and womanly. Her handbag nearly matched her outfit, the subtle variances glaring and juvenile, and it hung awkwardly from her shoulder, unaccustomed weight and bearing.

This woman was a perfect client.

Tara could not discern her profession, however. What did this woman do to make her unwelcome money? What had led her to this place, seeking narcotic escapes and now Tara’s sublime gift?

The woman crossed the floor as she noticed Tara, and thrust out her hand. “Hello, I’m, uh, Willow,” she said, a delicate blush blooming on her cheeks. Tara took her hand and held it instead of shaking it, seeking to throw the woman off balance.

Willow.

Her parents were certainly academics, and it was likely her mother’s choice of name. Not only a name, but a weapon as well, and her mother used it to prove to her own tightly-wound progenitors that she was well-educated and erudite and there was no need to use heirloom names. Willow was a break in tradition, the physicality of a family schism, the offspring of their despised son-in-law, and Tara doubted she’d met her mother’s parents more than once or twice.

Tara still held Willow’s hand and asked softly, “Are your mother’s parents still alive?”

There was a tiny tug, as if Willow wanted her hand back. Her face, already guarded and wary, now tried to mask confusion and alarm. “What?” she blurted.

Tara released her hand, and Willow immediately clutched her handbag again. Yes. Get her off-balance, first with the overly friendly handshake

(she takes care of her hands, yet her palms and fingers are callused)

and then with the question of her grandparents. “Are your mother’s parents still alive?” Tara repeated.

A slight tightening of Willow’s jaw, of the long muscle of Willow’s leg, as if she wanted to take a step back, but she didn’t. Tara admired her for it. “I think they are. They live in Kansas. I…” and she paused, and Tara understood that she was debating whether or not to reveal such information to a complete stranger. “I don’t see them very often.”

Ah yes. Kansas. Tara imagined she could smell the faint odour of chicken manure, see an overweight woman in a floral print apron, grey hair covered with a kerchief. She would throw chicken feed and lament her daughter’s decisions to uninterested barnyard fowl. Yes.

“My name is Tara,” she revealed, softening the consonants, lengthening the vowels; her name would be music to this woman’s virgin ears. She imagined using that same soft breath to puff at the delicate skin of Willow’s wrist.

Willow would shiver, a delightful cascade of skin.

“Will you have tea with me?” Tara asked, the bracelets on her wrist tinkling brightly as she lifted her shawl-wrapped arm around Willow’s shoulders, not quite touching, practically herding her to the single table covered with a pristine chintz tablecloth.

Was Willow evaluating her earlier clumsiness, and praying to gods unknown not to spill tea on this tablecloth?

“Uh, okay,” Willow replied, lifting her chin as if in control of this entire situation. Deluded soul. Tara had done this thousands of times and more. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Exactly what she would do next.

~

Enjoy! Next chapter tomorrow, just to get us going.

Jen


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary, Book One of Conjuring Dawn
PostPosted: Sat Oct 20, 2012 11:17 pm 
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8. Vixen
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Dibs!

I'm so glad you're finally posting the reworking of this story. The last couple of months have been great for seeing unfinished stories being brought back to life by their authors so they can be finished. This has always been one that I've always hoped would be, too.

So looking forward to the new version in its entirety.

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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary, Book One of Conjuring Dawn
PostPosted: Sun Oct 21, 2012 1:48 am 
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Jen,

I'm riveted . . . how you write . . both epic and intimate . . how do you do it? And poetry weaves its spell throughout.

Thank you and thank you and thank you. :flower

Ariel


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary, Book One of Conjuring Dawn
PostPosted: Sun Oct 21, 2012 3:08 am 
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YAY, You're really doing it! I was seriously worried something had thrown your plan to restart this gem when there was no answer to my "nudging" in the old post. A great start (again), I'm curious what you're going to change (small changes I won't recognize probably because it's a long time since I read the first version). I'm looking forward to the next chapters!


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary, Book One of Conjuring Dawn
PostPosted: Sun Oct 21, 2012 3:39 am 
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Big yay for this story being back! Can't wait to read what you have is store for us...

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 Post subject: NEW: The Apothecary, Chapter Two
PostPosted: Sun Oct 21, 2012 8:02 am 
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6. Sassy Eggs
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~2~
Cracker Jack Ring
(solitude is mine)


Tara’s arm hovered so near Willow, directing her with subtle intent to choose a chair. Like many first clients Willow hesitated a moment, perhaps to see if Tara would make the decision for her, but then there was another tightening of that jawline, another tremor of muscle. Like nearly all before her Willow chose the bright floral armchair that faced the beaded entrance, as if by seeing the exit she could convince herself that she retained the power to flee, to change her mind, retreat back to the poppy den with her soul intact.

Such a change of heart was rare in this chamber. Better to make the decision and satisfy curiosity rather than always wonder what might have been, what the Apothecary may have created.

So Willow sat in that god-awful chair and Tara stayed standing, just long enough for Willow to shift her position in unease, just long enough to maintain the imbalance of power. Such a script to follow to make sure the client would return to her parlour, love-hating Tara while love-hating the greater addiction Tara would provide.

After all, Willow was just a client. A client.

Only when Willow opened her mouth as if to speak did Tara sit down across from her in a chair equally nonsensical. A great deal of reflection had gone into these chairs, into the disarray of her bookshelves. The incongruity kept her clients off balance, especially the wealthy. Their delicate natures were soothed by matching colour palettes, soft lighting, alphabetical ordering of books.

A place for everything, and everything in its place.

This parlour was lit with creamy globes of naphtha, but Tara used the mismatched furniture as well as the books to keep her clients on the brink of controlled madness. Their fingers would twitch to rearrange the books, their eyes would blink at the brassy chairs, and they would remember the symbols spray painted on the walls with near physical pain. This tactic really worked on the rich.

It didn’t seem to affect Willow. The girl sitting so carefully in that boisterous chair probably remembered living as a pauper, collecting food stamps and licking them so very precisely to place them on the coupon cards, coming home with paper sacks of groceries to a leaking loft infested with bedbugs and roaches, sticky pine boards stacked on bricks as her own bookshelves, eating Nipponese ramen noodles for supper. No television either; just a tablet computer, hard earned, an Interlink connection and inexplicable happiness.

There was no doubt that Willow lived in a house now, spacious and airy, and hidden in some nook was an overstuffed chair from the thrift store, kept as a physical reminder of her change in status and circumstance. She would sit on it and remember what happiness felt like.

There was a short white hair on Willow’s slacks. Probably from a puppy, a Husky, with eyes the exact shade of Tara’s own.

And the cracker jack ring always on her finger, anchoring her in turbulent seas, buffeted by a tempest that would never abate.

Just how close was she to giving up the fight, to sink beneath the surface of the storm-tossed waves?

The kettle whistled beyond the silk curtain and still Willow would not look at Tara directly in the eyes. Her long and callused fingers kept curling reflexively on the handle of her purse, her lips tight, swallowing back questions until her mouth would taste like the rankness of a strap swung across her knuckles; punishment for speaking out of turn in her school years.

“Excuse me, if you would,” Tara murmured, rising from the chair. She walked away without glancing back, wondering if Willow’s eyes followed her, wondering if Willow would take this last chance to run away, wondering how long she dared stretch this one encounter.

For five months she had watched this woman, resulting in a million fragile universes of imagination.

At her cupboard Tara studied her array of tea, finally choosing white tea with Imperial Jasmine. She prepared the tea and then whisked back through the silk curtain only to see Willow still sitting upright

(uptight!)

in her squashy chair, her spine a rod that was magnetically repelled by the back of the chair. As she bore the tea tray Tara allowed herself to keep looking at this contradictory specimen of a woman. The cream coloured blouse she wore was actually unbuttoned one button more than commonly deemed acceptable in Western society, revealing the shy swelling of her breasts. Tara thought of puffing air on Willow’s wrist and swallowed.

Lightly.

Willow didn’t seem to notice.

Tara’s gold bracelets tinkled as she set down the tray, leaning to pour the tea. Willow sat stiffly, believing her mental walls high, unassailable, as if she could somehow keep Tara out. Tara nearly felt sorry for her. Willow had no idea what Tara was capable of.

She would learn, in time.

The Imperial Jasmine was probably too floral for her taste, but she still took of Tara’s offered cup, sniffing carefully. Then a sip, her face colouring under the steam that curled from the surface like dragonsbreath.

Tara took her own cup and sat back in her chair, thrusting her breasts out, just slightly.

Just enough.

She had kissed thousands of men and women in that chair.

And they were always enchanted by her.

This book-shrouded silence seemed uncomfortable to Willow; it was obvious she was trying to think of something witty or important to say, casting sentence after sentence aside. Tara could have smiled in delight if she was allowed to smile. This silence was the fire of her eternal spirit, the sea she swam in, the air she breathed. It was heavy and tight with expectation and fear. Tara could almost taste the silence on her tongue as vinegar and Imperial Jasmine.

What dreams had ensnared Willow lately, driving her first to the poppy den, and then into Tara’s parlour? What sorrow buried her soul in a graveyard of hope?

What manner of dream would she request? This woman was obviously uncomfortable in her wealth, her purchased station in life. Would she ask for a lover to return to her, a tall man with icy eyes and disdain writ over his face? Would she ask for some situation to be resolved in her favour, a client placated, a boss maligned, a co-worker killed? Would she desire only a dream of peace, a slice of heaven too exquisite to be borne, tears wetting the pillow upon awakening from it?

Tara carefully counted one hundred beats of her heart. Willow was very near squirming in her seat. Tara’s silence hung over her like a guillotine, severing the intent to speak.

A gold necklace hung from Willow’s neck with what appeared to be a pendant of the Tree of Life. It was nestled just beneath Willow’s throat. Tara wondered what she would taste like just there.

“What can the Apothecary do for you today?” Tara finally asked. She set down her cup of tea and Willow followed suit. The red-haired woman fidgeted, straightening her pant leg and picking off several short white hairs.

(what is her puppy’s name?)

“I hear that you… make dreams,” Willow said, her voice transforming from confidence to trepidation under Tara’s steady gaze.

“That is true.”

“I would like to purchase one.”

Tara knew that Willow had been about to say ‘buy’, but changed her mind to say ‘purchased’ instead, because it sounded more grown-up. Tara wondered if Willow knew just how transparent she was, just like summer glass.

Tara also wondered what kind of sound Willow would make if Tara puffed air at her wrist, or at her throat.

Or upon her breast.

“Of course,” Tara replied smoothly, crossing her own legs, feeling the rich coolness of the silk against her skin. She was aware that her shapely calves were now peeking; she saw the instant flicker of Willow’s eyes down her leg and back up again. Tara had to suppress a desire to lick her lips. “What kind of dream do you wish?” Tara asked.

Willow twisted the ring on her pinkie finger before answering, “I want to dream of my best friend, Buffy.”

“Do you have a picture of her, or an item that belonged to her?” Tara asked, her mind opening further.

Willow’s mouth was taut and she didn’t say anything as she drew a photograph from her handbag, opening the mother of pearl clasp almost roughly in her agitation.

Tara took the unframed picture with both hands, holding it with a reverence that would ease the woman sitting across from her. Only after Willow had settled back in her chair did Tara look at the photograph.

The woman in the picture was very beautiful, had been beautiful far longer than Willow, and held her beauty in a confidence that Willow coveted. It was the sort of beauty to make men into boys, to make girls into jealous liver-eating phantoms, a beauty so intrinsic to her nature as to make it invisible to herself and desirable to all others even as they despised her for it.

It was a curse to be that beautiful.

And looking over the rim of the photograph Tara saw Willow’s face tighten even more, her eyes narrowing, her breath controlled.

The photograph whispered truth to her, deep as the captured photons and infinitely more real.

Tara suddenly understood, more perfectly than Willow could ever imagine. A sudden ache for Willow’s unending loss grabbed her heart in an iron gauntlet; for a moment, Tara could scarcely breathe.

“How did she die?” Tara asked softly, skirting the precipice between too much concern and too little. Tara didn’t want to push too hard.

Not yet.

Willow licked her lips and said a single word. “Violently.”

Willow had no power to change Buffy’s fate. Blood was her design.

(solitude is mine)

And as if Tara could channel the spirit of the dead woman in the photograph, she could see how it might have happened, some five or so months ago, mid-March. She could see Buffy and Willow one balmy spring night, seven months into Buffy’s marriage to some good-hearted man, each of them nibbling marzipan and chocolate and sipping sugary mochas.

Walking arm in arm down a street thinly lit with gas lamps, their cast shadows fuzzy with anticipation and delight for all the simple pleasures of the earth. There would be a jazz band nearby, performing for tossed coins; the music was as much a feast and Willow and Buffy gorged themselves on it, leaving a dozen shiny rupahs in the frayed fedora hat, pausing to watch the notes erupt from the brass instruments like sparks of gold fire. The women walked and giggled and sighed and far above the moon was pregnant in the night sky

(mirroring Buffy’s darkling womb)

and the crickets would be chanting. Buffy’s face would be lit from within, her beauty and verve too much for this paltry earth. She had cheated death too many times before.

So God called her home.

And when Willow woke up in the hospital, Buffy’s hair would have already been washed of its blood, a tag placed on her toe, her naked body in some refrigerated steel drawer, all misshapen and violated. A closed casket service, and the stench of lilies would make Willow swoon.

The tears would endlessly rise from a well of the worlds inside her, her grief palpable and argent, and how Willow must wish to be inoculated against this grief, this pain, become immune to it forever and stop this flood of tears that threatened to erode her entire existence.

That cracker jack ring. Buffy had given it to her when they were but girls, little chits really, and it was the locus of Willow’s transformation. A million dimensions were drawn through its axis, a million Willows, a million Buffys and in each and every one of them blood was Buffy’s design.

Willow had never in her life experimented with recreational drugs. She rarely indulged in alcohol. How deeply rooted was the guilt that propelled her to this insidious place, to seek narcotic escapes and now manufactured dreams?

Tara leaned forward slightly and lifted her eyes from the picture to meet the weary and broken eyes of the woman before her. “You do not need to apologize to her, Willow,” Tara said. “No matter what you believe, her death was not your fault. You don’t need to wear your guilt like a shroud.”

A brief blazing in Willow’s eyes, a small and sharp shake of her head. Her voice almost angry, “How do you know all this?”

“You could say I’m a scholar of the human condition,” Tara replied. At the hurt confusion in Willow’s face, Tara elaborated, “I can read people as easily as I read books. Body, mind, soul and silence, they are all revealed to me.” She gave a small wave at her bookcase, her bracelets jingling. She wondered if she should show off a little more, and tell the girl that she knew she didn’t trust her hairdresser, that she had a Husky puppy, and that she never invited her parents over for supper. Wisely, she decided not to.

Tara looked back down at the photograph once more, releasing a distraught Willow from her attention, giving her space and freedom to recover her wits. This Buffy

(and what does that name reveal about Buffy’s parents?)

was responsible for Willow’s metamorphosis in school. For some unfathomable reason, lushly beautiful Buffy had taken a computer nerd under her wing. Willow had been ashamed of her freckles back then, and was forced to dress in Sears castoffs scrounged by her mother in various charity bins around town. Her dreams were all of impossible worlds.

The day that Buffy gave her that cracker jack ring was the best day of her life.

What did Buffy say to Willow the day that Willow made her first million dollars?

(I kinda love you, you know?

and can you loan me a tenski?)


Lipstick on a pig. Tara felt an incredible rush of desire for Willow; a tingling that began in her toes and swept her entire body, leaving her hair on end. She licked her lips, slowly. What did Willow taste like?

(mochas and marzipan and Imperial Jasmine)

Willow was watching her, eyes tight. She was closed up like a fortress, protecting herself from the armies of Tara’s insight. For a moment Tara mourned Willow’s last boundary, the last rampart of her innocence. Tara would create a dream for her, yes she would, a dream so sublime that Willow would come back begging for more. It would only take a little extra effort, a tiny push.

And damn her forever, Tara would now push.

~

Chapter Three will go up later this week, next Sunday at the latest.

If you have any favourite bits, do let me know. I'm glad to share this with you. I'll post fb to fb before posting the next chapter.

Jen


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Two (Oct 21)
PostPosted: Sun Oct 21, 2012 10:07 am 
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Yay for great update-y goodness...

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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Two (Oct 21)
PostPosted: Sun Oct 21, 2012 1:09 pm 
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4. Extra Flamey

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Poor Willow! Although I knew of her loss from the first version it still brought tears to my eyes.

Quote:
“How did she die?” Tara asked softly, skirting the precipice between too much concern and too little. Tara didn’t want to push too hard.

Not yet.

Willow licked her lips and said a single word. “Violently.”


That reminds me of a sentence I remember exactly after all this time since reading version 1 (which I don't want to spoil here but I really hope you'll include it in the new version too).
To me it perfectly describes the despair Willow is in at the beginning.

I love your poetic narrative style and Tara's seemingly random, sometimes foreboding "sidethoughts" which are somehow beyond the readers reach. That only adds to her mistery.

I'm really looking forward to the next chapter!


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Two (Oct 21)
PostPosted: Sun Oct 21, 2012 1:46 pm 
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7. Teeny Tinkerbell Light
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It's like Christmas on the Kittenboard these days :banana .

First, Katharyn starts a new fic. Next, Alcy resurrects VRII. Now, the Apothecary returns?

Thank you :bigkiss !

I really loved the first version and am eagerly looking forward to any and all changes/improvements that you make along the way!


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Two (Oct 21)
PostPosted: Mon Oct 22, 2012 12:04 pm 
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Ms. Moderator Fantastico
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Sweet Baby Jesus, it is like Christmas. And my birthday. Yay for returning authors! So glad to see you back Jen!

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Kisses and Gay Love
"I like my buttons, curvy." - Willow, Neverland, by Easiersaid


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Two (Oct 21)
PostPosted: Mon Oct 22, 2012 12:04 pm 
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Ms. Moderator Fantastico
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Sweet Baby Jesus, it is like Christmas. And my birthday. Yay for returning authors! So glad to see you back Jen!

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Kisses and Gay Love
"I like my buttons, curvy." - Willow, Neverland, by Easiersaid


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Two (Oct 21)
PostPosted: Mon Oct 22, 2012 9:18 pm 
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So fabulous to have you back on the board, Jen. The Kitten Board really isn't the same without some Phoenix-y goodness!
You've made some wonderful changes to this already wonderful story and the Kittens are gonna love it!!!

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Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. ~Helen Keller


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Two (Oct 21)
PostPosted: Tue Oct 23, 2012 11:57 am 
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Just to echo what the others are saying - especially Foo, so great she posted it twice - welcome back, Phoenix!!

I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Apothecary Chapter Two as a thread in pens, I was like, what??? huh??? and other non-verbally noises of varying levels of confusion, but, oh, my, goddess - there was woo and there was hoo in the PTS heart.

I love the subtle changes, it feels familiar and new all at once, and as for favourite bits - mmm, lets see ...all of it.

But I do love this phrase,

Quote:
a million fragile universes of imagination


New kittens are being spoiled just now - you, Alcy and Kathryn all back in the saddle - I hope they realise how lucky they. (Now, if JustSkipIt, and Easiersaid would put fingers to keyboard and chuck in an update or 5 then my fanfic world would be nirvana!)

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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 Two (Oct 21)
PostPosted: Sat Oct 27, 2012 5:35 am 
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2. Floating Rose
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HI! :)

First off, I want to say how excited I am to see you returning to the board. But I must admit that before last Sunday, I hadn’t read any of your stuff. Where the heck have I been? I’ve read plenty of amazing stories here, and somehow I missed this. But now. Whoa. Part of me is glad to just be finding it now, because it’s wonderful finding new authors to obsess over. And that, I’m afraid, is what I’ve spent the past week doing. So, I started with these two new chapters, and then I raced over to the original version and devoured that. I couldn’t help it. Your writing is just so amazingly descriptive and this world you’ve created is very intriguing. It feels so modern with the cameras, but also old. I loved the visual of Tara’s space. All of those thousands upon thousands of books. *sigh* So good. And Stephen King and (many worlds) - have you read his Dark Tower series? They’re my favorites of his, and your writing has a similar feel to it.

The minute I finished The Apothecary I flew over to The Lamb and fell even deeper in love with your work. I’ll be posting some feedback over there soon, I just need to collect my thoughts a bit more. Because honestly? It affected me. Completely, totally and intensely.

After recuperating somewhat from The Lamb, I managed to drag myself over to your short story thread. And it just made me want to read more and more of your work. I even started crying midway through Frozen. Powerful stuff, for sure.

I’m mostly a lurker around here, but I feel compelled to tell you how much I love your writing. I’m really looking forward to seeing the changes you’ve made to this story.
Thank you for sharing your gift with us. :bow

~Jen

Ps. I’m sorry for the fangirlsplosion all over the place. I told myself I’d keep it in check, but ... apparently not. :blush

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


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Two (Oct 21)
PostPosted: Sat Oct 27, 2012 9:37 am 
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6. Sassy Eggs
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I'm posting this next chapter later than I'd intended... I've been away from home this week. But first, some fb to fb!

vampyregurl73 - congrats on the very first dibs! Thanks also for your offer of help on a banner. I'm glad some other authors are also taking time to finish their stories. I hope you enjoy this new draft of The Apothecary.

Ariel - As with everything, practice makes perfect! I often let myself zone out while writing - it feels as if the words are flowing through me instead of from me. I'm glad you enjoy my style.

Wills redemption - Thanks for the nudge in the old post - it helps to know that people are still reading and still wanting the end of a story. If my story had fallen into the great midden heap of old imagination, I may not have had the determination to finish it. The first few chapters are quite similar to the old story - it starts to seriously change around chapter ten. I'm looking forward to finding out if I keep the sentence that is still in your memory - you'll let me know, won't you?

Zampsa - great to see you again! I'm glad you're back on this story, and I hope you enjoy it. Congrats on the dibs for chapter two!

Grimm - I'm glad I could contribute to the Christmas feeling on the board these days. I hope you enjoy the update to come.

Foo!! - Always great to hear from you, I hope you're doing well. I am glad to be back!

masterjendu - Thanks for the beta lite, Jen, as you can see, I couldn't wait to start posting. I have enjoyed writing this story and I'm glad to share it on the kitten board again! I hope you like all the changes, too.

Paint the sky - You make me smile. So nice to see old friends on the board. I'm so pleased to contribute to the woo and hoo in PTS's heart. Thanks for sharing the little clip that you enjoyed - I love hearing about favourite bits that the readers enjoy.

waitnsee - Wow, thank you for your post. I know how long my stories are - I feel I have to apologize to your eyes for the strain or gently inquire if you remembered to stand up and stretch once in a while... :) I would love to hear your thoughts on The Lamb, as I will be resurrecting it for the world - it's my next writing project after this one. I'd almost forgotten about my short stories - I'm touched that you read everything of mine. Thank you so much for delurking - it's posts like yours that give me a shot in the arm of hope and willpower to keep soldiering on. Are you really another Jen? Geez, there are a lot of us! I hope you continue to enjoy this story.

That's it for fb. Update coming right up!

Jen
aka Tara the Phoenix


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Two (Oct 21)
PostPosted: Sat Oct 27, 2012 9:41 am 
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6. Sassy Eggs
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~3~
Truth Hurts
(I give what I never receive)


“You realize it is only a dream,” Tara said quietly. “I’m not channelling her spirit. She cannot speak to you from the dead.”

Willow grimaced. “I know,” she replied. “I just miss her. I don’t understand how you know all these things, but she meant everything to me. And now that she’s gone, everything is just…”

Tara’s lips moved in concert with Willow’s own, knowing exactly what the red-head was going to say, but she would not say it aloud, she would let Willow say it alone, even though the admission would hurt, because truth always hurts just as much as it heals.

(will I ever be freed? Everything is…)

“Wrong.”

There was a broken-hearted note of resignation in Willow’s voice that cut Tara to her core. She wished she could reach across the tea service and take Willow’s hand, attempt to comfort her in this strange place.

She could not. Despite all her tempestuous reactions and revelations since the woman first walked through the doors of the poppy den, Tara needed to remember that Willow was just another client. Tara would use her as she must.

Truth hurts.

“Give me an hour,” Tara said, getting to her feet with as much grace as she could muster under Willow’s questioning gaze. Tara knew that if Willow ever looked on her with desire, her knees wouldn’t work at all. Was there a man in her life, all tight and brimmed with disdain?

“Please, feel free to read whatever you wish while you wait,” Tara continued, waving her arm at the entire array of books. A genuine smile lit up Willow’s face and Tara’s chest thudded as if she’d been punched. She could barely walk away, but walk away she did, wondering if Willow was watching her or if she was already looking at the books with desire never shown to any woman at all.

Tara could not help herself; once she had emerged through the curtain, she turned to part it very slightly and look at her newest client. Willow had risen from her chair with a surprising amount of grace, drained the last drop of tea in her cup and poured herself another before heading over to the bookshelves. There her face was open and innocent, her lower lip caught adorably between her teeth, her fingers questing over the mismatched titles.

Tara sighed and went to work.

She was exhausted when she stopped just inside the curtain nearly two hours later. There was a cabinet near the curtain, on top of which was a silver compact. She opened it to reveal three rows of translucent discs roughly the size of her pinkie fingernail. The habit was automatic; she pried off one of the discs and put it on the tip of her thumb before halting.

Tara looked at that near-invisible wafer of a disc for a time, remembering Laura. Taking a deep breath, she parted the curtain with her hand, just enough to see Willow. As she had suspected, Willow had not been looking at her expensive watch, nor had she been pacing back and forth over the Persian rug like so many others.

Willow had completely surrendered herself to a book; her immaculately clad legs swung over one arm of the squashy chair, her long red hair pouring like a fall of lava over the other arm where she had pillowed her head. No doubt she had meant to watch for the return of the Apothecary through the curtain.

But then she had been captured by the words of the book, and Tara smiled at her choice. Willow was reading an extremely valuable first edition of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, autographed by the late C.S. Lewis.

Tara remembered the day that Clive Staples Lewis came to her den, bearing this book as payment for his dream. His fantasy was a delight to create, but she only gave him two dreams before he ascended the stairs, up to Eva’s floor and away from this world forever.

Tara was delighted to see that Willow didn’t wet her finger as she turned the pages. She handled the book with practiced reverence, lithe fingers above a strong wrist.

It was obvious that Willow didn’t make her money in the stock markets. Not with that open face, that brittle insecurity. Not with those fingers that caressed the book, those fingers that had never caressed a lover in such a manner.

(where did you make your millions, Willow?)

Tara looked back down at the disc on the tip of her thumb, near invisible now that the heat of her skin had activated it, and she imagined that she put it back in the compact.

Imagination was all she was permitted.

In truth the disc remained on her thumb and she parted the curtain the rest of the way to enter her den, taking only two vulnerable steps before Willow’s eyes lifted from the page.

God, those eyes! They were like dappled meadows in evergreen forests kissed by a zephyr wind. Those eyes that narrowed in scrutiny and then flashed in concern. “Tara, are you all right?” she asked.

Such simple words, yet they squirmed their way inside Tara’s psyche.

(how many people ask? out of the thousands of your clients, the hundreds of your years, who has asked?

just Laura

and now Willow)


Suddenly ravenous, Tara wanted to taste her. There, just underneath that tree of life pendant. What would Willow taste like? Could she lick Willow’s wrist and puff air upon it?

Tara had to sit; her knees were buckling. She took those last few steps to her chair as if intoxicated. She gave the photograph back to Willow whose fingers fumbled with the clasp of her purse. Then she looked back at Tara and stared at Tara’s empty hands. Had no one told her?

Tara sat in her chair more heavily than she intended. She lifted a spangled hand and picked out a strand of hair by her ear. Nearly two hours ago her hair had been summer-golden. Now deep blackness extended eight inches from the root before fading back into a few final inches of blonde.

This dream had been challenging to create. Tara wanted to impress her, wanted to draw her back. With the power of her own lifeforce she would sustain the perfect dream for this perfect client, thus ensuring Willow’s return.

Tara wanted to sit across from this woman a dozen times or more and pretend that she was a friend, not a client. They would have tea and lady’s fingers and talk of mochas and marzipan and jazz. Tara would see Willow laugh, see the brilliant emergence of dimples on her cheeks. Willow would tell her how she became a millionaire, she would reveal the name of her puppy, she would share all these things and infinitely more.

There was a fierce burn around her neck, and Tara yanked herself from her reverie. This was dangerous ground. She decided to examine this confusing welter of emotion later, after Willow was gone. The hair colour would revert back during the night as it always did. During the nightmare. The screams.

(I give what I never receive)

The concern on Willow’s face deepened as the silent moments passed. Then she did something that taught Tara more about her true nature than any other thing, more than her cultured clothes, her meek demeanour, her cracker jack ring. Willow placed the book carefully on the little table, lifted herself from her comfortable chair and then knelt on the rug at Tara’s feet.

Eyes wide, Tara watched.

Willow took one of Tara’s hands and ran her long unpolished fingers over the back of it and then around, pressing into her palm. Tara’s fingers brushed against the skin of Willow’s wrist, so paper thin, spidery veins like ink, her last will and testament writ there by Tara’s duplicity. No devil could be more seductive.

(I am such a fool)

Tara nearly unravelled there under Willow’s gaze, Willow’s warm hand nestled inside her own. She could never have imagined this, this beautiful and aching truth.

“Tara, are you all right?” Willow repeated. For the first time Tara was close enough to feel the puff of air as Willow spoke, she caught a faint whiff of spearmint gum masking the floral jasmine.

Ignoring the question, not without certain knowledge that it would only create more anxiety within Willow, Tara answered, “Your dream is ready.”

Once again Willow glanced at Tara’s empty hands, and she actually turned over the palm she held in her hand. There was nothing there except the now transparent disc on the pad of one thumb. Willow must not have learned how this part occurred.

Tara was exhausted. She felt thick and clumsy. The dream was heavy behind her eyes and she wanted to give the burden of it away. It was one of the most heavenly things she had ever created; the tribute of her lifeforce would be well-bought. She doubted she would sleep at all this night. The nightmare would be fierce indeed, her own form of cosmic justice.

The only client who had ever learned the side effects of this business transaction had been Laura.

Yet just as with Laura, Tara believed that Willow was worth it. Worth the tapping of her force, the nightmare, the screams, the cosmic justice.

She believed Willow would come back for more.

(she has to come back)

Willow was still looking at her, her face open with a small measure of wariness in the corners of her eyes. “I – I give it with a kiss,” Tara stammered, and then she mentally cursed herself. She hadn’t stuttered in decades. What the hell was going on?

(remember Laura)

Get Willow out.

Now.

(save her

use her

what should I do?)


Willow’s finger was touching her wrist, and upon hearing those words she blinked. On her knees before Tara like some supplicant, Willow was uncertain. Tara could see the war waging within her mind. It was so very clear, the hesitation, the longing. Willow had never been kissed by a woman, Tara was certain of it.

(the forehead, Tara. kiss her between the brows like everyone else

activate her third eye and steal a portion of her silence

and do it before you do something you’ll regret)


Tara tried to look at Willow’s forehead, to send the unspoken message that had worked thousands of times before. It’s only the forehead. It’s not strange, it’s not significant, it’s no more than European kisses on cheeks or courtly kisses on the back of the hands. It means nothing.

But Willow’s pert mouth drew her, held her. Her lips were a whirlpool and Tara was being sucked in. Was Willow some siren then to so captivate her and draw her into watery depths from which there was no escape?

(if I do this, she will ruin me forever)

It had been many years since Tara had last kissed someone on the mouth, and it certainly didn’t happen here in her den with a new client.

Anticipation and longing swept her body in cascade of flesh. This would be her undoing. Willow would destroy her.

So be it.

Tara wanted Willow to know how it felt, the perfection of a woman’s lips, so very different from a man’s. So knowledgeable, so giving and quiet. Tara wanted her lips to provide this vital education. Tara wanted Willow to think only of her every time she kissed someone else, and all those other kisses to be shallow mockeries of the truth incarnate that Tara would teach her in this moment.

The thought of Willow in the arms of another person, man or woman, caused a rage of jealousy in her stomach. Shaking her head slightly, Tara wondered where these thoughts had come from. What about Willow had so captivated her from the moment she walked into the poppy den five months ago?

If Tara believed in reincarnation perhaps she could believe that they had met once before, that the soul-forge had bound them together before time and distance caused all truth to fade.

Tara did not believe in reincarnation, but she could imagine that she did.

Willow dropped Tara’s hand. She was so close now, and her eyes were oak trees dripping in sunlight and mistletoe, hiding small and deep pools of memory, the warm greenery of lush summer days all with the hint of the coming midnight and all that midnight promised for soul-forged lovers.

Tara lifted her hands, knowing their softness, their lusciousness. She grasped Willow just behind her neck. Willow’s shoulders were surprisingly tight and hard and the neck cords under her skin were like iron sinew. Tara faltered yet again in confusion.

(who are you, Willow?)

Her hair was silken and delicious to Tara’s greedy touch. She could barely comprehend the contradictions of this woman.

(still time to get out, Tara. the forehead. kiss her on the forehead)

Closer.

The dream was thick; Buffy was waiting to go to the fair. She and Willow would have the time of their lives. The music, the laughter, the heady attention of beauty-struck boys, youth and verve and innocence all in one with the ferris wheel and the cotton candy and the ice cold root beer. From a cracker jack box would spill a cheap plastic ring and the promise of becoming as close to blood relations as is possible between best friends.

This Buffy would not know that blood was her design. This dream-Buffy would frolic with Willow at her side, not caring that the world was a snake with ravenous teeth and an insatiable appetite for death and destruction, waiting for the moment to swallow her whole without a shred of remorse.

(was the killing blow really meant for Buffy, or was it for Willow?)

Later on, they would both get to fly.

Starlight would bathe Willow’s skin, her garments would be spun of the very clouds and the world would rotate beneath them in the stately cadence of the universe. From those immense heights they would look upon the world, cities spread out with the twinkling glory of Christmas lights.

Willow would remember this dream forever.

She would return for another, just to experience that beauty once more.

And another.

And another.

(yes)

Looking at her client Tara could see the empty bedchamber in Willow’s expression, the king size bed with two sets of pillows although only one was ever used. Would Willow undress tonight in the stark emptiness of that barren space, put on unflattering flannel pyjamas and sneak to her unwelcome bower in the dark of night? Would her puppy curl up with her or be relegated to sleeping on the dog bed?

Upon waking, would one hand still be flung out, aching to caress skin or sky instead of fabric? When she dreamed of Buffy would she wrap the sheets around her hands in that god-awful guilt, or would she lie oh so quiet, oh so still, tears wetting the pillow as she smiled in adolescent bliss?

Willow had already woken once to a Buffy dead and gone. Would this consummate dream shatter her again?

(can I live with the guilt?)

Yes.

Guilt is only pain. Pain is only temporary.

Slavery is forever.

Willow’s face softened in Tara’s hands, as if capitulating. Tara could see expectation hovering there, the rationale behind this submission. If Willow liked the kiss she could say that she hadn’t asked for it, it had just been given, she had no choice, no choice at all.

Tara would not force it upon her. She knew the signs as instinctively as any woman. There may be a man chiselled somewhere in Willow’s heart, but at this moment that man did not exist. Her body may be meek but her eyes were responding to Tara, and she pursed her lips ever so slightly. Those green grass and sunshine eyes weren’t looking at Tara’s eyes, oh no, she was looking at Tara’s lips and there was fascination in them. She never would have crossed this line on her own. But here with Tara, in silence, in discomfort, the smell of Imperial Jasmine and leather books, Willow was fulfilling a fantasy she didn’t even know she had.

Willow would never be the same again.

Neither would Tara.


~

Jen
aka Tara the Phoenix

Next update tomorrow afternoon, Chapter Four: Payment (doamne fereste!)


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Three "Truth Hurts" (Oct 2
PostPosted: Sat Oct 27, 2012 9:45 am 
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2. Floating Rose
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Dibs?!

Awesome!

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~Gillian Welch


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Three "Truth Hurts" (Oct 2
PostPosted: Sat Oct 27, 2012 10:19 am 
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Yay for great update-y goodness... Can't wait to read Willow's side of the story...

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Posting while nude improves your mood...


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Three "Truth Hurts" (Oct 2
PostPosted: Sat Oct 27, 2012 12:13 pm 
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2. Floating Rose
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Hi!

Yes, I’m another Jen :) I haven’t been around this many people with the same name as me since 6th grade (I was Jennifer, then) and there were three of us in my class, all with last names that started with the same letter! :laugh

And don’t worry about my eyes. :geek No strain, and I managed to sleep, eat and get all of my work done! :)


This was a great update!

I really liked this quote, very poignant:

Quote:
because truth always hurts just as much as it heals.


Quote:
Tara was delighted to see that Willow didn’t wet her finger as she turned the pages. She handled the book with practiced reverence,

Ah, librarian Giles would be proud!

I love Willow’s sweet concern for Tara. Even though she seems to be a bit out of her element and not really knowing what to expect, she still notices that something’s happened while Tara was away. And then this:

Quote:
The concern on Willow’s face deepened as the silent moments passed. Then she did something that taught Tara more about her true nature than any other thing, more than her cultured clothes, her meek demeanour, her cracker jack ring. Willow placed the book carefully on the little table, lifted herself from her comfortable chair and then knelt on the rug at Tara’s feet.

Eyes wide, Tara watched.

Willow took one of Tara’s hands and ran her long unpolished fingers over the back of it and then around, pressing into her palm. Tara’s fingers brushed against the skin of Willow’s wrist, so paper thin, spidery veins like ink, her last will and testament writ there by Tara’s duplicity. No devil could be more seductive.

(I am such a fool)

Tara nearly unravelled there under Willow’s gaze, Willow’s warm hand nestled inside her own. She could never have imagined this, this beautiful and aching truth.

“Tara, are you all right?” Willow repeated.

Beautiful! I’d lose it too if Willow did that to me! ;)

And one more, cuz I'm feeling quote happy...

Quote:
Guilt is only pain. Pain is only temporary.

Slavery is forever.

Poor Tara. :(

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


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Three "Truth Hurts" (Oct 2
PostPosted: Sat Oct 27, 2012 4:41 pm 
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Quote:
and talk of mochas and marzipan and jazz


I got a flash of the walrus and the carpenter as i read that line - it amuses me what pops into my head at times :)

It just seemed remarkably jaunty in the midst of Tara's cloistered desire and Willow's quiet acceptance of what was to come. A lovely melancholy moment.

This was just what I needed after 12 hours of writing an assignment on human resource management - thank you!

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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 Three "Truth Hurts" (Oct 2
PostPosted: Sun Oct 28, 2012 5:40 am 
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Posts: 160
I loved this chapter (as I loved all the others both in this version and the old), it is so beautifully written. You really make my heart bleed for Tara, the slave, who has no hope for any good outcome and just awaits her own distruction and losing Willow. A desperate, hopeless Willow who still has enough love for others that she is concerned for a mysterious stranger.

And there is some major change from the first version...who's Laura? (Please don't tell me she was in there as well, because then I'd feel thorougly embarassed, lol).
I can't hardly wait for the next chapter (and am really gratefull I don't have to wait long :) )...


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Three "Truth Hurts" (Oct 2
PostPosted: Sun Oct 28, 2012 1:11 pm 
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6. Sassy Eggs
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~4~
Payment
(doamne fereste!)


Willow waited on her knees before Tara, her serene patience belied only by a slight twinge in her eyes. Tara’s hands were clasped behind Willow’s neck, one thumb in that exquisite depression just below the ear. The thumb with the disc hovered just above Willow’s throat, not touching the skin, not yet. There was no sound except for breathing; Tara’s slow and steady exhalation and Willow’s slightly more ragged breath. Their worlds had crystallized in this one moment, the fulcrum of destiny.

(forget Laura

I must bring her back

I’m running out of time)


Tara didn’t have to pull, to entice in any shape or form. Willow rose on her own accord, and then hovered at the distance she deemed appropriate, somewhere between forehead and mouth.

Yet she still tried to distance herself from the event about to occur, her arms passively by her sides, her shoulders rounded back. Tara calculated the distance between Willow’s mouth and her own and hated herself for it. With a slight puff of air on Willow’s skin, Tara drew her face closer, closer, and then stopped, hovering just above completion. She could pull, she could force, but she wouldn’t.

How long would Willow wait with the hint of warmth so very near?

(kiss me, Willow)

Willow closed the distance as Tara hoped

(despaired!)

she would, thrusting her lips at Tara in a manner that might almost be deemed frantic. The instant their lips collided Tara softly pressed the disc at the base of Willow’s throat, over her chakra. Her only duty now fulfilled, Tara held Willow’s lips and within moments could have wept for the pain of it. It had been so very long.

(fifty six years)

Here, in safety, in privacy, Tara let Willow explore, though she doubted Willow knew that was what she was doing. For the longest and most sublime moment Willow’s lips merely pressed against Tara’s own, before pressing a little harder as she adjusted to the fullness, the roundness, the difference. There was the tiniest tilt as Willow breathed through her nose and Tara, helpless now, captive of Willow’s whirlpool, felt the tip of Willow’s tongue brush against her closed lips. It took a great deal of restraint to keep from crushing Willow in an embrace.

Then she felt Willow’s tongue brushing against her closed lips again, more insistent now, and Tara parted her lips ever so slightly, a ball of desire lodging in her throat.

What was this? Willow’s hands had been so quiescent mere moments ago. Now they were lifting, and Tara could feel the tips of Willow’s fingers run almost shyly along the ridge of Tara’s spine, igniting sparks and storms deep in her core. Those fingers crested the rise of Tara’s shoulders to sink into the warmth of mostly black hair. Her thumbs were mimicking Tara’s thumbs, one finding that little hollow between jaw and ear, the other pressing on Tara’s own throat.

And then Willow pulled away, but before Tara could despair Willow recaptured Tara’s lips from another angle, another universe, tilting the axis of Tara’s enslaved existence until she felt as if she were sliding towards some precipice beyond which lay the unknown. Not an imaginary unknown populated by her fruitless and endless daydreams and longings, but an unknown most concrete and real, grounded in this space, this time, this very moment. This was not a chaste kiss, oh no, this was now a lover’s kiss and Tara wondered if Willow knew just what she was doing.

Then there was no space remaining for her addled thoughts, no space to analyze and decode this woman’s motives, this woman’s intent, for there was only this space, this truth, this mouth that teased her lips open even further, this tongue that swept along Tara’s lower lip.

It took all of Tara’s power to suppress a moan of sheer delight, even as Willow pulled away only to find another sweet spot, another oasis for unlucky and lovelorn travellers. Willow’s fingers were no longer contented in Tara’s hair; they moved to gently squeeze Tara’s earlobes between thumb and forefinger, sweeping down to rejoin the other hand in cupping Tara’s neck. Another tilt, another frantic breath and Tara couldn’t stop herself any longer, she had to grasp Willow’s shoulders with one hand, had to open her own mouth even wider, had to run her tongue along the smooth ridge of Willow’s teeth. Desire multiplied in her limbs, made her feel weak, made her feel powerful.

Such beauty could not last forever and Willow pressed hard one last time before pulling back for good. Tara’s kiss-swollen lips felt barren and empty, altered now, every molecule shifting and rearranging itself to accommodate this new reality. She lifted her thumb to take back the disc and realized that her head felt light and airy.

The dream was gone. Would Willow like it?

Would Willow come back for more?

(I should bring her back I should)

What truth would be written now in Willow’s eyes? Shame? Remorse? Desire?

Willow’s gaze was astonishingly clear, her cheeks beautifully flushed and she was trying to control her breathing as Tara was. There was something else in her eyes, some new confusion as she looked upon Tara’s face, but Tara was too exhausted and exhilarated to determine why.

“That’s all?” Willow asked timidly, using the arm of Tara’s chair to help her rise. “Just a kiss and it’s done?”

(I should)

Tara nodded and she tried to rise. Her muscles felt gummy and non-responsive. Willow noticed her intent and extended her hand, that fascinating and contradictory hand, and helped Tara rise.

The designer clothing and petite frame very effectively masked the enormous amount of strength Willow possessed. Tara was lifted so quickly and efficiently that she felt dizzy for a moment. She stood there with her eyes closed, head ducked, and Willow held on to her hands.

(get her out)

Scented Prada and Imperial Jasmine and oiled leather. Tara was drowning in Willow, sinking in depths of Aegean seas, the fire of her spirit doused and destroyed.

(remember Laura, Tara

remember the collar)


Looking into Willow’s eyes, losing herself in those seas, Tara deliberately ran her tongue over her lips. She had a taste now. How long could she possibly make it last? Would the depths of her imaginings scour it away?

Willow’s open face was enchanting, a soft and rosy glow to her cheeks, and Tara looked upon her in thinly veiled wonder.

(I’m running out of time

I must use her, I must use

her)


But she could not help herself; she dropped one of Willow’s hands to caress Willow’s cheek, watched as Willow’s eyes opened further. She tucked a piece of hair behind Willow’s ear and then traced a finger down her neck, feeling again the potent strength of the muscles therein. Desire to kiss her again and again rose inside her with clawing fury.

Desire to rip off those designer clothes, to draw Willow’s wrist to her mouth, to run her fingers along Willow’s bare stomach if only to determine if she was just as hard and tight there as the rest of her body, to hear and memorize the sounds that would spill from Willow’s mouth if she licked the skin underneath the pendant.

(time for choice, Tara. time for sacrifice. make it now

make it stick)


Tara abruptly dropped her hand and forced her mouth into a tight line. With every ounce of effort she possessed, Tara closed herself away and set a mask of disdain and condescension on her face. She was a queen now and Willow was a mere peasant, some oaf who dared dream of a happy ever after as if it could actually be granted by the likes of a fairy godmother.

No godmothers here. Only devils. Only the damned.

Willow’s eyes narrowed in shock and surprise. Tara went so far as to take a step back and then she cocked her hips to one side and placed a maddening smile on her face. In every language but verbal Tara lambasted Willow, saying that she was a fool, she was naïve, she was just one of many and so very insignificant.

Poor pathetic thing. Poor fool to think a kiss from a devil meant anything at all.

(I can’t see you again)

This arrogant and dismissive silence was her blade and with it she struck Willow time and again. Willow followed suit as the haughty moments passed and soon they were two blood enemies staring at each other over the rug that held the shards of their kiss.

“What do I owe you?” Willow asked, her voice raw. She picked up her handbag from the floor and yanked the clasp open before pulling out a handsome leather wallet, not new, but never used before today. By all indications Willow had been preparing for this day ever since she came to the poppy den.

Gold buttons. Diamond studded watch.

Cracker jack ring.

(never again, Willow

and you’ll never know why)


Tara’s sliding scale varied from $50 to $10,000, depending on what the client could afford. Making the dreams, using the disc, stealing silence, those were important, not the money. Willow may have been surprised to discover just how many celebrities sat in that chair, had received a kiss on the forehead from the Apothecary. Their lives were just as unrewarding, just as hollow and unsatisfying. Their fame was just another mask that couldn’t be shed. She had built many a dream of mediocrity for them, oh blessed inferiority, and they willing shed thousands of dollars for that privilege.

Damn her forever, Tara let them. They may not stink of burnt poppy to shamble to their homes in opiate bliss but they were junkies all the same. Dream junkies, coming to her again and again until waking was the nightmare and the dream the only reality they truly desired.

When that cataclysmic moment came to them, when they realized that their lives were hollow and glossy black, they ascended to the next floor of the poppy den. Eva received them there, and consoled them, and then they disappeared forever.

Tara looked into the hurt and defiant eyes of Willow and knew she never wanted Willow to return to her parlour. Part of her heart had been taken by this woman like the spoils of a great and terrible war. Part of her heart was held hostage in the shadowy recesses of Willow’s soul.

Willow could never know it.

(I will not allow her to go upstairs

Eva will not know her)


This woman deserved light and love, not Tara’s guaranteed betrayal.

“Tara,” Willow said, her voice brittle and glass.

“Fifteen thousand dollars,” Tara replied, the suddenly inflated sum sticking in her teeth. She would not look away, oh no, she would stare at Willow in the eyes because when the night came she would doubt this resolve, this choice.

(you will never know enough to thank me

you will not be another Laura)


Willow didn’t flinch. Her eyes started to blaze with fury.

Tara stood her ground, settling one heel and then the other. She was a tower of adamant.

Willow had to put away her wallet. She reached into her handbag and pulled out 15 stacks of bank notes, staring at Tara the entire time.

Neither of them said a word. When Tara would not extend her hand to take the cursed money, Willow bent over to place it on the table, next to The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, next to the stale and cool pot of Imperial Jasmine tea.

The staring contest resumed. Finally Willow said, “I guess you’ve said all you needed to say.”

Tara would not budge, would not melt. She was a mountain of stone.

No more words were said. Willow set her jaw and brushed past Tara, trailing the scent of Prada in her wake. The wooden beads clacked as Willow let herself out. Tara stood still, just breathing.

(go with whatever blessing you’ll accept from the damned, Willow)

Some time passed before Tara could compel herself to move. She retreated back inside her private quarters and from the cabinet withdrew a small vial. Using tweezers of pure silver, she pried the disc from her thumb and placed it in the vial before adding a measure of ozonated water and capping it. Using precise lettering she prepared a label with Willow’s name and the date and then affixed it to the vial.

Work before play, that’s what the Master would say.

Her movement sluggish and slow Tara returned to the den and gathered the tea tray. She ran her fingers over the book that Willow had discarded on the table. She left the stack of money just where it was.

Taking the tea service back to her miniscule kitchen, Tara glanced at the nearby mirror and realized why Willow had been surprised and confused. Gazing at her reflection, Tara realized that much of the black had been stripped from her golden tresses.

She had never kissed a client on the mouth before. Now look what she’d done.

Willow had taken part of Tara’s nightmare with her, a most unwelcome souvenir of her disastrous encounter with the Apothecary. Tara’s throat closed in pure and raw anguish.

(you didn’t want her to come back, remember?)

Now it was certain. Willow’s dream of Buffy-bliss at the fair would turn horrific. After spending fifteen thousand dollars on it, Tara knew that Willow would never return to her den.

(that’s better. safer. not for you, but for her)

Yet a small part of Tara wished that she could warn Willow of the impending change. There had been no exchange of information, no business card, no phone number, no address.

Tara didn’t even know Willow’s surname.

There was no hope of seeing those eyes, kissing those lips again.

Tara thought of those lips, lifted her hand to touch her own, to run her tongue over their perfected depths and she tasted Willow there. Her eyes and chest burned with every beat of her damned heart.

(doamne fereste!)

~

Jen
aka Tara the Phoenix

Next chapter: Don't Think (the bonds of blood are tightest) should be going up on Wednesday night. I'll post fb to fb then as well. Enjoy!


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Four (Oct 28)
PostPosted: Sun Oct 28, 2012 1:37 pm 
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2. Floating Rose
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Joined: Tue Feb 17, 2009 3:51 pm
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Location: A Hoosier in Eugene, OR
Dibs!!!

Bam! :whip

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


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Four (Oct 28)
PostPosted: Sun Oct 28, 2012 1:45 pm 
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4. Extra Flamey

Joined: Sun Nov 20, 2011 9:59 am
Posts: 160
Oh great, now I had to delete the dibs-whip! Grumble...Sure, I too could have dibsed without commenting on anything...Well, moving on, LOL!

Oh Tara, Tara, again my heart breaks for you! Feeling her chained heart warmed by a kiss the first time in half a century and forcing herself to drive Willow away hoping to save her by that act. Now she is certain Willow will never come back after the dream will turn horrible. But Tara, what if Willow wants a refund of some sort - have you thought about that...

I totally crave this story, so give me more, more, more...(Hopefully I won't wake up from a chapter one day, find my life dull and think of paying the mysterious Eve a vistit, lol!)


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Four (Oct 28)
PostPosted: Sun Oct 28, 2012 3:58 pm 
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9. Gay Now
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Location: Kaskinen, Finland. Citizen of Kitopia
Yay for great update-y goodness... Can't wait for Tara being able to tell Willow who/what she is so Willow can save her...

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Posting while nude improves your mood...


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Four (Oct 28)
PostPosted: Tue Oct 30, 2012 2:42 am 
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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
Hi Jen :)

I’m definitely starting to notice some changes now. Who is Laura? The discs are an interesting change from before. I wonder what they’re for. Maybe some kind of storage device as a way to keep a record of the dreams she gives? Or the nightmares she takes? I liked that Tara charged Willow the $15,000 instead of Willow offering the extra bit. It makes sense, since Tara is trying to do whatever she can to keep Willow from wanting to come back.


Quote:
this was now a lover’s kiss


And what a kiss it was! *sigh* Very beautiful.

Quote:
This arrogant and dismissive silence was her blade and with it she struck Willow time and again. Willow followed suit as the haughty moments passed and soon they were two blood enemies staring at each other over the rug that held the shards of their kiss.


Uh oh! This doesn’t look good. And now Willow’s gonna get some nightmares, too. Well, Willow, that’s what happens when you make out with a strange lady you just met at a poppy den! :laugh

Great chapter, and I can’t wait for the next one!

Jen

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


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Four (Oct 28)
PostPosted: Wed Oct 31, 2012 7:53 pm 
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6. Sassy Eggs
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No time for fb tonight, want to get the update to you.

J


~5~
Don’t Think
(the bonds of blood are tightest)


Willow made her way down the stairs with a slow and steady stride before emerging back into the poppy den and around the semi-comatose patrons. Their faces were composed of smoke and shadow, lined with ancient pains. Their eyes followed her passage as she wove herself through them. If they dared, they would ask what happened upstairs.

Willow felt strangely silenced and bereft; she had no words for them, no way to quantify the experience she just had, no way to explain the welter of her emotion. They had no rights to her words, no power to make her surrender this experience to their greedy and addictive ears. They were all fools, anyway.

(as I am a fool)

She was still stinging from Tara’s rejection. She felt pummelled, abused. A mongrel dog compared to the infinite cold beauty of the Apothecary.

She didn’t give a damn about the money. Plenty more where that came from.

Willow understood that she had borne witness to a most curious metamorphosis. First there had been the incomparable and coveted beauty of the Apothecary, she with dizzying and terrifying insight. Then there had been the vulnerable and weary woman who emerged from behind the curtain, bearing a dream in her empty hands, her whole body meek and exposed. Willow felt her heart fly into her throat as she looked at the change in hair colour, as she realized the depth of Tara’s need.

And then that kiss.

It must have been the kiss that catalyzed the last horrific transformation. Willow should have kept it neat, utilitarian, basic. It was the only way to get her dream, and she would have her dream no matter the cost.

Money she expected. This tribute of lips, of heat, of fascination and curiosity was vastly unexpected. Willow thought she was being high-minded, comforting the strange woman, giving her what she needed. She told herself the kiss was only pretence, only fake.

(the hell it was)

For something that began with innocence, the kiss certainly ended with an indescribable feeling of possession and delight. She actually deluded herself into thinking that Tara responded to her.

Truth now, Rosenberg. She kisses everyone like that. Everyone.

And what else did Willow really expect afterward? Murmuring lullabies of unending love? Protestations of delight and desire, some grand door opening into a future of more kisses, more silk-clad skin, more honey-coloured hair?

(I am a fool)

Tara had backed away with nothing but contempt in her eyes, mocking her with that singular beauty of hers, and Willow thought back to the days of her youth when she had been forced to change and shower in the locker room with the other girls after gym class, how they would cast those same awful glances her way, mocking her with their own haughty beauty, she with her second-hand clothing and her dollar store jewellery and the kitchen haircut.

Willow looked down at her clothing, her gold watch, and these pitiful wretches sprawled along pillows and low divans here in the poppy den. To have the shameful poverty of her childhood brought back into this place made her stomach churn with bitterness. She could feel their eyes on her as she walked through the den; feel the judgment of their gaze, mocking her with every step.

Shame broiled on her face, and she stumbled over an outstretched leg, and caught herself apologizing to this person who had no right to her words, no right to her apologies. The smoke from their pipes clung to her clothing, scouring away the scents of Tara’s parlour. The alluring jasmine, the solid leather, a whiff of dark deliciousness from the Apothecary’s very skin; all would be gone before she emerged on the street.

Thick curtains kept away the bright August afternoon sunlight. Willow looked straight ahead now, tempering her spine, grounding each foot-fall. She would not look into the corners of this dark space where the mahogany bled into the ceiling with ripples of ornate workmanship. Hopes, wishes and dreams were all captives to this space, released in the smoke of the dragon and sent to the ceiling where they hovered until they died.

Discreetly hidden in the corners of the room were nearly a dozen vid cameras. Willow had studied their readouts while hacking into the blueprints of the building, long before making her first foray. She wondered if Tara was watching her even now, congratulating herself on another victory, marking her down as another conquest.

(why did she shut herself away?)

Willow passed by the blonde-haired operator of the den without looking at her. She paused at the exit to wrap up all these mutinous thoughts into a tight package to seal it up in her mind. She would not reflect on this experience again until she was safe at home and alone.

Finally Willow burst through the door into the brash and exuberant sunlight of a California summer afternoon. The light hammered on her dark-tuned eyes, sent spikes of visual overload into her brain. She rapidly fished in her purse for her sunglasses, but before she could shimmy them on her nose she felt the solid frame of her Steward beside her.

“Your car is this way, Miss Rosenberg,” he said quietly.

Willow nodded, sliding the glasses into place. The overbearing and extravagant sunlight thus tamed Willow could see her sedan at the curb with its sleek lines and its polished exterior. It looked as out-of-place as Willow herself in this neighbourhood that was surprisingly unkempt. There was actually refuse along the curbs, and illicit weeds grew between the cracks in the sidewalk.

Lounging on the hood of the car, smoking a cigaret, was her new driver. At her steward’s sharp cough the woman straightened and pinched out the cigaret before throwing it into a nearby garbage container. Before she could stop herself, Willow whispered, “Black cat, black cat, bring me luck. If you don’t I’ll tear you up.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Rosenberg?” her Steward asked, just beyond her elbow.

“Nothing, Giles,” Willow replied.

Street urchins were staring at them, also smoking cigarets, and Willow wondered if her new driver had simply given them away or made them play a game to win them. The children were unwashed and reeking, hooting as they played leapfrog over the parking meters and threw stones at the rats. This untidy and questionable neighbourhood seemed to embrace them like a matron; Willow and her entourage were the unwelcome ones here.

Thank goodness they always brought the sedan, not the Rolls, though her driver was more than capable of keeping the looky-loos away. Faith Lehane had more than one dagger secreted on her person, and had been hired to be more than just a driver.

(I never needed a bodyguard before

before)


Giles opened the back door for her and she slid onto the leather seat. The windows were tinted and shatterproof, intended to keep out more than overfriendly rays of sunshine. A moment later both her Steward and her driver got into the car and then waited for her instructions.

Willow made them wait while she looked out the window, taking off her sunglasses to stare at the mean exterior of the building. It was one of the oldest buildings in Sunnydale, of brick and mortar construction, flat-faced and stark, nothing about it to entice or enchant. All the windows were blinded with heavy drapes, masking the dangerous wonders within. Tara’s parlour itself had no windows – it had been one of Giles’ main concerns when she made up her mind to go.

It was he who insisted upon procuring the blueprints and studying the layout of each floor, from basement to the fourth. They knew exactly how Tara’s floor was laid out, the kitchen and living space, the small bedchamber and washroom, the unnamed and large workroom along the back. There were no windows in that room either.

Willow could smell cigaret smoke in the car and she was suddenly angry. She sniffed her blouse and could smell nothing but burnt poppy and tobacco and her heart sank. Looking out the window again, Willow told herself not to touch her lips, not in front of the hired help.

It was apparent that the memory of her kiss with Tara would be the only tangible evidence of her transaction today. The kiss, and the memory of the Apothecary’s tortured eyes. What had this world done to her, to have her effect such transformation? What defence mechanism had been activated, what contingency plan enacted? Surely there had to be a reason, a real reason.

(maybe it was a bad kiss, Rosenberg, you think of that?

maybe you’re lousy at kissing

you’re certainly out of practice)


Her staff waited while silence grew thick and oppressive in the car. They waited for her gesture, her word that would release them back into known spheres of existence, as if they could erase the last few hours of her life. As if to render them meaningless, just silly Willow-delusions.

They didn’t know what happened above the poppy den, and they never would.

Faith looked restless but Giles was still. He was used to her moods, her peculiarities. Perhaps too much so.

A year ago Willow never would have entered a place like the poppy den, unless she was there to acquire information. Back when Buffy was alive and Xander was home and life was as close to normal as it would ever get.

Before Persia.

A year ago they had stood together under sunlit trees and watched Buffy exchange vows with Riley, her face radiant, happiness blooming from her very skin. Before Xander lost his eye and Giles was struck with shrapnel and it was all Willow’s fault, everything that happened in Persia and everything after.

A year after that storybook wedding, and Giles didn’t look at her the same anymore. When she started frequenting the poppy den the disappointment on his face was almost enough to make her stop.

Almost.

But then she might never have known of the existence of the Apothecary, nor become party to the woman’s strange gifts. Willow’s desire had been so strong, her designs so perfect, her plans incorruptible, and only Buffy was on her mind, the loss of Buffy some aching crevasse that only widened and deepened with time. Gone was the camaraderie, the laughing, the joking, the eating of Oreo cookies and the flicking of popcorn at Xander and how was it possible for Willow to lose everything she loved so incredibly fast? What wrong had she ever perpetrated to merit such a perverse punishment as this?

Only Giles remained, and her Steward represented the last bastion against the madness and guilt that crept up her skin. She loved him even as she despised what he stood for; looking at his face was like looking into the greatest mistakes of her past. From time to time she wished she could fire him and get him out of her life, just so she wouldn’t have to be reminded of that night, the night of the scimitar and the rose garden, the night of the well and the Mongols. She could fire him, just so she wouldn’t have to face the disappointment in his eyes.

Such thoughts were meaningless. They were bound to each other now.

(the bonds of blood are tightest)

Willow touched the cracker jack ring on her finger and almost asked Faith to drive around the back of the building and into the alley, just so she could look up at the windows that opened into Tara’s living space.

However, self restraint was very Willow these days, as it had rarely been before.

“Take me home, please,” Willow said instead.

Faith nodded, her dark hair cunningly drawn into her driver’s cap, her lips fiery with lipstick. She managed to wear the uniform with sultry grace, transforming the plain black and white cloth into the stuff of fantasy. As much as Willow would have preferred to come to this appointment alone, she was too valuable to go almost anywhere without her staff.

That was proven a month ago, when her car had been hijacked and her previous driver killed. Willow managed to dispatch her assailant herself, not without a bullet wound and significant blood loss.

Willow watched as Faith rolled down the window to shake her fist and yell at the urchins to get out of her way. Giles scowled at the young woman and then looked back at Willow. Willow nodded, feeling almost nauseated with loneliness, and a dark panel lifted between the front and back seats, effectively cutting off Faith’s cursing and the sickly smell of the neighbourhood.

Even then Willow could not allow herself to rest. By long tradition Giles would not look at the vid screen that could display the trunk, the front and back seats, the undercarriage and the immediate surroundings of the car. That didn’t stop the cameras from always rolling, capturing every moment on her servers. Just in case.

Caution was a lesson hard earned. Another lesson from Persia.

Willow would not allow those cameras to capture her unguarded or weak with emotion. She had for so long trained herself to show as little emotion as possible. She would not relax until she was home, and training was complete, and she could read a book and play with her puppy.

When night came with all the new promise that night now held, she could slide between the satin sheets of her over-large bed and dream the dream the Apothecary created for her, a dream of Buffy, a dream of saying goodbye.

And if sleep eluded her for any length of time she could indulge herself in other imagining, other dreaming; memories composed of grey silk and imperial jasmine and incomparable lips.

This time it took considerable effort to shut those memories away, but Willow finally accomplished it. If she thought of the kiss she would have to think of the Apothecary, both before and after.

So Willow looked out of the window instead and saw the streets of Sunnydale pass by. The university, three different cemeteries, a park or two, streets filled with houses and people who hurried along their miserly little lives, caught in the grand delusion of the universe.

(maya)

Then they were speeding through Miller’s Woods, and finally emerged at the guardhouse and entrance of her estate where Giles and Faith submitted to retinal scans to gain admittance. The gates opened easily and without sound, the roadway lasers temporarily deactivated, and they drove up the long and beautiful lane marked by sentinels of ancient trees, all tall and vibrant in the summer sun.

Practically before the car even halted at the front entrance to the house Giles jumped out to open Willow’s door. Willow slowly pulled herself out of the car; she could feel Faith emerge from the driver’s seat and stare at her. Her mouth drawn in a straight line, Willow swivelled her head to stare at the girl. Faith’s cheeks coloured slightly, but she kept on staring right back at Willow, too impudent to stop when caught.

It was the most damning trait Willow had observed thus far in her new driver.

Giles fussed at Willow’s elbow. Willow released Faith’s gaze to look at her driver instead. The afternoon sunlight was not nearly so kind on his face; the rather deep scar he sported on one cheek created puckering shadows and pulled slightly at one eye. It looked so out of place on his studious face, a face more accustomed to reading and study than warfare.

Willow secretly found great comfort in his Briton ways, his accent that curled over certain words, his immaculate shoes and his fondness for fencing. Until today he had been the master brewer of all teas.

(don’t think of that, either)

Willow knew that everyone underestimated her Steward and the vast skills he brought to her household. Just because his face looked more at home in a library than a battlefield didn’t negate the fact that he was one of the most skilled warriors she had ever known. He could have trained her himself, but he must have had some reason for hiring an Armsmaster.

(who is also a Briton but certainly not a Steward)

Giles’ tweed clothing and spectacles were as much a disguise as her own designer clothing and ill-suited watch.

(why had Tara never organized her books?)

He stayed a pace behind her as she ascended the steps to her front door. Her home was more a mansion than a house and used to belong to some billionaire who lost all his money as precipitously as he had gained it and died penniless and raving at the White House in Los Angeles. Buffy had been with her the day they toured the estate four years ago, riding in golf carts because of its vast nature. Willow had always thought the entire place a tad extravagant but Buffy had begged her to buy it.

(my mom is never around anymore

I need a place to come home to, Will)


The driveway extended to the back of the building, where the sloping lawn had created a walk-out basement and garage. Along the west side of the house was a narrow covered walkway that connected the main house with the staff quarters, several wings radiating out from a common living space and kitchen. Within the expansive lawn beyond the house was a swimming pool and meticulously kept patios, beyond which were reflecting pools and fountains and numerous paths that led throughout the vast treed grounds.

The perimeter of which was wired and guarded for security, using means both technological and magical.

The sun was a warm glow on her back now as it raced to the horizon for the end of the day. The warmth penetrated her cream-coloured blouse, but it still seemed and thin and fake compared with other warmth she had felt earlier this day.

(not yet, Rosenberg, get a hold of yourself

embrace the now)


She cleared her throat and Giles immediately spoke. “Your armsmaster will arrive in forty minutes, Miss Rosenberg.”

Willow paused on the top step to look back at him, and then beyond him to Miss Lehane. Giles must have lectured her on the way home; she did not light a smoke nor did she lounge on the hood. She stood by the car instead, stiff and cold in the anvil heat of summer, her lips that brilliant shade of red and defiance writ all over her face.

Too impudent to stop when caught.

Willow smiled a grim little smile, feeling reckless and challenged. “See to it that Faith joins us this evening.”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

~

To be continued (hopefully) this Sunday with Chapter Six: Poverty

Jen


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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Five (Oct 31)
PostPosted: Wed Oct 31, 2012 8:22 pm 
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2. Floating Rose
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Location: A Hoosier in Eugene, OR
Dibs!!!

Such a great chapter! I'll have more fb in a bit...

Really, very awesome!


Feedback time! Maybe it’s more ‘eventually’ than ‘in a bit”, but better late than never right? ;)

So, yeah. Wow. This chapter is just sooo good! There’s so much information here about Willow, and her thoughts and feelings. It’s very interesting to see the differences between what Tara sees/knows/guesses (kinda unsure how much of it is which...) and what’s really going on. Tara definitely has an idea of what is going on in Willow’s heart (esp. regarding Buffy and the dream) but she doesn’t know everything about Willow, does she? Nopety nope.

It’s sad to see Willow so torn up about the kiss. I mean, she’s obviously mad and upset because of the response from Tara at the end, but she can’t stop thinking about it.

Quote:
Looking out the window again, Willow told herself not to touch her lips, not in front of the hired help.

It was apparent that the memory of her kiss with Tara would be the only tangible evidence of her transaction today. The kiss, and the memory of the Apothecary’s tortured eyes. What had this world done to her, to have her effect such transformation? What defence mechanism had been activated, what contingency plan enacted? Surely there had to be a reason, a real reason.


Gah! Willow has such a loving and compassionate heart. Even hurting and angry she’s still concerned about Tara.

I like the changes you’ve made to this chapter. There’s more backstory than before, and I think it’s an interesting way to show the change that’s beginning in Willow. Because, she has all this past, this history, with “the Scoobies”, but her meeting with Tara and the subsequent kiss has changed her (even if she doesn’t want to admit it). She’s different now, and maybe she can start to move forward and past the sadness she’s been carrying with her. Which is why she went to Tara in the first place! It’s just a different means to the end than she was expecting. Personally, I think kisses would definitely help Willow more than the false euphoria of Tara’s dreams. And really, who wouldn’t want kisses to be a solution to sadness and other bad things?

Again, a very great chapter, and I look forward to seeing how Willow deals with her upcoming nightmare.

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


Last edited by waitnsee on Fri Nov 02, 2012 12:53 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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 Post subject: Re: NEW: The Apothecary - Chapter Five (Oct 31)
PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2012 4:56 am 
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9. Gay Now
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Yay for excellent update-y goodness... Nice to get some info from Willow's POV... Can't wait for Willow's unexpected nightmare and her reaction to it...

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