**VampNo12: Thank you *G* That's all extremely flattering, and really nice to hear. I'm just tickled that people like you have enjoyed this fic so much - it's incredibly gratifying, and I'm just really glad I wrote it, and that it grew into this many-page monster instead of being the short reconciliation fic I had planned Again, thank you.
And, uhh ... here's the next part.
Title: Answering Darkness Part 49 – Good Intentions
Author: Sassette
Feedback: Can be sent to
pink_overalls@yahoo.com Summary: Tara walks through Hell. I mean that in the literal “La la la, Walking Through Hell Now” way.
Spoiler Warning: Up to and including "Tabula Rasa" in Season 6.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I'm just borrowing them.
Rating: R – for violence
Notes: For the purpose of this story, all events of Tabula Rasa took place exactly as shown in the series; however, no subsequent episodes will affect this piece. We're splitting from canon here, because I impatiently began writing this before 'Smashed' and 'Wrecked' aired.
WARNING!!!!! This update is kinda’ gory. Consider this your ‘squickiness’ alert. I’d suggest skipping ahead to the part where the dialogue starts if you in any way have a weak stomach.
Answering Darkness - Part 49
Good Intentions
By Sassette
Tara pressed further through the barrier of energy that made up the Hellmouth, separating a dimension she had never cared to imagine from the world she knew. She held her breath as she moved, sure that there was no air where she was standing, and praying that there was air on the other side.
Would she even survive this? Had Willow survived? According to Anya, anything alive trying to enter Hell would die. Uncharacteristically, she hadn’t gone into detail, but Tara imagined it would be very far from pleasant.
She hadn’t planned this very well, she realized.
But Willow was on the other side, and so she kept moving.
Moving through the yellowish energy of the Hellmouth felt oddly like … Jell-o. Or, rather, what she would imagine walking through a giant piece of Jell-o would feel like. Kind of like the Disney cartoon she remembered from when she was little. Hadn’t Goofy walked through some Jell-o?
Her hand pressed inexorably forward, and finally, it broke through.
Fire.
Heat.
Pain.
She felt her eyes roll back in her head as the warm sensation of the Hellmouth gave way to a great burning. She fell to her knees slowly, sinking against the yellowness, the necronomicon cradled against her chest as the strange energy of the Hellmouth absorbed the impact of her fall, gently letting her out on the other side, into a wall of flame.
Her mouth opened to let out a scream, but the heat that seared her mouth and throat, and the flames that scorched her flesh stole her voice. Her knees hit something – ground? Flame? It didn’t matter, it couldn’t matter – it was hot and it hurt, sharp and insistent as she fell onto her face, surrounded in fire.
She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream her pain – she could only crawl forward, the flesh blackening and bubbling, peeling away. Muscle and sinew cooked beneath cracked skin, her hands stripped bare to the bone and ligaments, but still she moved forward.
There was no rhyme or reason to her movements – no plan, no thoughts, no ability to recall why she was there or where she had been before, but only that she must go on. She couldn’t instruct her body to move – could only feel an agony a hundred times more horrific and consuming than any she could have imagined.
Still, her body crawled forward, as if of its own accord, deeper into the fire, surrounding itself in the dancing flames and the incessant crackling.
The fire cooled, or she grew used to the pain, or perhaps all of her nerve endings had been seared away – she didn’t know. But she found herself able to think of something other than the intense suffering. Yellow – it was all still yellow.
She was being burned alive, and she still wasn’t dead.
A tiny whimpering issued forth, the only sound she could make as her lungs continued to pull in the heated air, her heart continued to beat. Oddly, there was no smoke or ash of any kind, just the searing flames.
Was this what her ancestor had felt? The Tara Maclay who had been burned at the stake? Her daughter, Fiona had almost escaped the legacy of the Maclay demon through her mother’s suffering, until The Trickster had allowed Giles to break Anya’s necklace.
Giles?
Anya?
Who were they? She felt like she should know. There were stories about them, swimming in her head, melding together. Something about dogs?
Why was she crawling? Why did she keep moving forward? She should stop. Rest. Just wait to die. There was nothing but fire, surrounding her, pouring through her. It enveloped her, and as it consumed her flesh, it called to her, offering her peace and the end of her torment.
A flash of red caught her eye – how could she possibly still see? – and she remembered. Red. Searching. She was looking for something – something that she had to find. It was vital – essential. And she would always find it … had promised to find …
Willow.
A surge of strength filled her being, and she did not stop to wonder how it was possible – how her ravaged form could contain such power – but used it, pulling herself forward again, the body that should not have been able to move at all propelling her on and on.
And, finally out. Out of the flames and into a vast expanse – a dark wasteland that chilled her as the flames had burned. Jagged rocks, dark and angry framed against a blood red sky met her eyes, casting shadows that loomed and shifted all around her. Lightning flashed sporadically, the blue electric fire pounding into the ground.
A pool of water taunted her with its nearness. She raised her head, her spirits falling at the sight of the sickly, brackish water. It would be no use to her, and yet instinctively Tara reached out, her eyes widening when she saw he hand. It was whole and unharmed, though streaked with dirt where she had landed. She rolled over, her back pressing against the pebbles beneath her, feeling them scratch her bare skin.
Slowly, she sat up, looking down at her naked body, the necronomicon still clutched in one hand.
No scars. No burns. No marks.
With a groan, she got unsteadily to her feet and looked around again, turning a full three-hundred sixty degrees to take in her surroundings.
How had she survived?
Behind her was the wall of fire, and now that she was standing here and not crawling in there, she could hear them. Agonized screams issued forth from the flames, and Tara wondered how they had found their voices – how they managed to scream when she could not.
The answer, when it came to her, filled her with a sadness so sudden and full it brought tears to her eyes and stole her breath. They were already dead. Within the flames languished the souls who didn’t have the strength to make it past the fire. They would, she knew – though she did not know how – stay there for all eternity, burning.
And she couldn’t help them.
The memory of her own pain was still fresh, and she almost threw herself back into the flames to try to drag those poor souls out – to save them as she had saved herself. She took one step, then two, closer to the fire, tears streaming down her dirty face.
But she couldn’t help them.
Again, she didn’t know how she knew, but she did. Once back in the flames, she wouldn’t be thinking of them – just her own torment. She wouldn’t hear there screams, nor her own, and she would also be damned to spend an eternity there, lost and alone, unable to think of anything but the agony of the fire.
She couldn’t afford that. She had to find Willow. If it had only been her – if she could have sacrificed herself to save just one from the torture she had endured, she would have – but she could not, and Willow needed her. There was nothing in Hell that would stop her from keeping Willow safe.
Still, she cried for them, turning around and looking across the desolate expanse to the mountains that rose up in the distance.
There – she had to go there. Willow was there, or would be soon enough. She could feel it.
Naked and alone, she started walking, the uneven ground treacherous, falling away unexpectedly and threatening to throw her to the cruel rocks. She was careful, moving slowly, but steadily. She would get to the Hell God before he could hurt Willow.
There was no question of that.
But what would she do when she got there? He was a God, after all.
The wind picked up, screaming across the plain, whipping around the jagged boulders strewn about, making her hair fly all around her. It tossed dirt and small rocks all around, striking her skin with a sharp sting, but she pressed on.
“What are you doing here, Tara?” it seemed to demand of her. “You don’t belong here. You shouldn’t be here. You cannot fight him – he will win. He will always win.”
Tara put her head down, walking against the wind, finally raising one arm in front of her, pushing against the force of it, the book still clasped protectively to her chest.
“Willow could not have survived the fire. She’s still in there. She’s dead. She’s dead,” the wind cackled at her, and Tara shook her head in denial.
It couldn’t be true. She would know it if it were true, wouldn’t she? Willow couldn’t be dead – it wasn’t possible. She would feel it – a piece of her would be missing if Willow had died, and that piece was so vital she wouldn’t be surprised if her own heart ceased to beat at the same moment.
“How do you know you’re still alive?” the wind whispered, calming somewhat and sending her hair tickling about her neck and shoulders. “No one survives the entry to Hell. No living thing survives.”
“My heart beats for her,” Tara whispered, pushing onward. She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t falter. And it was true – her heart beat for Willow. She recalled her words to Anya, recounting that fateful night when Willow had chosen her over Oz.
So she couldn’t die. Not here – not like this. She had to save Willow, to keep her safe from the Hell God, and so her heart would continue beating, no matter the cost.
“People don’t walk through Hell …” the wind taunted her. “People don’t – but Demons do.”
Tara’s steps faltered at those words, and she winced, a great churning fillings her guts. Numbly, she shook her head, reaching out to rest her hand against sharp stone, resting for a moment and trying to find her breath.
No – no. She wasn’t a demon. She wasn’t.
She couldn’t be. How could she love and be loved, if she were evil? How could Willow love her? How could the Scoobies have made her a part of her family.
No, she wasn’t a demon. Couldn’t be.
She shook her head, then pressed on, thinking again of the story she had related to Anya – thinking again of a dark room, and an extra flamey candle.
A warmth surged through her as she let herself remember in vivid detail the joy she had felt that night. She called up each look, each touch, from the vault of her mind, playing it back and letting herself just feel it, as she had felt it then.
The wind picked up, screaming in rage, but she couldn’t hear it – didn’t feel it. She just kept walking, one foot moving automatically in front of the other, crossing this barren forsaken land. Her surroundings didn’t matter – they couldn’t touch her – because she held a piece of Heaven in her heart.
She pressed on and on, not knowing how long she walked, until finally, she stood at the foot of a mountain, a cliff face rising up before her, as far as her eye could see.
There was no way to go. She couldn’t go around, nor could she climb such a height. No, the cliff was far too steep and far too tall to scale, and she knew that falling would not help Willow.
A sense of dread welled up in her. Was this the end? Had she walked into Hell only to find that a mountain barred her way?
She slumped against the rock, and when she touched it, a great flash blinded her momentarily.
The after-image of that blinding light blocked her vision, and she shut her eyes, shaking her head. After a moment, she let her eyes drift open, a dark shadow looming in her sight where there had been nothing but a cliff before.
She blinked once, then twice, trying to bring the cliff face back into focus, and to dispel the shadowy after-image, but it remained.
Her frustration grew after several moments, only to fade to a shocked sense of wonder as she realized her vision >had< cleared. Where there had been a sheer unscalable cliff a minute before, there was now the cool and shadowy cave.
That, she mused inwardly, had been far too easy. Still, it was the only path available to her, and so she moved into the entrance, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness within.
“You’ve finally decided to join me,” a voice came from the dark. It was deep and rolling, the tones round and full, but echoing across the chamber. “I thought you were going to play in the fire a little longer, and I wondered if you would make it.”
“Where’s Willow?” she demanded, raising her free hand. A tiny ball of light appeared, but it could not pierce the gloom. “Who are you?”
“Willow?” the voice asked, seemingly puzzled. “I’m afraid she hasn’t joined us here.”
“Where is she?” Tara repeated, stepping further into the darkness.
“I’m afraid that all I can say is that she’s not here,” the voice responded again. “She hasn’t found her way in. You’re rather resourceful, you know,” it went on, the voice full of approval and flattery.
“Who are you?” Tara asked again, her voice dropped to a whisper. Her light grew in intensity, but still she could not see into the darkness. She could not see the owner of the voice.
“I am he who is formless and nameless, who delights in shadowed trickery,” the voice recited in a whisper, a mocking lilt weaving through the words. “You have called me The Trickster many times.”
“You will give her back to me,” Tara growled, turning left, then right, glaring into the interior of the cave, unsure of the location of The Trickster. She had to find him – to make him return Willow to her.
“I cannot give you what isn’t mine,” The Trickster said reasonably. “Though, as you ask, I would gift you with her, if I could.”
“Aren’t you a God?” Tara taunted. “Or are there limits to you power?”
“There are always limits,” the amused voice responded. “Without limits, there is no balance, without balance there is nothing.”
“You don’t care about balance,” Tara said. “You’re trying to destroy it.”
“Destroy it?” the voice rang out. “Why would I do any such thing? I’m afraid you’re under several gross misconceptions, dear Tara.”
“I won’t listen to you,” Tara ground out, stepping further into the cave, holding the light aloft. “Just tell me where Willow is, and then we’re going.” She could feel a deep well of anger opening up within her as she stalked around the cave, searching for her elusive quarry.
“I’m afraid you have to,” the voice said, all trace of mockery or amusement gone. “We have many serious things to discuss.”
“I have nothing – nothing! – to discuss with you,” Tara yelled, her voice bouncing off the walls and back again. “You will give me Willow, and then Willow and I will leave. You will stay in this pit forever, and you will never bother Willow again.”
“Your loyalty to your lover is admirable,” the voice said easily. “If only she felt the same.”
“Stop it!” Tara said, her voice rising. “Stop your words and your games. Just give me Willow.”
“I said I don’t have her,” The Trickster said back, the voice booming across the room. “And you will listen, or Willow will die.”
“Let her go,” Tara growled, spinning around, trying to catch a glimpse – just a glimpse – of the Hell God who threatened her very existence by his continued harm to Willow.
“What will you give to see her live, Tara? What would you sacrifice? Your life? Your soul? Tell me,” he taunted. “What is she worth to you?”
“Everything,” Tara whispered, her shoulders slumping as she stopped her made pacing. The anger drained from her. This was a God … what was she expecting to do to him? She couldn’t even see him, let alone hurt him. “She’s my everything.”
“She hurt you, and you’d still do anything for her?” the Trickster asked, an odd hint of wonder in his tone.
“Yes,” Tara said simply. The heartfelt truth needed no embellishment.
“She is special, isn’t she?” The Trickster asked rhetorically. “That’s why I chose her. That’s why I lent her my power in her struggles against chaos.”
“She fights evil,” Tara said, her head snapping up and her eyes flashing. “She fights you.”
“Oh, no,” The Trickster said, and Tara could hear the smile in his voice. “She’s never fought me. Willow and I – we’re on the same side. We both want order in all things. We want everything to have a place, and everything in its place. Those demons she fights so well – they bring chaos and disorder to the world, and I hate it. I have always hated it.”
“They why –“ Tara began, only to cut herself short. “No – no, this is wrong,” she said, shaking her head.
“But it isn’t wrong,” The Trickster pressed. “You know it. You’ve seen it. I’ve never been the bad guy here, Tara. I merely lent the power. Willow chose how to use it. And when she used it for her own selfish ends – when she cast a spell on her friends … on you – that is when I stepped in. It was only then that the magick did her any harm. It was only then that she became ill. She needed to be punished for misusing the power I lent her – for achieving her personal goals instead of bringing a greater order to the world.”
“No!” Tara yelled. “She would never willingly work for you – she would never be on your side.”
“Isn’t she?” The Trickster asked lightly. “Haven’t you seen it?”
“She’s not evil. You’re evil. I don’t care if you both take your notes in different colored pens – she’s a good person,” Tara insisted.
“Would a good person steal your memories away, manipulating you and keeping you at her side?” The Trickster taunted, cruelty dripping from each word as they slammed into Tara’s being, making her flinch. “That one struck home, didn’t it?”
“No,” Tara said again, her head shaking back and forth vehemently, tears stinging her eyes. “You’re wrong. She … she didn’t mean …”
“Didn’t mean what? Didn’t mean to … what was it? ‘Violate your mind’?” The Trickster said with a chuckle, throwing Tara’s own words back at her.
“It was stupid and short-sighted, but it wasn’t malicious,” Tara said after a moment, calming herself with an effort.
“Believe what you will,” The Trickster said airily. “Or, rather, tell yourself that’s what you believe. We both know the truth.”
Tara felt doubts welling up inside of her. Malicious? Willow? No, it couldn’t be. And yet his words made sense. >He< made sense. Willow loved things to be orderly and neat – and wasn’t that what she had tried to maintain by making her forget their argument? There was nothing tidy about a fight.
And Buffy’s resurrection – wasn’t that largely to maintain the safe little world Willow had made with herself, surrounded by her monster-fighting friends?
“I … I –“ Tara began, stopping in confusion. Her brow furrowed as she frowned, her mind racing, latching on to detail after detail, each detail more evidence of Willow’s obsession with order.
But that was … Willow? Evil? Tara shook her head again. No, there was no way. A thought occurred to Tara, and she relaxed, her breath evening out. No, Willow wasn’t evil. Willow had been tricked – as The Trickster was now attempting to trick her.
Balance was necessary, in all things, and where Willow was orderly, Tara was not. And where Tara was orderly, Willow was not. They balanced each other. Surely someone who would forget to eat breakfast wasn’t the chosen instrument of Evil Order?
“She serves me,” The Trickster said after a moment. “She and I share a common goal, and she is my chosen agent on the earth. But she has displeased me, and so she will die.”
“You can’t have her,” Tara growled, renewed faith and hope filling her. She wouldn’t allow it. She didn’t know how she would stop it – not yet, anyway – but she wouldn’t let it happen. She belongs to Willow, and she wouldn’t let some Hell God come along and hurt her in any way. “You will leave her alone.”
“I suppose I could do that,” The Trickster said, his voice speculative. “However, I’m afraid that would put me at a disadvantage.”
Tara’s eyes narrowed. “And that should bother me because …?”
“Because if I let Willow live and agree to leave her alone, I won’t get to use her as my instrument any longer,” The Trickster explained. “Why would I ever want to do a thing like that?”
“Because if you don’t …” Tara began to say, then trailed off dangerously.
“What? You’ll throw tiny tinkerbell lights at me?” The Hell God mocked. “You can’t be serious.”
“Please,” Tara said, switching tactics. “Tell me what I have to do.”
“I asked what you would give up,” The Trickster said. “I asked what price you would pay. Did you really mean anything? Everything?” he asked curiously.
“Yes,” Tara said, a cold fear rising up within her. She was likely about to make a deal with the devil, and Goddess help her, if it meant saving Willow, she didn’t care.
“You have quite a bit of power yourself,” The Trickster said slowly, as if weighing his words. “I am willing to make you a trade.”
“What kind of trade?” Tara asked warily.
“Well, Willow, we have seen, has given up magick for you. She hasn’t cast in … well, quite a bit longer than I thought she would be able to stop herself. Quite a bit longer than I thought she’d survive, really,” he said slowly. “Would you do the same? Would you give up magick in exchange for Willow’s life?”
“What’s the catch?” Tara asked after a moment, her breath quickening as her heart thudded in her chest. Give up magick? For Willow’s life?
Easily.
In a heartbeat.
But Goddess help her, not with no questions asked – not with this Hell God lurking in the shadows and seeming too eager to agree to offer up a trade.
“Well, your power isn’t something I can just take from you,” The Trickster said with a chuckle. “And I can’t really just take you at your word that you’ll never cast again – because I know that even if you promised me, you would do so to save Willow’s life. Or Dawn’s or Buffy’s. Any of your friends really.”
“So that leaves us at an impasse,” Tara said, keeping her voice carefully even. What was he up to?
“There is another way, though,” The Trickster said silkily. “There is a ritual – a sort of promise made between two parties. This promise – this ritual – will bind your magick to my service.”
“I will >not< become your plaything,” Tara said, her body jerking at his words.
“Oh, no,” The Trickster laughed. “Quite the contrary. I will not be able to command you, no,” he said. “But >if< you were to try to cast a spell, you couldn’t unless I allowed it. I sincerely doubt you would ever cast a spell again in those circumstances.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Tara said slowly. Was that it? The Trickster wouldn’t gain control of her, or her power – she would just be unable to cast. Was that the whole deal? No more spells – no more magick – and in exchange, Willow could live?
She had practiced magick all her life – she couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t seen the world as a mystical beautiful place, despite the harsh realities of her family. There was nothing else in her life that tied her so closely to her mother.
And yet.
And yet her previous words were true. There was nothing she wouldn’t and couldn’t give up to keep Willow safe. There was no sacrifice she wouldn’t make. And really, in the grand scheme of things, what were a few spells?
“There’s something more, though, isn’t there?” she asked slowly, her gaze finally settling on a vaguely man-shaped form, a deeper black amidst the darkness of the cavern.
A figure stepped forward, still shrouded in shadow. “Yes, there is,” he said softly.
“What is it?” Tara asked slowly.
“The ritual requires that I be left a … souvenir … of our agreement,” his voice reached her.
“What kind of souvenir?” she asked steadily, her eyes trained on the shadowy form.
“The culmination of the ritual requires that you sever your own left little finger, and leave it here with me,” he said, an odd note – excitement? – ringing in his voice.
Tara froze for a moment, her eyes drifting shut and a shudder of horror shaking her frame. She was vaguely familiar with what he described. It was something she had thought she would never even consider doing, let alone need to do to save the one person she would give anything for. The ritual was dark, so very dark, and would scar her in more ways than one.
But it was for Willow.
“Done,” she agreed.
by blameburner » Fri Apr 19, 2002 6:35 am 
Woo and double Hoo!
Great update Sass although I fear the Trickster will now use Tara to open the hellmouth. Time for Willow to save the day.
