Just a small update I've been sitting on for a long while....
Through a Glass, Darkly
Occam’s Razor (Chapter 4 of ? Part 2)
By Raspberryhat
Disclaimer: BtVS does not belong to me. I respectfully borrow from Buffyverse in order to construct this story. This work is entirely non-commercial. No person, organisation, web-master or otherwise receives any kind of compensation for this work.
Background: Everything up to the end of Season Six happened as per canon.
Timeframe: The story begins three weeks after the end of Season 6/Grave. From that point on it’s AU.
Spoilers: Seasons three through six.
Pairing: W/T
Distribution: Please ask me first if you’d like to distribute this.
Rating: This part of the story is classified PG-13.
Warnings: Angst, some violence.
Feedback: Feedback is appreciated, but please be gentle.
Draft: 0.6/ July 10th 2006.
***
Willow stood in the doorway to the empty kitchen. The early morning sunlight lent the room a warming lustre. But the air was stale. The only tangible evidence of the evening she’d spent with her mother were the two half empty coffee cups left on the kitchen table. To her mother, she’d hoped to have been a woman getting on with her life, the scars of her excesses healed enough. To her regret, it hadn’t been so. Yet, stripped of all pretension, Willow found a cold comfort.
Looking around the deserted room, she remembered it hadn’t always felt so lifeless. Once it had been the vibrant centre of the house. When her mother and father were still on the lower rungs of their academic careers. When she was still in school. Ghost images cavorted and tumbled from distant memory and danced in her mind’s eye. Her father flared bright but faded so quickly. She felt a tincture of sadness at how insubstantial his mark on her world had become. She watched herself. Ten years sped her from care free child who loved to spend time with her mother to adult before her time. Infrequent visits were encumbered with silent cares, and unspoken loss. And then there was only imagination. For she hadn’t been there. She saw her mother. Solitary routine. And then, when everyone was gone, life had somehow stalled. Willow had thought her mother was defined by everything but her family. She knew she’d been completely wrong.
She approached the kitchen table and pulled out one of the chairs. Sitting down, Willow rested her chin in cupped hands and wondered what to say to her mother. Explaining the nature of her peripatetic existence to her very secular mother was not going to be easy. She was still trying to understand it herself. And talking about Tara still threatened to overwhelm her. Yet, as her mind wondered, little by little, thoughts coalesced into words that might help her mother understand.
Watching her mother seat herself and carefully place a fresh cup of coffee on the table, Willow exhaled slowly, in readiness for calm speech. She thought her mother would be unlikely to resume the conversation of last night. Not after what she’d seen. It would be up to Willow to set the pace now. Keeping her tone casual, Willow asked, “So, Mom, did Giles say anything else about me?”
Willow watched her mother’s expression cloud with uncertainty. She wasn’t surprised by her hesitation.
When she did speak, the words were voiced with measured care. “He said you became...self destructive.”
Willow’s gaze dropped. She studied her hands and noticed tiny black filaments still scored her cuticles. Bringing herself back to the moment, she nodded. “It’s complicated,” she whispered, “I...” suddenly her carefully considered words deserted her. “After Tara, I knew...” She broke off.
Came the timorous response; “What did you know?”
Only the bald truth was possible now. She sighed deeply. “That nothing mattered. That a soul like Tara’s should have to live in this world is a tragedy.”
“Willow, I do understand. We love beyond death and it hurts.”
“How can you know?” came the quiet retort.
“Willow, we really don’t know each other very well.”
A complex sadness lined her mother’s face and for a moment Willow felt curiosity eclipse her own travails. She managed a wan smile and waited patiently for her mother to continue.
Preceded by a hopeful smile, Sheila Rosenberg voiced her concern. “Mr Giles told me he’d arranged for you to spend some time with a counsellor, in England. He said she was very experienced with these things.”
It was almost funny. ‘Experienced’ was the way Giles had described Elizabeth to her and she’d not understood even a hint of what that meant. “She was experienced with all kinds of things,” she conceded.
“Willow, all I want to know is; did it help?”
She examined her nails again and considered the question for a long time. “It helped, in a way.” She looked up at her mother and managed a wan smile. “Mom, I am so sorry.”
Sheila faltered. “Willow, I-I didn’t even know her name. She obviously meant a lot to you.”
The memory arose unbidden; “I embarrass you.” The quietness of Tara’s statement had done nothing to diminish its effect. She winced. She hadn’t meant to hide what she and Tara had. She’d been home so rarely. Yet a lunch had been arranged. Tara had been there. Willow had been ready to tell her mother. But somehow it didn’t happen. Small-talk had turned into another intellectual discussion. Willow, wanting to keep her mother in a good frame of mind, had performed the role of the dutiful foil. Tara had sat quietly through the whole discourse. And, somehow, it ended before it started. The moment she’d hoped for never came. As they’d left, walking down the street, Tara had taken her hand and Willow immediately sensed her discomfort.
Willow pulled her eyes away and absently glanced at the clock on the wall. Thoughts of the past forgotten, she looked back at her mother. “I am going to be late. I have to go.”
Her mother looked surprised. “Go where?”
“I have a job interview to get to. Giles arranged it. I need to be there.”
“Oh.”
“We can carry this on later,” she offered. Seeing her mother’s expression relax, Willow got up to leave, grateful for the break in conversation, at the same time nervous of the meeting she was heading out to.
“Willow?”
She turned in the doorway. “Yeah?
“Have a good day.”
Willow hesitated, surprised by the small pleasantry. “Thanks.”
***
Approaching the old greenhouse, Willow wondered if she had the right place. Paint flaked from the window frames and the inside of the glass was coated with green moss. Above the door, a faded square plaque had a ‘4’ painted on it. Before trying the brass handle, Willow put her head against the window and peered through. Roses, everywhere, against a background of dark green foliage. From the door, a narrow gravel path led through the glass house.
Taking a deep breath, Willow opened the door and gasped at the change of atmosphere. She couldn’t help but smile appreciatively as she inhaled. The air was warm, abundant with the scent of exotic plants. Closing the door behind her, Willow sauntered along the path, still uncertain she was in the right place. The gardener she’d asked on her way through the park had said Mrs Meyer was in Greenhouse Four.
Roses, seemingly of every type sat in neat rows upon waist high benches. Climbing roses decorated the walls and curled around the ancient looking irrigation system that dangled precariously above. Looking down, Willow saw additional clay pots, pushed into every available space. Even with her exhaustive study of all things Wicca, she saw plants and flowers that she did not recognise.
“Miss Rosenberg?”
Startled, Willow looked up and saw a silver haired lady approaching her. The woman wore jeans, an old green cardigan and looked exactly as Willow had imagined; a genial grandmother. As she drew near, she proffered a hand. “Maria Meyer.”
She extended her own hand. “Willow, er Rosenberg” she affirmed.
Mrs Meyer gave her an appraising look. “I see that.” She strolled past Willow, back towards the door. “Come on. It’s this way.”
Bemused, Willow followed Mrs Meyer out.
Willow looked around at the perfectly kempt lawns surrounding lush beds, home to a myriad of well nurtured looking plants and shrubs.
“We’re standing in Garden One of seven separate gardens. You’ll be helping care for the roses here and in three and six. There’s always plenty to do.”
The ‘garden’ had to be several acres. At the far end she saw a high, brick wall covered in verdant green, suffused with late summer blooms. A wide gravel path led to the far end, with narrow spurs leading off at regular intervals, invitations to the curious.
“Come on, there’s lots to show you.”
Willow followed as Mrs Meyer picked a well practiced path through each garden, all the while continuing a narrative on their content, history and purpose. Set along one side of each garden was a thick wall, perhaps twelve feet high. As they rambled, Willow realised the gardens were arranged geometrically, with each high wall marking out the side of some central space they hadn’t seen yet. Another garden maybe?
Mrs Meyer stopped in front of a stone sculpture, a figure holding a sun-dial above its head. Willow noticed the figure seemed to be an emaciated human form, with mischievous hollow eyed children dangling from its limbs.
“So what do you think?”
Willow looked up and tried to shake the rather visceral statuette from her mind. She wondered how much more there was to see. “It’s big.”
Mrs Meyer smiled. “That’s why we need so many helpers here.”
“Er, Mrs Meyer?”
“Yes my dear?”
“I, er, I thought, well I thought I’d have to pass an interview or something?”
“Oh no dear, you’ll do just fine.”
Willow didn’t know what to say.
“Be back here tomorrow at 8am and Laurence will show you what to do. You met him on the way in?”
Willow frowned. “Oh, the gardener?”
Mrs Meyer nodded. “If you have any problems or you can’t find Laurence, you’ll usually find me in the greenhouse.”
“Okay.”
Mrs Meyer turned to head back the way they’d come. “We’d better get back now. There’s something I want to give you before you leave.”
***
Morning light from the antimony horizon danced over the dune, at the top of which two figures stood in civilised conversation. The distant crystalline mountains gave gentle iridescence to the sky.
“You see those mountain ranges?”
Mr White followed Antorwath’s gaze.
“Yes.”
“They sublimate energy.”
“The edge of the crystal's microcosm?”
“That’s right Doctor. The tips of those mountains reach into her world. They touch her skin. They burrow into her flesh.”
Mr White asked, “How does it work?”
“Herr Doctor, you surprise me. You don’t know?” Antorwath turned to face his companion.
Evenly, Mr White responded, “We never need to know how. We just knew it worked.”
“When she feels pain, if she remembers too much, then the power flows.” His eyes became melancholy. “The air sparkles. It tastes...” Antorwath turned back to the horizon, breathing deep of the fresh morning air.
Oblivious to Antorwath’s pleasurable reverie, Mr White asked, “Can it be seen?”
Antorwath smiled again. “It’s wonderful. It dances and shines through the air. It’s wonderful. The crystals draw it from her. It hurts her.”
Antorwath’s smile faded, “Though the mountains have not grown for some time.”
Mr White raised an eyebrow. “Is there time here?”
“After a fashion. Time has passed in her world. She’s more controlled now.”
Mr White considered for a moment. “She’s no longer a threat to us?”
“No. She’s a victim. Even if she understands her condition, she’ll never be able to do anything about it.”
“Are you sure?”
“You doubt me Doctor?”
“Of course not. We just have to be cautious. We’ve waited too long to leave anything to chance.”
Antorwath drew his expression back from the horizon. Grey eyes intense, he spoke slowly. “You’re right of course. I must tell you, I...anticipate my re-birth into the world. If the other was still alive then maybe we would have something to fear.”
Dr White smiled. “That matter was taken care of as predicted. The world is entirely ready. It needs us.”
“That’s good to hear.” Antorwath’s expression became opaque as he wondered casually, "They’ll be ready for me?”
A smile pulled at Mr White’s lips. “They’ll be ready,” he answered evenly.
“I wish to know my children.”
“And you will.”
“In which case Doctor, our business for now is over. I must return.”
The old scientist watched Antorwath stroll away across dunes.
Dr White opened his eyes and allowed the familiarity of his study to return to him. His chair turned towards the hearth, his eyes re-focussed on the crackling flames. He looked upward onto the mantle and smiled at familiar symbols of his past, arrayed in military neatness.
“Sir?”
He turned his chair toward the speaker.
“Sir, do you require anything?”
“Yes Raphael. It’s time for us leave. Arrange flights.”
“What about Braun?”
“We’re finished with her.”
Raphael’s face hardened. “Of course.”
***
TBC...
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