Hello, all. At last, another big update. I apologize ahead of time for the angst. But, what can I say? If you need to catch up on the story?
Pg. 1: Prologue
Pg. 3: Part One: Descent(A)
Pg. 4: Part One: Descent(B)
Pg. 9: Part One: Descent(C)
Pg. 14: Part Two: Maelstrom(A)
Pg. 18: Smutus Interruptus, Part 1
Pg. 20: Smutus Interruptus, Part 2
Pg. 22: Part Two: Maelstrom(1B)
Pg. 23: Part Two: Maelstrom(2B)
Pg. 24: Part Two: Maelstrom(1C)
Pg. 28: 'Preview' Part Two: Maelstrom(2C)
Pg. 32: Part Two: Maelstrom(2C)
Pg. 51: Part Three: Undone(A)
Pg. 53: Part Three: Undone(B)
Pg. 54: ‘Preview’ Part Three: Undone(C)
Pg. 55: Part Three: Undone(C)
Pg. 55: Part Three: Undone(D)
Other than that, you can read the Disclaimer below. Enjoy. Or not. Let me know. And thanks again, for staying with the story!
Title: Darkness Falls
Author: KrisBo5 (Kris, obviously)
Email address: KrisBo5@aol.com
Feedback: Sure, I’d love it.
Distribution: This story is the narrative form of four spec scripts I have written for BVS, each of which is registered with the WGAw, so please don’t publish it or reproduce it in any way, shape, or form. If for some reason you’d like to, just ask first. It’s the polite thing to do.
Spoilers: Season 6, “Entropy” and “Seeing Red” episodes. Everything else? Blame on me.
Rating: The story in its entirety: PG-13 to NC–17. This includes sex, violence, language.
Pairing: Willow and Tara, that goes without saying. However, Buffy and the others are here as well.
Disclaimer: I didn’t create these characters, Joss and crew did. I’m just borrowing them for the story I did write.
Summary: The mythology surrounding the creation of the first Slayer.
Note: I don’t know anything about magic or Wicca. Anything I have written about in here is just my own “make believe” and should not be considered reliable, factual, accurate, or real, as it were. Any mistakes I have made are my own and were used just for effect in the story. No offense is intended to anyone who practices.
Darkness Falls, Part Three: Undone(E)
“Profound joy is remembering; profound grief, the same.” Clive Barker, Weaveworld
Willow squinted in the sudden blackness of the room, popping stars and swirls of red and orange and yellow blowing up before her eyes. She blinked rapidly and shook her head as she tried to disperse the colored spots. Leveling her gaze towards the door once again, Willow stared silently into the dark, towards the figure standing just inside the door. “T-Tara?”
From where she stood, Tara’s form completely blocked out what tiny light had previously shone through the small slot in the door. Despite the absence of any light, Tara found she had no problem seeing the darkened cell in its entirety. And she had no problem seeing Willow. . . at all. All of Tara’s senses were heightened, overly sensitive to every sight and sound and smell around her. Her eyes bored through the blackness as if the afternoon sun lit the cell; her gaze traveled over the floor of the dark, dank room until her eyes settled on the dirty, bruised and bloodied form of the redhead. Still, she remained quiet and unmoving, shrouded by shadows.
The hush between them became intolerable for Willow; the desire to know, with absolute certainty, if the figure across the cell from her was truly Tara, was too much to keep her quiet any longer. “Tara?” she asked once more, the sound thunderous in the tombed quiet. She swallowed the dry lump from her throat and shifted against the wall, pushing until she sat somewhat upright. “Is that—”
A half-smile crossed Tara’s lips, and she lifted her chin as she considered what her next move, what her next words, should be.
So, . . . the witch. . . the. . . . “Willow,” Tara said, her voice ringing hollow and flat.
At the sound of Tara’s voice, Willow’s breath burst from her lungs and her body began to tremble. Tears filled her eyes and blurred her vision until Tara shimmered before her in glassy, watery waves. “Oh, God,” she said, leveraging her legs beneath her as she used her hands to push herself to her knees. “Tara, . . . Baby, . . . .” Pain fell over Willow as she tried to stand, and she reached out to the wall behind her to catch her balance; the
cling-cling-cling-cling-clang of the chain rang loudly as it dragged over the stone floor. Willow halted any further attempts to stand, thinking it best— for the time-being at least— that she remain as close to the ground as possible. Willow rubbed her hand across her closed eyes, trying to disperse the shooting stars that dashed and fluttered before them. Taking a breath, she opened her eyes wide, blinking several times before she fixed her gaze on Tara.
Why is she . . . . Willow’s heart pounded furiously in her chest, a sudden fear and trepidation rising within her as Tara remained silent and distant, hidden in shadow.
What’s. . . . Willow swallowed hard. One thought—
that one thought— she had both feared and denied for so long, slowly began creeping its way into her mind.
. . . wrong. . . . Willow kept perfectly still. “Tara,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Are you al—” Willow’s question froze on her lips as Tara stepped further into the cell.
Tara tilted her head as she watched Willow try— but ultimately fail— to get to her feet. The half-smile she wore bloomed fully for one brief moment, but she caught herself before the burgeoning laughter within her could erupt. She licked her lips and swallowed, keeping in shadows as she reigned in her emotions. And, then, as she watched Willow struggle to stand, a momentary frown stitched Tara’s brow and she shifted uncomfortably.
“Your eyes. . . ” Willow said, her voice barely audible, “ . . . are sky-blue.”
The fleeting image skipped across Tara’s mind, dancing just beyond her grasp, but the feelings it produced seemed so close and so familiar, that she gave a long pause. She shifted again and tried to recall the image in greater detail.
Before Tara could do this however, the
cling-cling-cling-cling-clang of chain-metal broke through her contemplative state and she blinked several times as the confusing, elusive image was completely chased from her mind. And then, all that remained, were a miasma of warm, calming sensations, sensations so very similar to the ones she had experienced earlier in the bedroom; the feelings washed over her in a soothing wave and her struggle to decipher the image seemed unimportant, and they vanished beneath that wave, buried, hidden, gone. Willow’s voice dispelled all lingering thoughts, all except those which had brought Tara to the cell in the first place.
“Tara,” she said, her voice hardly a whisper. “Are you al—”
Tara moved further into the cell, keeping herself to the shadows as she approached the shackled, redheaded witch. She kept her eyes fixed on Willow’s frozen posture as she took those first steps deeper into the darkness.
Willow flexed her fingers against the cold, wet stone wall as Tara walked into the cell. Closer Tara came, and yet she stayed inside shadow and darkness.
Tara was there.
Tara was alive.
Standing before her.
But Willow didn’t understand why Tara wasn’t speaking to her, why she was just standing there, so far away. So far away. What Willow had to know, what she needed to know, was all but impossible in the dark and at this distance. What Willow feared most— that something horrible had happened to Tara— she now had to know. . . .
She had to know.
Willow swallowed hard, trying to get her heartbeat under control before she spoke again.
Oh, God, please, please. . . . Taking in a deep breath, Willow pushed against the wall as hard as she could and forced her tired legs beneath her; her body shook with her effort, but she struggled to her feet and leaned heavily against the wall. Whitish-yellow dots danced before her as she focused her eyes into the darkness. Tara stood only five feet away from her, but for Willow, her lover may as well have been a million miles away, the distance seemed that great.
Please, please, please. . . .
Tara stopped walking as Willow stood up. As she waited for the redhead to regain her balance, she glanced towards the small window to her right, then slowly around herself at the sparse, medieval surroundings. Everything in the cell was wet and cold and dirty, and there was a unwavering odor of something rotten and fetid permeating the stagnant air. Tara knew, instinctively, that she needn’t look any further into the shadows to discover what— or who— was the owner of that distinct, and very and unique, smell; whoever, or whatever, it was, undoubtedly deserved each and every pain that had been inflicted, as well as the inevitable, agonizing death which followed.
Wonderful. Her mouth turned up in a cruel, half-smirk, and a soft derisive laugh escaped her lips.
The abrasive sound brought Willow to a swift halt.
That was not Tara. Tara didn’t sound like that. Not ever. She took a deep breath before she spoke. “Tara,” she said, a soft timbre of fear filling her voice.
Tara tilted her head at the noticeable change in Willow’s voice.
Let us begin. . . . “Willow,” she answered, her voice low and gentle. She made a small ‘tsk’-ing sound. “What have you done to yourself?” she continued, a soft quaver making its way into the question.
. . . what? Willow’s brow furrowed at the tone of Tara’s voice. It was so soft and so gentle and so. . . scared?
. . . Tara? “I. . . .” she began, as she touched the fingers of her free hand against the bloodied gash on the side of her head. In that instant before answering, she decided to forego the simplistic ‘I got the holy-Hell beat outta me’ and went for the most important answer.
Oh, God, I found you. . . . “I came to— I-I found you,” she finished.
“Why?”
Willow dropped her hand from her head.
What? “Wh-what?” she croaked out, a broken whisper. She pushed herself up straight, away from the wall, until she stood as erect as her body would allow. She faced the figure in the shadows directly. “Tara, . . . what?”
“Why?” Tara repeated in the same voice. “Why did you come for me?”
Willow shook her head softly, still completely dumbfounded by the question. “Tara, . . . .” Willow lifted her hands from her sides. Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision as she answered. “I love you,” Willow said at last, letting her hands fall back to her sides. A tear escaped and slid down a dirty, bloody cheek.
Where else would I go?
“I. . . .”
End one of two. Tara smiled in the darkness. “. . . love you too, Willow.”
A sob escaped from Willow as Tara’s words reached her. Her knees felt weak and threatened to buckle beneath the weight of those five words, and Willow let all of her tears fall unabated. All of the pain, all of the injuries, all of the loss— just
all of it— faded away with those five simple words. She sniffed back her tears and looked at Tara with new hope.
***
Buffy and Dawn stared at Giles. All three sat, unmoving, at the dining room table, the only sound in the room coming from the clock on the mantlepiece. Dawn scratched her eyebrow absently. Buffy tilted her head as she contemplated what they had just been told.
Beneath the sisters’ heavy, silent gazes, Giles shifted somewhat nervously. He cleared his throat and straightened the papers and books laid out before him on the table. “Um,” he started, removing his glasses and wiping them with his handkerchief. “I know this is a tremendous amount of information to absorb in such a short time, but I believe the research is quite accurate and it’s for the be—”
Buffy raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t,” she said, “just. . . don’t.” He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow at her, then slid his glasses back on. “Don’t say ‘it’s for the best,’ okay?” She felt Dawn’s eyes move to her, and she sighed. “I mean, come on, Giles.
That’s the best you could come up with?” She grabbed the sword beside her and pushed her chair back so she could stand.
That’s your idea of ‘it might not be too late’?” Buffy moved away from the table in a graceful, if frustrated motion, and walked to the window behind her. She glanced out into the dark night. “We’re not in enough shit?” she whispered to herself, and rubbed her fingers over her tired eyes.
Dawn got up from her chair as well and, grabbing hold of her crossbow, she followed Buffy over to the window. She turned and leaned back against the wall, facing her sister. After a further moment of silence, she suggested, “You probably shouldn’t stand there.” Buffy turned her eyes to her sister. “In front of the window.”
Buffy watched as one of the teen’s eyebrows lifted and she actually smirked at her. The Slayer shook her head softly and laughed, then took a step to her left so she was not in front of the window any longer. Buffy leaned a shoulder against the wall and faced Dawn completely. “And how’d you get so strategic?”
Dawn shrugged. “Battleship?”
Giles cleared his throat again, drawing the sisters’ attention. “Buffy, I know how you must feel about this, but I still believe it’s the best course.”
Buffy shook her head as Giles spoke. “No. No, you don’t know how I feel about this, Giles.” She pushed away from the wall and walked over to stand beside her former Watcher. “How could you
possibly know? You haven’t been here. You haven’t seen.”
Giles tipped his head in a silent acknowledgement to her aassessment. “I
do know how you feel about he—”
“I’m not talking about that,” Buffy interrupted. “I can deal with that if I have to.
That— at the very least—
is something I understand.” She paused momentarily. “Though as far as plans go? It’s fucked up.” Buffy pointed to the piles of books and miscellany on the table; she reached down and lifted a book, tipping her head at the open page, “I’m talking about that.” She pushed the book out to Giles; he took the book from her in an almost reverent manner. “That’s not proof. That’s not— it doesn’t say anything for sure. It doesn’t even mention her by name, Giles.”
“It’s what we have.”
“That ain’t much.”
“Agreed.”
“And if we’re wrong? Then what, Giles? We’ll all be chasing deadends, and. . . .” She glanced quickly towards the stairs. “And somebody gets killed.”
Giles carefully set the book back down on the table. He took a deep breath and pushed his hands into his pants pockets. He nodded slowly. “Yes.” Buffy’s breath left her in a disgusted sigh and she shook her head softly; her shoulders sagged visibly. Giles waited patiently for her to speak, but when she didn’t, he continued. “Glory was never mentioned by name, if you recall,” he said. “‘She who will not be named,’” he went on, catching Buffy’s eyes with his own.
Dawn moved away from the window, walking back to stand beside Buffy’s vacated chair; she stood, quiet, beside Buffy as The Slayer and Giles continued. As they talked, Dawn looked down at the books and other miscellaneous paraphernalia spread out on the table, her eyes finding a small crystal-looking amulet strung on a worn piece of leather string. She reached out and picked up the smooth, crystal, letting the cool glass rest in her open palm.
Buffy raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, and look how well that whole thing turned out.”
Giles smiled. “Yes, indeed.”
Buffy lowered her eyes to the books on the table. Their entire conversation raced through her mind: the guessing, the surmising, the supposition, the implication. There was nothing concrete for her to hold onto, nothing solid for her to send her rage and hurt against. She flexed her grip on the hilt of the sword, taking comfort in the unyielding metal beneath her fingers. “She’s just a vampire,” Buffy said at last and looked at Giles.
Giles tipped his head, considering. “I have no doubts in your ability as a slayer, Buffy.”
“But.”
“But,” Giles continued, “you, yourself, admitted that when you fought her in that alley, you felt something— something unlike anything else you had ever experienced before. It wasn’t exactly the ‘thrall’ you encountered with Dracula, but nonetheless it was something that made you. . . hesitate. Something that made you feel— well, for lack of a better word— weak.”
Buffy stiffened visibly, offended by her former Watcher’s summation of her initial battle with Madrine. “I know what she’s capable of now.”
Giles nodded and pursed his lips as if he were considering the statement. “Maybe.” He reached down and touched the page of the open book with his index finger. He began to read out loud.
***