TARA

TARA

By Jeremy Patrick <jhaeman@hotmail.com>

CONTINUITY NOTE: This story takes place approximately two weeks after the end of season six.

CHAPTER TWO: THE PRESENT

Tara stopped walking and looked around. She knew the forests around Sunnydale pretty well, but she didn’t recognize any of the trees around her. She put her hands on her hips and with a teasing smile said "Are you sure this is the right way?"

Willow stopped as well and walked back to where Tara was standing. It was an early fall evening, cool enough it seemed like they could walk forever, but not yet cold enough that either needed jackets. The last rays of the setting sun filtered down through the treetops. They were utterly alone.

"No," Willow said. "I’m not." She lifted her hands, palms up, and said "I don’t know what happened. I thought this was the way." She placed her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and looked around for a familiar landmark. They were supposed to meet the others for a picnic, but where were they?
blood

Tara’s eyes sparkled. "I think you planned this," she said playfully. "Wanted to get me all to yourself so you could seduce and then ravish me. You vicious monster, you."
bloodontheshirtholeinthechest

"But all for the sake of love, m’lady," Willow said, playing along.

--berg?

Willow walked a few more steps and then shrugged. "I guess if we’re lost we’ll just have to make the best of it."

Tara grinned and walked up behind her, placing her arms around Willow’s waist. Tara kissed her softly on the back of the neck.
ohmigodshe’sbeenshot

--Rosenberg?

Willow turned around and intercepted the next kiss. Tara’s lips were gentle but firm. Every time was like the first time, and Willow couldn’t believe how lucky she was to have found someone like her.

Tara pulled away slightly and looked around. "What if the others find us?" she said softly.

"I don’t care," Willow said with a grin.
she’sfallingwhat’shappeningareyouokay

"I love you," Willow whispered in Tara’s ear as they lowered themselves to the ground.
pleasedon’tdiepleasedon’tdiesomebodyhelpgoddammit

--Ms. Rosenberg?

Willow started and looked around. Her classmates were staring at her—most with sympathetic faces, but some with mocking grins. In front of her, Professor Markin stood with her instructor’s copy of Jude the Obscure and an expectant look on her face.

"Now that you’re with us again, Ms. Rosenberg, would you care to discuss how Hardy--"

The bell rang and the other students began to hurriedly gather up their books—some of them had classes all the way across campus, while others just couldn’t bear the thought of being stuck in a classroom any longer than necessary. Willow distractedly gathered her belongings as well and headed for the door.

"Ms. Rosenberg? Do you have a moment? I would like to speak with you about . . . some things."

Willow turned and looked back. Professor Markin was sitting in one of the student’s chairs in the front row. Because college instructors might teach in three of four different classrooms every day, they often had desks only in their own offices. Willow walked over and sat down across from her.

"Ms. Rosenberg—Willow—how are you feeling today?" She said it hesitantly, unsure of where the boundaries should be.

"Fine," Willow replied.

"Good, good. Listen, I know things have been tough since your . . . friend passed away, and I know the grief counselors always talk about how important it is to try to keep up a normal routine, but . . . Well, the simple truth, Willow, is that the quality of your coursework has declined significantly, as has your grade for participation."

Willow sat there, giving the appearance that she was listening carefully, but Professor Markin knew she was off in her own world again. Still, the instructor had had something on her mind for several days now and decided it was the time to say it.

"Willow? What I’m trying to say is that you’re not cutting it—and it just wouldn’t be fair to the other students if I gave you special treatment. Still . . . I just think it might be a good idea to consider your other options—just temporarily. It’s still early in the summer term. If you like, I can probably talk Administration into letting you drop the class without any permanent mark on your transcripts, and maybe you can sign up again for Fall Term—when things are . . . better."

"Uh huh," was all Willow said in reply.

Professor Markin tried one last time. "Willow, are you sure you’re okay? You know there’s plenty of people here for you to talk to if you need it."

"I’m fine," Willow said before picking up her books and leaving the room.

Willow left Sedgwick Hall—where most literature classes were held—and stepped outside. Down a small set of stone steps was a large open area called, imaginatively enough, The Square. It was one of the few green areas still left on campus, and the students had fought to keep it free from development. It was just after lunchtime and still rather busy. As she walked down the steps, Willow hardly noticed the students playing frisbee or talking, or trying to catch up on a week’s worth of reading in the five minutes before class started.

She cut across The Square and headed for her dorm. She didn’t say "hi" to anyone, and no one said "hi" to her. Although Tara’s murder was no longer the hot topic on a bustling campus like Sunnydale College, even those students the couple had been friendly with were unsure of how they should handle themselves around Willow. Should they act sad? Cheerful? Sympathetic? As if nothing had happened? Afraid of appearing awkward, most chose the easy way out and simply avoided her altogether.

Willow entered the residence hall and walked in the direction of her room. She stopped at the room next to her own—Tara’s. The door was closed, and there was no sign that anyone lived there. In fact, Tara’s room had been cleaned out and her things put in storage just a few days after she died. They had asked Willow if she wanted to help—but she didn’t.

And now it’s like she never existed. Because she doesn’t exist. Because she’s dead. When I’m seventy years old, Tara will still be dead. And she’ll never be seventy. Because she’s dead.

Willow continued on and opened the door to her own room. It still looked much the same as it always had—books on magic on the shelves, posters on the wall, mementos on the desk. But it was different as well. In one corner of the room sat a pile of the things Willow had received from friends and relatives after Tara’s death—cards, flowers, books on dealing with grief. All sat unopened and untouched. On the floor next to her bed was a large cardboard box—inside were things of Tara’s, both things Willow had saved and things that Tara’s relative had thought Willow might want. Candles, books, love letters, a rock shaped very roughly like a heart, a blue furry lobster.

Willow closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were open but she didn’t really see anything.

It was blistering hot outside, but Willow didn’t notice—or if she did notice she simply didn’t care. She and Tara were holding hands, walking down the main concourse of the carnival that had set up outside of town. Some people stared at them—but they didn’t care. They were happy and if other people didn’t like it, that was their problem.

"I’m just saying that I don’t think it would work," Tara said.

"Why not?" Willow asked.

"Because magic isn’t just a tool like a hammer or something. It’s alive, in its way, and there are always consequences."

"Look!" Willow said, pointing. She read from a bright sign showing a heavily muscled-man holding up a giant sledgehammer. "’Atlas’ Challenge—Only the Mightiest Can Succeed’ It’s one of those things where you swing the hammer and see how far up it goes and if you hit the bell you win."
what’sonyourshirtisthatblood

Tara giggled. "What—and you want to try?"

Willow smiled back. "It sounds like fun. And besides, we only have one ticket left between us, so we can’t do any of the rides."

They walked up to the stall and were glad there wasn’t a line. The carnival was getting ready to close for the night, and most of the other thrill-seekers had already gone home. A surprisingly scrawny carnie stepped out from the display holding the "sledgehammer" in one hand—it was made of a light metal wrapped in foam rubber.

"Ladies, care to try your hand at Atlas’ Challenge? Ring the bell and win a prize!" he said by rote, unenthusiastically.
don’tworryit’sokayI’llusemagiclikeIdidonBuffy

Tara handed him her ticket and gave it a try. She swung the hammer akwardly though, and barely clipped the machine. The mechanism didn’t even go halfway up to the bell.

She laughed and then shrugged. "Maybe you’ll do better hon," she said, handing the hammer to Willow. "And a kiss for luck." The carnie gawked slightly but didn’t say anything.

Willow weighed the hammer carefully in her hand and gave it a few practice swings. "This is going to be pathetic," she said in her self-deprecating way. She raised the hammer high and brought it down, and squealed with delight when the mechanism went all the way up and rang the bell.

The carnie opened a box and pulled out a cheap toy lobster with blue fur. He tossed it to her. "Congratulations," he said, and began packing up for the night.

Willow walked over to Tara and handed her the lobster.
helpisonthewaypleasedon’tdieIloveyou

"Thank you," she said. Tara pretended to feel Willow’s bicep. "I never knew I was dating Hercules," she said, still smiling

"More like Xena," Willow replied. "In more ways than one."

She thought she was done with tears, but they came back.

Tara always knew what to say when bad things happen. She knew what to say and what to do when Buffy’s mom died. And when Giles left, and when I started getting out of control. She always knew. But she’s gone. And I have to move on. She’s dead, and I need to stop thinking about her. Because she’s beautiful, and I loved her and I do love her and I can’t believe she’s dead and if I can’t bring her here I should go see her there and one of these days there’s going to be a knock at that door and she’s going to be back. And everything will be the way it always should have been. Again.

And there really was a knock at the door. Willow’s heart skipped a beat and then reality set back in. "It’s open," she said softly. Whoever was at the door knocked again. "It’s open," Willow said again, slightly louder this time.

The door opened slowly and Buffy poked her head through the crack and looked around. She smiled when she saw Willow sitting there. She opened the door wider and stepped inside.

"I thought I heard you say something, but I wasn’t sure if you were here or not," Buffy explained. She walked over to the desk and sat on the chair the wrong way, with her hands resting on its back.

"I just wanted to stop by and say hi—I have to get to work by one." She decided to be indirect. "So how are classes going? I always thought summer classes sounded like a terrible idea, but now that I’m stuck at the Double Meat Palace it sounds way better."

"Classes?" Willow said. "They’re fine."

"And how is everything else?" Buffy said carefully, neither too cheefully nor too mournfully. She hated this part. Tara’s death had affected everyone, but Willow had been in love with her. And although Buffy knew what it was like to lose someone—Angel, her mother—she could never know what it was like for Willow to lose someone. And that made helping harder. But still, she knew the last thing Willow needed was to feel like her friends had abandoned her.

"Fine," Willow said. "Everything is fine."

Buffy glanced at her watch—she really was running late, and her boss would kill her if she was late again.

"Listen Will, I talked to Xander and he said he would stop by tonight after he gets off work. And if I get off early I’ll try and stop by too."

"Okay." Willow bravely tried a half-smile but both of them knew it wasn’t real.

After Buffy had left, Willow continued sitting at the edge of the bed.

"I don’t think I can do it. I don’t know how." Willow said. They were sitting on the floor of her room, with the door locked securely. A small circle was drawn on the floor with chalk mixed with flecks of mica. In the center of the circle were two sigils.

"Trust me. It’s really not so hard. Just do what I do." Tara set the book on her lap and recited several lines in ancient Aramaic. A floating, ghostly flute appeared in the middle of the circle. Tara lifted her eyes from the book and then held her hands up. She moved her fingers as if she were playing a real flute, and in the center of the circle the spectral flute responded with the appropriate notes.
I’mgoingtokillwhoeverdidthistoyou

Willow’s eyes widened. "That’s amazing," she said. "I mean, I know how to do some of the simple stuff—the glamours and the minor legerdemain. But I’m not sure I can do that."

"I’ll help you. Now just concentrate." Tara let the spectral flute dissipate and handed the book to Willow. She scuffed out the two sigils and redrew them.

Willow cradled the book in her arms. She started to recite.

Tara burst out laughing.

"What’d I do?" Willow said, looking up. In the center of the circle a spectral instrument floated. But it wasn’t exactly a flute—nor any other instrument known to man. It was some odd combination of a mandolin and a flute and a trumpet.
pleasedon’tleavemeIcan’tgoonwithoutyou

Willow reddened, slightly shame-faced, but Tara put her arm around her. "Not bad for a first try. The Aramaic is hard to pronounce properly—a minor change in inflection will change the spell altogether. We’ll try again until we get it right."

Willow relaxed visibly. "I guess it’s not a big deal," she said. "I never learned how to play a real flute either."

The phone rang and Willow mechanically walked over and picked it up. We were stupid and naive to think things would end up okay. Ms. Calendar, Angel, Joyce. Now Tara. Everyone we love dies, and they die because we love them and get them involved and keep them in Sunnydale. Tara and I should have left and gone somewhere like Europe or the Himalayas or Canada. Somewhere far away. It shouldn’t have ended up like this. Me, Xander, Buffy—the Three Amigos. We saved the day, or the city, or the world, and everything should have turned out fine. It was her mom calling.

"How is everything honey?" Mrs. Rosenberg said.

"Fine."

"I’m making dinner tonight—your favorite," her mom continued.

"I think I’ll just eat at the cafeteria. Studying and stuff. Thanks though."

"Are you sure?"

"Yep."

There was a long pause.

"And you’re sure everything’s okay?"

"Yeah Mom, everything’s fine."

Willow hung up the phone and sat back down on the edge of the bed. She knew she should be doing something—studying or eating or surfing the ‘Net—but she just didn’t feel like it. She didn’t feel like doing anything, really. Instead, she just sat there, and waited. She had been attracted to other people in her life—Xander and Oz, for example—but with Tara it was something different. Something real.

In a crowded residence hall on the campus of a large college located next to a city with tens of thousands of people, with friends and relatives checking up on her frequently, Willow felt alone. Truly alone. And as far as she knew, she would always feel alone as long as one particular person wasn’t with her. She wondered what was left when that one person was gone, and whether it was worth the heartache to try and find out.

She was alone, and despite what she told everyone, she wasn’t fine.

That night, after Xander had come and gone, Willow turned off the lights and laid down on the bed, fully clothed and on top of the blankets. She couldn’t sleep, and when she did she woke up more tired than when she went to bed. It was getting harder and harder to get out of bed each morning. It just wasn’t worth the effort--there was nothing to look forward to, because nothing ever happened except remembering.

When her shift was over, Willow left the magic shop and stepped outside. Tara was there, waiting for her. They looked at each other for a moment. They had each been miserable.

"Hi," Tara said hesitantly.

"Hi."

They started walking. It was cloudy and after just a few moments it was sprinkling. Soon it was raining hard, raining for real. They stopped and huddled under a doorway.

"Willow, I’m sorry. I’ve been a fool." Rain streamed down her face.

"No—it was my fault. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that."

"I know—but you were right—it—you know I didn’t mean to."

"I know."

"I missed you." Tara smiled. "I mean, it’s only been like four hours since we fought but God I missed you."

Willow’s face was moist, not from the rain. "Work sucked," she said with a sob. "I couldn’t even concentrate."

They embraced and laughed with relief. Things were going to work out, things were going to be okay.

And then Tara stepped back a few feet, and then there was a big red spot on her chest and then she started to fall forward and Willow caught her but Tara wasn’t moving and then . . .

Willow had trouble sleeping. All of her dreams ended this way.