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A/N: Okayyyy. I'm just trying to wrap up my fictions, because they're really weighing on me! I'm sorry if this is a bit rushed, but this is exactly what I had planned from the beginning. Hopefully it's fulfilling enough for you guys.
Ch 8
Approaching Death’s last river
The maiden found a fever
For her great challenge at last
Wore her lover’s mask.
Willow beckoned from beyond the veil -
“Come along,” she told her tale.
And here, the maiden could not tell
Truth from lie, woman from belle.
Was this her? Or would she lead astray?
How could she find her way?
Yet remembering old stories,
The maiden turned away from glory
And into the darkness, never looking back.
Far off, she heard the scream
And plodding through the darkness, she found
That up was somehow down.
She found the tether,
and followed it
down to her
body
The screaming filtered through the haze. Her body was tingling, alive - or was it? Her skin was numb, and she felt heavy, dull. She tried to open her eyes, but they seemed glued shut. She tried to raise her hand, but it was tethered down. Her muscles tore as she struggled to move her fingers.
Was it her that was screaming? No, she determined - her mouth was just slightly open, and her mouth was dry, so dry. If she was screaming, she would feel her voice, just as she felt her muscles. Her voice would break. This voice did not stop. It was fresh, new, alive. Nothing so dead as she could scream so freshly.
She had to get up. She had to help the woman screaming. New determination energized her, and she managed to raise her arm to her eyes. She rubbed them carefully, feeling the flesh, so paper-thin. She squeezed them shut, and then opened them.
She was staring at a ceiling. The room was dark, but somehow familiar - she turned her head, and there was Joyce’s old freestanding bicycle. Buffy’s basement. The screaming was coming from above, and now that she had been alive for a few minutes, she could discern other sounds as well. The clashing of blades echoed hollowly, and above it all a humming sound dominated. The sound of magic. Willow’s magic, Tara realized, with a sinking feeling that had nothing to do with her organs settling. Capable now of the pessimism of the living, she remembered her lover under the sway of dark magic and felt very afraid.
Fear impelled her upright, though the process was excruciating. She could feel every heartbeat, pounding in her ears and driving her thick and stagnant blood painfully through her veins. Touching the table she had laid in stasis on, she could not tell whether her flesh would collapse under the pressure, and moreso as her feet hit the ground. She was barefoot, clothed only in an unfamiliar white tunic, loose pants, and a strange talisman around her neck. She peered at it, teetering, and the gems on the talisman glimmered darkly back at her in the half-light. They had anticipated her arrival, she realized, bringing a hand up to touch the unbroken skin on her chest. They had prepared her body.
The magic thrummed louder, but above it there was the sound of pure pain, cutting Tara’s heart. Who was that woman, screaming?
Coaxing the muscles in her legs into motion did not prove as difficult as maintaining her balance, but she made it to the stairs and from there she clung to the handrail, taking it one step at a time. She reached forward and opened the door, momentarily distracted by the sight of her own hand, grey and thin and very dead. Am I really alive? she wondered.
And then she looked to her right, into the living room, and saw Willow. She was kneeling, a large axe gripped in her hands. Her eyes were closed, her face serene, and she was chanting, her lips moving soundlessly under the persistent thrum of magic. Before her there was an array of spell components, and the whole house was glowing with the power of her spell.
Suddenly, Willow crumpled, and Tara found out it had been her screaming all along. Not in Willow’s voice, but the voice of a demon in pure agony.
Tara rounded the door frame, trying to get to Willow, but she had only made it a few steps before a huge shape rammed into her, overcoming her already frail balance. She struggled against it, but it was too strong, and she was so weak. The meaty sound of a sword saved her, and she pushed the Hellspawn off her, meeting Xander’s - single - eye. He smiled wordlessly, and then something behind her caught his eye.
Tara turned in time to see Willow, calm again, finish her chant. The power of Willow’s spell levitated the axe in her hands, and Tara could feel the spell’s effects ripple off the axe in waves. She noted with detachment that Willow’s hair had turned completely white, and then Willow’s eyes opened, meeting Tara’s. “You made it,” she said softly.
And then she collapsed bonelessly, the spell ending abruptly. “Willow!” Xander cried, running to her body. Tara scrambled to her feet and followed him, but by the time she arrived Xander had already lifted her into his arms. Tara could see that his body was shaking, his fear equalled only by his devotion. She looked at Willow’s unconscious body, for the first time seeing her sunken cheekbones, the black bruises under her eyes. Something was terribly wrong.
“We have to get her to the van,” Xander said desperately. “The driveway.”
Tara nodded and picked up the axe, unsure if she could wield it but willing to try anything. She led him to the front door, opening it and quickly scanning the front yard and street. No demons were apparent, so she turned to the van in the driveway, opening the trunk for Xander. A woman exited the Summers’ house and ran to the truck. “How is she?” she asked.
“Bad,” Xander said, and he got into the van, laying Willow out on the bench.
Tara’s heart stopped. With Willow’s body stretched out, her bloated stomach was apparent, its hugeness making Willow look even more frail and tiny. Xander paused for a second, adjusting Willow’s arms before turning to Tara. “We have to get away from the Hellmouth before Spike and Buffy destroy it. We can’t stop for anything. I’m driving.” He hopped out of the van, saying as he left, “I’m going to get to the nearest hospital.”
She’s in labor, Tara realized, horrified. She knelt next to Willow, cupping her lover’s face in her hands. “You have to wake up,” she said to Willow quietly, weaving magic into the plea.
Willow’s eyes opened obediently, but even in the dark of the van Tara could see how completely drained she was. “Tara,” she breathed, before another contraction hit her, wracking her body for what felt to Tara like an eternity.
When it was finished, Willow’s whole body was covered in a sheen of sweat. She moaned, her eyes closed. “I can’t,” she said, so low that Tara had to read her lips over the rumble of the van’s engine. The drain of the spell on Willow’s already taxed body must have been immense, Tara realized. She was dying.
Tara took Willow’s hand in her own, her mind racing and her only thought for Willow. She wasn’t a doctor, but she knew that if Willow could not deliver the baby, mother and child would die together. Better the child, but how?
Willow was limp, and first Tara needed to give her energy. She entwined her fingers with Willow’s, noticing how bony Willow’s fingers were. She had been weak for a long time before this, Tara realized. The baby had fed on Willow’s body, and now there was little left.
Tara closed her eyes and plunged into her inner self, finding Willow there, waiting. She felt Willow’s body start to seize up in preparation, and where there was empty pain she filled it with her own strength, her love and devotion. She felt the contraction come, and after a few minutes it ended. Willow did not have the strength to squeeze Tara’s hand, but she was still awake, delirious with agony. Alive.
Tara’s hands moved to Willow’s pants, and she loosened them, pulling them off Willow’s limp body. They were wet with birthing fluid, sweat and blood. Too much blood. She felt exhaustion slow her, but she knew this was just the beginning, and steeled herself, touching Willow’s swollen belly, probing.
She felt their child then, for the first time. It was bright and alert, more alive than either of its mothers. Ready for freedom, for breath - ready to live. Willow’s body tensed again, and Tara grasped blindly for Willow’s hands, clutching them, pouring all her strength into Willow’s spent body. Though she had not meant it, she could still feel the baby’s presence there. The baby was straining too, constrained but yearning, and through the contraction and the roiling pain, the impossibility of Willow’s task, Tara sensed Willow reaching out to their baby with the warmest affection and comfort. Tara could feel relief radiating from their baby at Willow’s touch, and realized that it had somehow known of Willow’s danger.
But could they do it? Willow’s head was lolling, and Tara knew that she had slipped away again, seeking the relief that only unconsciousness can grant. Tara reached toward her, and exhaustion weighed her hand down, so that it fell to rest of Willow’s chest instead of her cheek. “Wake up, Willow,” she said, trying to summon the same spell as earlier, but not finding the energy for it. They only had a few contractions left, Tara knew. If they didn’t reach a hospital very, very soon… Tara thought, and the answer came to her. She could shrink the baby, likely killing it in the process. But then the last few contractions would not be wasted. And Willow would live.
Tara set her mouth, realizing that it was the only option. She could not stand by and let Willow die. She shunted away her feelings, grown stronger after feeling the baby’s presence.
And then Willow’s eyes flickered open. “Help me,” she said, and her eyes flickered with more life than Tara felt. Willow reached out and gripped Tara’s fingers, and then her eyes rolled back, and Tara felt all of her energy flowing into Willow, melding with the baby’s energy. The last thing she felt before darkness overwhelmed her vision was the feeling of freedom, delicious air.
She woke to the sound of a baby’s squalling, fresh and joyful and filled with life. Willow was still unconscious, but she was alive, breathing shallowly. Tara moved between Willow’s legs, and picked up their baby. A boy, yowling now at the injustice of being expelled so abruptly. Tara could not stop her helpless smile at his fervor, holding the tiny body of their son and crying tears of joy. He looked up at her, alert, and she could not help but believe that he recognized her. She loved him as she had loved nothing before.
She cast about and found a pile of sheets and towels, which she used first as a bed for him, wiping his tiny body until it was almost clean, and then swaddling him and picking him back up. With the blood wiped off, the pallor of his skin and the whiteness of the fine short hairs of his head was more obvious. His fury had abated somewhat with her attention, and he was now looking around, as if deciding where he was. His gaze finally dropped to Willow, and as if in response, Willow woke.
Her smile was sleepy and slow, but cognizant. Tara placed the baby in her arms, and Willow moved a little to peer at his face, making a little sound of awe. Tara spread a sheet over them, and found a little space on the bench next to Willow, putting her arms around the two of them.
Xander found them like that a few moments later, opening the van’s back door. The sky was dark with ash, and looking at his somber face framed by glowing embers, Tara knew that the baby might be the least of the changes in their lives.
_________________ Otherwise known as chipperdyke Top Recommended Fics
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I'll admit - I'm worried now!!! Because I want them to have their baby and have it be okay. *sniffles a little*
