The Apothecary - August 20 - Chapter 34: Surrender

[Tara the Phoenix]

Sorry, everyone. No update until Wednesday.

Phoenix

[Zooeys_Bridge]

I'll claim an 'announcement dibs' and wish you well until then. All good by you, Jen?

[masterjendu]

Have at her, Rach! You’re gonna need all the practice you can get when it comes time for the final chapter... ;p

I am going to third LittleBit’s sentiments. The Willow of The Apothecary is a broken Willow. She is alone-in all senses of the word. Even her movements are subdued. She seems to be a shadow of any incarnation of Willow we know from the show. The beauty of your portrayal of her is that even as just a shade, she is completely familiar as the Willow we all know and love; a Willow on the brink of self-discovery.

The story is unfolding wonderfully, Jen. Thank you for sharing it.

J

[ceridwen]

Today's the update! Today's the update! I'm so excited!!!

[CrazyTaraWitch]

Update?? Please?

[Tara the Phoenix]

Do my kittens need their fix? Here's some feedback to feedback!

masterjendu - Always a pleasure to see you, my friend. Congrats on the dibses, especially the barely edging out of Rachel - it looks like you are both on top form! I'm glad to see that this Willow is recognizable - broken, but familiar in her Willow-y way, and I'm delighted to be sharing this story with you. I hope you keep enjoying it!

zooey's bridge - she really did come out of nowhere, didn't she, Rach? Thanks for the ask, later on. I'm doing okay - just busy with rehearsals. How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice, practice, practice! I wonder if they forget we need to work, and eat, and breathe sometimes, too.

As far as the feedback - thanks for sending it in, and no need to grovel! It didn't come out perfectly well, but that means I can keep working on it in the future. Willowspeak is tough sometimes to get the right rhythm without it being forced. I'm still learning! Thanks for the awesome comments.

Zampsa - We'll find out in a while whether or not feelings are returned. I think I'm posting chapter 7 tonight, and I have up to 11 written, so good times are coming... with a side order of angst, of course. Thanks for reading!

Little Bit - Your reply was definitely the beginning of a theme on the discussion of this Willow. She is certainly not the Willow of the show, but at least she is recognizable. We'll find out, as soon as I figure it out, what exactly has made Willow the way she is. I'm sure Persia has something to do with it. When I find out, I'll let you know! Thanks for commenting, I appreciate it!

ceridwen - You must be serious about the addiction of this fic, if you beg so much for your fix! I'm happy to provide. I'm happily as addicted to it, and think about it often when I'm walking to work, in boring meetings, etc... Thanks for the domestic warmth idea of the update - I wanted to bring some of the "family" back in, seeing as they were mostly dead for my last fic. Time to play with the characters! I hope you enjoy what is coming.

Nenyath - Thus the near danger of posting so fast. I enjoyed posting every two days but I wondered if I was almost losing an audience by posting so fast. I might slow down to every four days, but I'm well ahead on writing so at least I have a buffer zone. Thanks for the multitude of your comments - they are so appreciated! As I said earlier, I hope I also figure out soon what happened in Persia. It's starting to look rather important. Thanks for reading!

Nue - Made me laugh again, with the marry me part. I am single...ish... once I'm divorced. Which will be in March, hallelujah! I'm glad you're enjoying the fic. Thanks for commenting!

MelCar - You must be a glutton for punishment, what with the suspense of this fic. I am sooo glad you are here, and thank you for commenting. I appreciate every word, even when you don't have much to say. We writers live on feedback.

CrazyTaraWitch - I've evidently lured you into my den as well, what with the requesting of the fix. I'm glad you're enjoying it, especially the Willow side of things. I'm glad to be sharing this with you.


I do believe that is everyone. I will remind all my readers that there will be a short drought of stuff in mid February, because I'll be in New York. Of course, if you live in or around New York, let me know, we'll get together for food!

Phoenix
aka Jen

[Tara the Phoenix]

[center]~7~[/center]

As usual, Giles was already in the dojo before Willow arrived. He had also changed into training gear; a t-shirt and sweat pants. Also like Willow, he padded about in his bare feet. He was inspecting the weaponry on the walls, handling the knives, the kukri, the scimitars with a practiced yet reverent hand. Before she could announce her arrival, he said, without turning around, “Faith will be along shortly, Miss Rosenberg.”

Willow smiled. When he had first entered her service, she had been frequently startled by his uncanny way of knowing where she was; she wondered if he had eyes in the back of his head. In the years since she had learned that he was just remarkably perceptive, a skill worth having in their line of work.

Along another wall was a shelf holding an array of every training implement imaginable. The other wall had windows that opened up to her orchard. She rolled open a yoga mat and began with a Sun Salutation. Even deep inside her breathing, trying to wrap a blanket of white space on her tumultuous thoughts, she heard Faith enter the dojo, her Armsmaster by her side.

Willow ignored them long enough to finish her Salutation, limbering her muscles and her mind; she could hear them quietly preparing for training. This was the first time she had invited Faith to join her personally. Usually Faith duelled with only Giles.

It was time Faith realized that Willow didn't really need a bodyguard, and wouldn't have a bodyguard had Giles not insisted upon it.

(I can take care of myself)

After she finished, she rolled up and replaced the mat. Only then did she look at her Armsmaster. As usual, his platinum hair clashed rather splendidly with his dark eyebrows. He was not particularly tall (still taller than Willow), but his body was hard and his reflexes were quick. He had a dour, sarcastic view of life, with just enough self-flagellation for past sins to infuriate Willow.

He was one of few people who didn't try to ingratiate themselves with her. “Ready to work, Willow?” he asked.

“Ready when you are, Spike.”

“Good. We'll start with standard drill, seeing as we have a guest tonight.” Willow caught him leering at her driver, a look easily reciprocated by Faith Lehane. Willow supposed that some women would find her Armsmaster handsome; he wore a tight sleeveless shirt and training pants like the rest of them, and padded around the dojo in bare feet. When Buffy was going through her rebellious phase, she had gone out with guys like Spike, who drank, drove too fast, and started brawls.

Until Riley.

(does Tara kiss everyone like that?)

Giles was already gathering the hauks from the wall. When he had passed around the weighted wooden cylinders, Faith scowling at the bland choice of weapon, Spike had them separate.

(everyone?)

Willow stood across from Giles; they nodded to each other.

(or just me?

Stop being full of yourself, Rosenberg. It's her job.)

Woolgathering, Giles almost made a touch on her before she could engage her hauk. Engaging his eyes as well as his weapon as she had been taught to do

(read your enemies eyes and conquer them)

closing Tara away again, Willow raised her hauk in time to counter him. The drill started ragged, and she could see that Giles knew exactly what was happening in her Willow-brain, that she wasn't really here at all, that part of her was still upstairs in the poppy den.

(still kissing)

Soon the regular clacking was all she could hear as she was swallowed by the drill, punctuated with instructions from Spike as he engaged Faith. Willow almost wanted to watch her driver drill with Spike; she knew the girl was good, she had done a complete background check before hiring her

(she spent two years with the national guard, and another one guarding the President himself)

but how good was good?

The drill complete, Willow and Giles put up their hauks, sweating. It was apparent that Spike had made a few touches on Faith; the girl's cheeks were slightly crimson, she was grimacing in concentration, bruises were forming on her upper arms, and a small lump crowned her head. “Stop waggling that thing about,” Spike barked, whirling his hauk around to poke her in the chest. She barely countered him.

“What are you, a bleedin' infant?” he bellowed next.

Willow could have grinned. She had fallen for this trap the first few times she engaged her Armsmaster. Faith took the bait, fury overriding her senses, and she fell into a flurry of movement. In only a moment, Spike had swept her knees and she landed on the hard floor, her hauk skittering away. In just another moment she would have launched herself at Spike, with bare fists and fingernails if necessary, but he backed away, concluding the engagement.

“Always a mistake to get angry,” he said, his own voice rolling like the Briton he was as well. “Lose your cool, and someday it won't be a hauk or practice blade. Didn't you learn that with Wilkins?” Faith scowled at him in return, ignoring his proffered hand to help her up, jumping up on her own. Her bruises were rising like the sun, but it looked as if she would ignore them. “Go take a breather,” Spike said, pointing to the wall.

Eyes blazing, for a moment it looked like she would attack anyway, but under Willow's cool and calculating gaze she sulked off to the wall, going into a resting crouch. Willow barely heard a muttering about fooling around with swords when all she needed was a decent pistol.

(we don't believe in pistols here)

“Now Willow,” Spike said, “Let's see if you've been practicing.”

From the wall Giles brought them two sabers, their curved edges gleaming wickedly in the electric light of the dojo. After her last mission in the Middle East, Willow discovered she needed more practice with a curved blade, and started with a scimitar, and had since moved on to a saber.

Willow faced off against her Armsmaster, trying not to notice Faith watching her with keen interest. Faith's lips were still a brilliant and vivid shade of red, and part of her dark hair had fallen from her ponytail, clinging to her neck. She looked pouty and hot and aching for sex. Willow was glad all her staff lived separately from her.

(Her lips aren't like Tara's)

Willow and Spike began with the same drill that she had used with Giles, slowly increasing their tempo. Spike began hitting harder and Willow followed suit. Then Spike left the drill sequence, seeking for a touch on Willow's shoulder; Willow countered it smoothly. She followed with a light flick of the wrist, her blade seeking Spike's throat, but he spun the edge, trapping her blade and then flicking it away. Before she could reingage her weapon, he made to sweep her legs as well.

Dancing away, Willow re-engaged, suddenly pivoting as he lunged, catching the underside of his elbow with the flat of her blade. He spun around himself, and suddenly there was a gleam of sunlight breaking through the cloud cover and the window, igniting his pale hair.

(Why did Tara's hair change colour?)

Before she knew it, Spike slashed her sword arm. The Armsmaster had been guarding his movements; the blade, instead of severing her arm completely, laid a gash open. Willow immediately stepped back, clapping her hand over the wound, her face suddenly pale, the fire of the cut raging through her arm.

“You bloody fool,” Spike said softly. “What just happened?”

Willow's mouth was a tight line. “You are dismissed, Spike.”

“No need to get shirty with me,” he started, until Willow punctured him with her glare. He narrowed his eyes at her, and then stalked off. He put up his weapons, except for the saber that had cut Willow; that would need to be cleaned by Giles before storage. Faith was watching Willow with a little more respect in her eyes, and Willow didn't know if it was because of her skill or the way she didn't scream after getting cut.

It was almost funny to think that she used to be scared of getting a needle.

(that was before)

Giles dismissed Faith as well, and her driver and Armsmaster left as they had come in. Faith was touching Spike on his lower arm, smiling a sultry smile. Willow turned and made her way to the recovery room, a small chamber to the side of the dojo. Once inside the pristine surgical area, she sat on a bench. Giles handed her a thick cloth and she put it over the cut, pressing hard. He was already assembling the curved needle and surgeon's thread.

“Would you like anything for the pain?” he asked, sitting on a stool next to Willow.

“No,” Willow said shortly. He grunted and took over the job of keeping pressure on the wound. Minutes passed in this unacceptable silence. Soon enough the flow of blood eased. Applying bactine, Giles began to sew up the wound, using small and precise stitches. Willow looked at the walls, her head reeling, nausea clouding her stomach.

(Her hair, what happened to her hair?)

“Will you not confide in me, Willow?” he asked quietly when he was halfway done.

(Black cat, black cat, bring me luck. If you don't I'll tear you up)

“Not yet, Giles.”

“As you wish.” When the impromptu surgery was complete, and a clean linen bandage over the wound, he stood to wash his hands in the basin. Willow got up slowly, stretching her already aching muscles. It really was time to include a masseuse among her live-in staff. When he was finished she washed her hands as well; her blood had dried to crusty flakes on them.

Willow changed out of her bloodied clothes before dinner, which turned into a sober affair. Jenny's eyes had narrowed at the bandage on Willow's arm, but the gyptian didn't say a word. Willow sat at the head of the table, eating slowly, savouring each bite, trying to keep the memories of the day at bay. She was joined by her entire staff: Giles sat across from Jenny, too dignified to play footsies with her even though it was vastly apparent to everyone that there was something going on between them. Faith sat across from Robin Wood, the gardener, her face still pouty and hot. Robin's bald head gleamed in the soft lights. When Faith first arrived, she had expressed more than a little disdain for his seemingly undignified position as gardener; that lasted as long as it took for her to spit the dirt from her mouth as he unceremoniously flipped her to the ground.

Hopefully Faith was smart enough to realize what no one would say outright.

(we're all warriors here, and for a reason.)

Willow missed Xander, wished he could come home soon. Her arm ached, Jupi was begging at her feet, and the golden Chablis tasted a little sour in her mouth. Maybe it was the memory of white tea and jasmine. Or the memory of jenniver, which she didn't drink anymore.

She found she was nervous about nightfall.

The staff waited until she had finished eating; as she stood, so did they. It was yet another gesture she tried to stamp out, but Giles had insisted.

(does he intend on alienating me completely?)

“Good night, everyone, and thank you,” Willow said. She got a mumbled echo in return and then she swiftly retreated, knowing that they would be more comfortable the moment she was out of sight. As usual, that thought pierced her with a deep ache for lost friendships.

Buffy and Xander never treated her so. But Buffy was dead, and Xander was in Persia, and Willow was alone.

It was not late enough for bed, so Willow wandered into her library. The moment she did, she almost wished she hadn't.

(Tara would love this room.)

In all conscience, it couldn't be called a library. It was more like a personal museum. Like the rest of her house, the ceiling was high, decorated with exotic mouldings. The windows let in the deflected westering sunlight, as this room did not face the setting sun. Along the walls were bookshelves and cabinets, each handmade and handcarved of jovial cherrywood.

The cabinets held ancient maps and charts, outdated astrological equipment, and instruments used at sea and upon land by cartographers. Among them all were placed small but immensely valuable momentos of her travels, or the spoils she had been allowed to keep.

Unlike Tara's den, all these books and objects were painstakingly valuated, catalogued and filed, by genre, by author, by title. Every year a curator from the Briton Museum would come and catalogue her newest finds; both Jenny and Giles watching and learning as much as they could. Willow tapped the computer screen embedded in the wall, and it swiftly led her to the reference location of the tome she was looking for.

It was not a first edition, nor signed by the late author. It was still bound in leather, had gold leaf on the edges of the pages. Willow took the book and settled into her chair, flinging her legs over the side as she had done only hours before, her arm aching worse than ever.

When she found the page that she had halted at earlier, by the return of the apothecary

(and her changed hair)

Willow realized that she wasn't really looking at the words anymore.

For the first time since she had left the poppy den, Willow allowed her eyes to close, and allowed herself to remember. She had gone in expecting a dream, not a kiss. After this night, which would she remember more?

(I kissed her)

As Willow thought of Tara's lips, the way they were soft and pliable, warm and addictive, Willow uncovered a deep ball of desire in her throat. She reflected on those lips, and she imagined doing other sensual things, like touching bare skin with the tips of her callused fingers, of kissing Tara on the corner of her mouth, making her way down her jaw line, imagining the apothecary tilting her head up, leaving her throat open for Willow's lips.

But then her face would change again, and Tara would return to the hard and bewildering woman Willow had given her money to, and with eyes dripping in haughty disdain, she would turn away from Willow forever.

It was apparent that Willow had no right to love or desire her; the woman kissed everyone the exact same way. Why should Willow be different?

(Then why can't I stop thinking about her?)

An aching, gnawing sensation burned in her chest; she felt it for several moments before finally classifying it.

(Why did she close herself to me at the end? Was it my fault? What did I do wrong?)

It wasn't merely desire, or shame, or jealousy. Willow reflected back on those eyes that had closed off so precipitously after their kiss and determined that it was sorrow.




Saturday or Sunday for the next one, I believe.

Phoenix

[masterjendu]

dibs?

[Zampsa1975]

Yay for great update-y goodness... Good that Willow gets along fine with her staff... I hope Willow still enjoys Tara kisses when the nightmares hit...

[LittleBit]

Awesome updated!

Hey no rush in filling in the gaps on Willow ... I like a drawn out story! But I would like to know a bit more about Tara. This is obviously not the same Tara from the show either and I am finding it much harder to relate to this Tara. I'm use to a caring, giving, gentle Tara yet this Tara has a hard edge to her that is not very recogniseable. Having said that it's not that I dislike the Tara character you've created ... I just need to know more about her and why she is the way she is.

Looking forward to the next update.

[MelCar19]

I just can't get enough of the way you write. It always seems to get better and better, I love it!

Great update, can't wait for the next one.

[Nue]

oh god! this is SO amazing! I just got online (here is 3:13 AM and I have to work at 6am XD) to get this chapter!

btw, this Tara reminds me of 'Petshop of Horrors' ´s Count D ^^

thanks a lot ^^

[ceridwen]

You know, Wednesday I spent all afternoon refreshing the page in hopes of dibsing the update, and just around 9pm, when I decide to go get dinner, you update

It was tragic, lol.

But anyway, just here to tell you I can't wait to read about Willow's dream and nightmare... and the next time she meets Tara

Great update as usual

[LestatDraconus]

Well you've certainly started the new year off with a bang.


This is a killer fic, that draws me into it's story. It's very much a more-ish fic 'cause I most definitely want more. And I can sense that it can go dark, but when it does, we were wanting it.

The whole scene in the Apothecary was just awesome; like it was some sensual dance that was embedded in Tara's thoughts, words and actions. Plus the kiss was brilliant, just a taste of things to come.

Can't wait for the next update.

Ash

[JustSkipIt]

I'm really enjoying this storytelling. I find it interesting how different our impression of Willow is from within Tara's room to outside it. To Tara Willow seems like some kind of bumpkin or something. But this Willow strikes me as disturbed and damaged by her life but a warrior. I don't know what she does but it's not sitting around being an accountant or something. She kind of rocks. And again, I say that I don't believe she has ever ever smoked opium. Just doesn't fit with the armsmaster and etc. I can't wait to find out more and find out just how pissed she will be with the dream.

[Tara the Phoenix]

I am delighted to bring you the next iteration of The Apothecary, as soon as I complete some fb to fb!

masterjendu - Congrats on the dibs, and I hope your midterms went well. I'm glad you're enjoying the fic, and I do appreciate the "beta lite" role you are playing for me. Wicked wind storm last night, eh?

zampsa - Glad you enjoyed it. The long awaited dream is coming right up.

Little Bit - You're right - this Tara is different from many others, and I have more of her coming up in the update after this one. She certainly hasn't had it very easy, but I will continue to reveal her as well. I'm glad you are enjoying the Willow - I love writing her! Next helping coming right up!

MelCar 19 - Thanks for the writing kudos. I think I've finally got the vibe of this fic - it's a little different than my other project I'm simultaneously working on, which makes for a terrific challenge! Thanks for reading!

Nue - Despite the late hour, I'm glad you enjoyed it. I haven't made my way through most of the fics here, yet. Petshop of Horrors? I'll have to check it out when I have a spare minute...which won't be until after New York. Thanks!

ceridwen - I'm sorry to keep you refreshing again and again and then go on just as you leave. It certainly wasn't intentional (as I have no way of knowing what you are up to in Nicaragua). As noted, the long awaited dream is coming up. I hope you like it.

Lestat Draconus - Positively spiffing to see you here. I wondered if you would wander my way. I'm glad you are enjoying the story, from each point of view, and I'm very glad that you are now one of my addicted minions. Bwa ha ha! Enjoy the update!

JustSkipIt - I'm glad you're enjoying the storytelling. I know I haven't delved too deep into the opium part, but it will get its explanation in time. I know it seems unlikely now, as the warrior she is, but I'm glad you brought it to my attention so I can make sure it works out. Thanks for reading, Deb, and for taking time to comment. I always appreciate it.


That's everyone! See you soon!

Phoenix

[Tara the Phoenix]

[center]~8~[/center]

It was 10:30 in the evening when Willow made it to her bedchamber. She had stopped in her dressing room and donned a pair of silk shorts and a camisole for sleeping. There was a dull red line forming on her bandage from the oozing blood, but she didn't really care. This wouldn't be the first time she slept with a wound, and got blood on the sheets.

This was, however, the first time in a long time that Jupi wasn't allowed in with her. Her final summons to Giles of the evening had been explicitly clear: short of the apocalypse, Willow was not to be disturbed this night. He had nodded, inquired after the wound, and then led Jupiter away to the staff house where the puppy would spend the night with Jenny.

Willow programmed her computer not to wake her with an alarm in the morning, and she ensured that her blinds were tightly drawn. Nothing and no one would keep her from enjoying every possible moment of the dream she had paid for.

(had kissed for)

After brushing her teeth, Willow slid between the sheets; they were blessedly cool against the heat of her arm. For a short amount of time Willow attempted to read her bedside book (Stephen King's newest), but she quit when she realized she had no idea what was going on. With a soft touch the naphtha lamp was extinguished, and the room plunged into warm and familiar darkness.

Her heart was beating too fast. Willow tried to calm herself down, and after several minutes of careful breathing, she was successful. She started to replay every moment of her time with the apothecary, and between one blushed reminiscence and another, she was asleep.

“Will? Wills? Earth to Willow?”

Willow spun her head; Buffy was holding two ice cream cones and an infuriated expression. Taking one from Buffy before it melted into a slow line of luscious gloop, Willow blinked. “Um, I was paying attention,” she said, quickly licking one of the more adventurous cavalries of cream.

“Yeah-huh. Then you can tell me exactly where I left off in my little story before your brain decided to go all Willowy on me.”

“Willowy? You mean I am my own metaphor? That's kinda cool in a...” Willow's voice trailed off as Buffy stared at her. “Sad, bad sort of way,” Willow swiftly concluded. “Uh... Cheerleading?"

“Face it, Wills, you totally did a zone-out. What on earth were you looking at? Was it a cute boy? Does he breathe? Is he available?” Buffy spun her golden head around, seeking among the crowds the object of Willow's interest.

Willow's midsection was aching with a delirious kind of hurt, and she knew that it would take years before she would confess to Buffy who she had been staring at, if she revealed it at all. Besides, now that the older blonde haired woman with slate blue eyes had vanished into the throngs of the fair, Willow wasn't really sure she had seen her at all. For some reason, Willow thought she should have known her name, which was impossible, seeing as older women wearing grey silk don't habitually associate with teenagers.

She could have sworn that the woman had been staring at her.

(I give it with a kiss.)

“Nah, it was nothing,” Willow said, licking her ice cream again and beaming as they continued to meander through the crowds of the fair.

“Okay, so you remember me telling you that Cordelia's nose job went horribly awry and she tried to pretend that it was some sports injury? Please, people don't hurt their noses like that playing tennis.” At Willow's somewhat shame-faced expression, and a nebulous touch to the tip of her nose, Buffy said, “Seriously, Willow, no one remembers that. It was so last year.”

“Xander remembers.”

“Of course Xander remembers. He remembers everything about you. I remember when I first moved here he told me about the day he broke your yellow crayon in kindergarten and he made it up to you by stealing a lolly from the teacher's private stash.”

(and in Persia he screamed as his eye was gouged out)

Willow blushed. Somehow Buffy seemed to ooze with supernatural grace through the crowds of people, all of them with bright faces and rupahs in their pockets, ready to lose their coins to the barkers in hopeless attempts at winning kewpie dolls and other assorted prizes. The smell was almost as cacophonous as the sound, mingled horse manure and hot oil, sweating bodies and the smudge pots that would keep the worst of the mosquitoes at bay.

“You really think he remembers everything?” Willow asked, a little balloon of hope rising in her flat fifteen year old chest. For as long as she could remember, Willow wanted

(Tara!)

Xander to be more than a friend. Xander never seemed to reciprocate, but Willow couldn't seem to stop trying. As soon as blond Buffy moved into town, Xander had fallen for her, tearing Willow's heart out in the process. Willow remembered that for a while she wished she could hate Buffy Summers.

What a surprise it had been, when Buffy became her best friend, as close as a sister.

(my sword partner)

Yet when she thought of Xander, Willow still wished she had more of Buffy's confidence, more of Buffy's chutzpah, and more of Buffy's money.

(can you loan me a tenski, Will?)

“He remembers watching Charlie Brown Christmas with you every year. Mind you, there are probably things he wouldn't mind forgetting,” Buffy said in a slow drawl. Willow glared at her, but the piercing asperity of her gaze seemed to lack integral fervour in puncturing Buffy's oration and Buffy continued, “I never did hear your side of the candy apple incident.”

“My lips remain sealed,” Willow said, still amazed that she was walking next to Buffy at all, that Buffy had asked her to go to the fair, and that Cordelia, possibly under some Buffish manipulation, had been leaving her alone lately. The last snide comment she received from the nasally handicapped cheerleader had something to do with Willow's clothing.

(nice to know you've found the softer side of Sears, Willow)

With Buffy at her side, calm, beautiful, witty Buffy, it was easy for Willow to tell Cordelia to put it where the sun don't shine.

Well, she didn't exactly say it, but she did think it. Naughty Willow.

“Uh huh,” Buffy said, responding to the lips being sealed part. “I bet you wish they weren't.”

“Buffy!”

“Come on, Wills, surely there is some boy you wouldn't mind sharing your... ice cream with.” Buffy leered a bit, most likely at the innuendo.

Which Willow missed completely.

“He can get his own damn ice cream,” Willow growled in laughter, inwardly blushing at using a swear word, and hoping it didn't show on her face.

Buffy sighed.

Somehow in the space of their walking and Buffy's nonstop chattering, Buffy had managed to put away the ice cream cone, a hot dog, a plate of tomatillos and an ice cold root beer. She paused outside a vendor, who swiftly gave her a cracker jack box for two rupahs. “Doesn't your mom feed you?” Willow asked.

Buffy rooted around in the box, spraying tiny bits of caramel studded popcorn and nuts to the already bedraggled ground. “She was just saying the other day that she wished she had a trough. I thought that was a little rude of her.”

“She's certainly better than my mom. She can spend an entire day in her office without eating anything but her own liver. I'm telling you, Buff, my mom is the most competitive non-sport person I've ever met.”

“I hear she crucifies people with words,” Buffy said, stuffing a handful of the snack in her mouth and chewing ferociously while still hunting for the elusive prize. Willow finally finished her ice cream (throwing the soggy bits of the cone away) and grinned at her best friend.

“Take some of this, Will,” Buffy said, tipping some into Willow's hastily lifted palms.

“Not so much!” Willow laughed. “Remember the roles of our friendship? You're the human garbatron, and I'm the walking computer.”

“And what, pray tell, is Xander?” Buffy asked, looking up briefly before stuffing more into her mouth and digging even deeper into the box.

(he should have been everything)

“I believe he provides the comic relief.”

“I so want his job,” Buffy muttered. “Aha!”

From the box tipped a tiny plastic sleeve, with a faint glob of something or other inside. Tucking the box by her elbow, Buffy ripped open the plastic and spilled the cheap plastic ring into her palm.

(cracker jack ring

she can't speak to you from the dead, Willow)

Something thrummed deep inside Willow, and she tasted sweetness on her lips. Was it jasmine?

Buffy grinned. “For you, Will,” she said, placing the ring in Willow's now empty palm. Willow opened her mouth in a small O of surprise, and tears sparked behind her eyes.

“Why, Buffy?” Willow asked, her voice tiny, and she wrestled the ring on to her middle finger.

“Because you're not just Xander's Willow any more,” Buffy said, her voice now serious yet light. “You're my Willow, too. And not just because of the homework privileges.” Buffy lifted her lip and wheedled, “You are going to help with the computational math problem, aren't you?”

(I would walk through fire for you, Willow.)

Something heavy and thick obstructed Willow's throat, so she just smiled. Buffy smiled back, and then they both continued down the labyrinthian lanes of the fair. Willow frequently thumbed the ring on her finger, her heart more elated than it had ever been in her life. Buffy was more than a friend. Buffy was family.

(I'd mount an assault on the very gates of hell.)

Soon Buffy was pausing outside the strong man booth. “Step right up, step right up,” the barker was calling. Both Buffy and Willow stared at the heavy sledgehammer and the bell mounted at the top.

(I would dance with the devil himself)

“Let's try it, Wills, it's only five rupahs.”

(because)

The barker was looking at them with contempt, his oiled mustache and barrel chest screaming of stereotypical midway. “I don't know, Buffy,” Willow said.

(You're my Willow too)

“I'm not exactly the strong man type. I'm not even the strong woman type. Now if there was a game for resequencing DNA or, or reciting pi to a hundred places, or listing all the lanthanides and actinides of the periodic table, I'd totally be the girl.”

“Will, this is the midway. The only scientific game that exists here is the one that gives you your weight and tells your fortune. Neither of which needs to be public knowledge, ergo the strong man booth.”

The moon was rising in the night sky, a large and pregnant moon, glimmering with secrets. Even among the pinwheeling lights of the ferris wheel, the paper lanterns on strings, the neon blazing of booths and games, the moon seemed to hold its own far and distant majesty.

It knew something Willow didn't know.

Willow suddenly tasted marzipan on her tongue, a grown-up taste, half sophistication and half almond. The lights grew creamier, and there was the far squealing of jazz. Was she this Willow, or an older one?

(are you sure that's what you found in Persia, Will?)

Willow stared at Buffy, convinced that Buffy had just said something, but Buffy was already making her way to the front of the line. As Willow made to follow her, she stepped on crackling foil paper, the liner transparent with stale grease.

“Come on, Will,” Buffy was urging.

The jazz was getting stronger, and jenniver wine curdled in her stomach, implications of Persia rippling inside her mind.

(Giles' scar and Xander's eye and the price we pay in blood and pain)

Beyond and away the crickets were singing and Buffy began to shine like the sun. Too much for this paltry earth. Too much.

(it can't be me, Will. I'm just Buffy. Your Buffy. Riley's Buffy. Big bellied pregnant Buffy.)

Feeling tinny and lightheaded, chilly now even though it was high summer, Willow lingered in the line for the strong man booth, sensing more than seeing that another world was imposing on her.

(I'm only dreaming)

Buffy had already handed over her clinking rupahs – there were plenty more in her purse. “You first, Will,” she said, marching behind Willow and pushing her forward. A small crowd was beginning to form, and Willow wished she could hide from them, because they could see that her shirt was second hand, that her shorts were mended by her non-talented nerdish hand, that her arms were like weeny matchsticks.

“Remember the DNA, Buffy?” Willow protested. “The tennis? The coordinated walking while talking and chewing gum? I didn't bring my body armour.”

Buffy raised her head and laughed, a gentle rain of sound. Her face glowed with pride, and she put her fingers on her abdomen as if more than hot dogs and ice cream lay there.

Riley.

(I'm sure Buffy, and I'm sorry.)

The heavy handle of the hammer was pressed into her palm; for an anxious moment, Willow couldn't even lift it from the ground.

(I'm scared, Will. What if I can't...)

Willow was staring at Buffy, but it wasn't really Buffy anymore, and they were no longer at the fair. They had been swallowed by the other world, by Willow's recurring nightmare, and Buffy was wearing a horrifying mask of Halloweve blood, streaming down her face in rivulets, her belly big with Riley's child.

(with this dream every night, no wonder I need the apothecary

just one night of peace)

And Buffy died there, on the sidewalk, to the crooning of the jazz and the singing of the crickets.

(I will not be caught by surprise.)

Willow spun, her rapier sliding from her scabbard with a steely whisk of sound, plunging into the body of the person lurking behind her.

(Tara!)

It seemed to slide in so very easily, shearing past grey silk and bone to erupt on the other side like a bloody volcano. From the corner of Tara's mouth trickled a thin line of blood. In horror, Willow let go of the hilt and the slim sword hovered there, skewering the apothecary like a Turkish kebab.

The sound of Tara's knees striking the pavement was obscenely loud, like buckshot.

Willow caught the beloved body before it could slump forwards onto the blood-violated sidewalk; she sank into a crouch, oblivious of the red stain soaking through her clothing. “Tara?” she asked, even though she didn't even know she knew this woman's name until she said it aloud.

Tara's finger left a bloody print on Willow's cheek. As Willow rocked her back and forth, Tara's sleeve was pushed up, revealing a small mark on the inside of her elbow, hauntingly familiar yet elusive.

Tara didn't speak before she died.

(did you really think you could run from responsibility forever, Willow?

can you afford to dream your life away?

night comes

and there's no Dawn)




See you either Monday or Wednesday!
Phoenix

[Zooeys_Bridge]

diberoonie! haha, I'm back!

Sorry, Jen, for not getting to fb in time. It was great. It always is. The end.

[Nue]

Amazing update! ok, I´m repeating myself now, but it´s true!

I love your broken, dark (in a not-murderer-way, of course ), desperate lonely Willow...

and Tara? I can´t even describe how incredible, mysterious, must-have-one-in-my-life she is ^^

btw, check this out some time, I bet you gonna like ^^
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pet_Shop_of_Horrors

[LittleBit]

omg that was sooooo good! You totally captured the dream like state perfectly. Cannot wait for you to unravel the pieces further and provide even more insight. In this update Willow seemed more like the old Willow but still with that "edge". It felt like you'd captured the character remarkably well considering how different Willow is now from the old version - so long as you meant the old version to be like Willow in the series.

[Zampsa1975]

Yay for great update-y goodness... Interesting dream... I liked how reality crossed into the dream... I really liked how Willow's interest for Tara also made into the dream...

[MelCar19]

Great dream, can't wait for the next update and Willow's reaction when she wakes up from it.

[Zooeys_Bridge]

I think you managed to squeeze every light, easy moment from each season of TV into this one short scene at the fair. The dialogue between Willow and Buffy seemed so blissfully natural and it's some of the best I've ever read. It wasn't too fluffy to be devoid of a point, we got a precious glimpse into the Willows and Buffys that were, complete with the usual teenage issues of self-image and love and that swift glimmer of sexuality. Absolutely delightful.

“Willowy? You mean I am my own metaphor? That's kinda cool in a...” Willow's voice trailed off as Buffy stared at her. “Sad, bad sort of way,” Willow swiftly concluded. “Uh... Cheerleading?"

spot on.

She could have sworn that the woman had been staring at her.

I love that the outside world has managed to find its way into Willow's dream. And I'm not sure if that woman's presence is of Tara's doing or of Willow's own self. Interesting.

“Okay, so you remember me telling you that Cordelia's nose job went horribly awry and she tried to pretend that it was some sports injury? Please, people don't hurt their noses like that playing tennis.” At Willow's somewhat shame-faced expression, and a nebulous touch to the tip of her nose, Buffy said, “Seriously, Willow, no one remembers that. It was so last year.”

Buffy? Perfect. The quick wittedness and the vanity of Cordelia is still there and it really makes me remember why I like her so much. It's sometimes so easy to forget. This is what makes Willow and Buffy so great together, this sequence right here you described. It's not done well enough elsewhere.

I'm amazed at how the way you wrote instantly changed the landscape of the dream. Without any negative words, I could feel that slip in the dreamscape changing to the nightmare at the end. I've felt that in my own dreams, how eerie of you to bring it so well to fruition here.

Magnificent. This is more addicting than The Lamb, cloaked in mystery and tragedy.

[CrazyTaraWitch]

The end is chilling and wonderful, can't wait fo more!!

[Nenyath]

Alright, here I am with a mountain of resolution and ready to reply! The last update I had actually almost finished replying when I mucked it up and accidentally deleted the whole thing, what a bother!

I enjoyed posting every two days but I wondered if I was almost losing an audience by posting so fast.

You are not loosing an audience I think, you are just loosing a bit of my feedback... Which is bad enough I hope But on to the feedback for the last two chapters (I hope!)

You asked about Willow, it definitely is Willow, but more a Willow like the one from The Lamb, a Willow as from the show after Buffy's death only intensified or perhaps as she would have been had she not brought Buffy back, embittered by time.

After she finished, she rolled up and replaced the mat. Only then did she look at her Armsmaster. As usual, his platinum hair clashed rather splendidly with his dark eyebrows. He was not particularly tall (still taller than Willow), but his body was hard and his reflexes were quick. He had a dour, sarcastic view of life, with just enough self-flagellation for past sins to infuriate Willow.

I think it says something of your ability to describe a character (Or my far too extensive reading of fics) that I recognize them well before you reveal the name (It was the same with Giles and Faith..)

Willow was glad all her staff lived separately from her.

(Her lips aren't like Tara's)

The longing for company, almost any kind of company, then the habit of isolating herself, then the acknowledgement that it is the company of a certain woman she longs for..

It was almost funny to think that she used to be scared of getting a needle.

(that was before)

The almost here does it, turns it from being sarcastic to be just tragic, or perhaps the sarcasm shaded by her after thought produce the tragic effect..

“Will you not confide in me, Willow?” he asked quietly when he was halfway done.

(Black cat, black cat, bring me luck. If you don't I'll tear you up)

“Not yet, Giles.”

Again I sense the frailty of the girl inside, going mad with grief, sparring with the composed and isolated facade..

“Good night, everyone, and thank you,” Willow said. She got a mumbled echo in return and then she swiftly retreated, knowing that they would be more comfortable the moment she was out of sight. As usual, that thought pierced her with a deep ache for lost friendships.

An aching, awkward, everyday moment.. It must grind her down slowly being repeated day after day, clothed in politeness but really little more than a dull knife gracing the same old aching wound of loneliness.

And I love the library, Willow's personal space.. The old antique things on display yet catalogued, how very appropriate!

An aching, gnawing sensation burned in her chest; she felt it for several moments before finally classifying it.

(Why did she close herself to me at the end? Was it my fault? What did I do wrong?)

It wasn't merely desire, or shame, or jealousy. Willow reflected back on those eyes that had closed off so precipitously after their kiss and determined that it was sorrow.

It is a very Willow like thing to do, seeking to classify the feeling even if it is on the negative side of the emotional scale..

[Nenyath]

I will keep it brief with the dream, suffice is to say that it was achingly realistic yet haunting in quality. The way you described the sounds and sights made think of those movies where the sound is strangely distorted, seeming more distant and more close than reality would permit while the visual input is likewise distorted, size out of proportion and colours intensified.. Having Tara a part of the dream made it only the more haunting and I'm looking forward to see if she did it on purpose or if they are linked by their dreaming...

"Willowy? You mean I am my own metaphor? That's kinda cool in a...” Willow's voice trailed off as Buffy stared at her. “Sad, bad sort of way,” Willow swiftly concluded.

Very, very sweet! but I'm highlighting just to say that yes, you are your own metaphor, and in quite an awesome way

There is too much I could highlight in this one update, it works really well, the mental pictures you conjure is either of the dreamy, beautiful quality, or of the surprising kind which turn beauty to horror in one unguarded moment...

Looking forward to the next installment, this time up to date with the replies!

[ceridwen]

Willow better ask for her kiss back -- I mean, her money back

[Tara the Phoenix]

fb to fb!

zooey's bridge - Heya Rach! Good dibbin, and even better commentin. Thank you so much for such a detailed reply. I really appreciate it - it's not easy writing dialogue like this. I'm glad it had all the undertones it needed to, and yet had all the witty Buffyisms inherent in the show. I wanted the dream to be a near seamless phase into the nightmare, and I'm glad it turned out that way for you. Addicting? Your next fix is coming right up. Thanks, Rach.

Nue - Thanks for reading. I loved the "must-have-one-in-my-life" line. I think that we read or write fiction sometimes because we don't have the equivalent in our lives. How awesome that day will be when we do, and we can still enjoy great fiction! Thanks for the comment, and enjoy the next update!

Little Bit - Further unraveling of the clues is coming up, bit by bit. I've written up to chapter 14, so I'll see if I can post three times before leaving for New York. I hope you enjoy the next "little bit". Bad pun, I know.

Zampsa - I'm glad you enjoyed the crossover feeling of the dream, how their feelings got intermingled. You'll see soon what Tara found out. Thanks for reading!

MelCar 19 - Willow's reaction actually won't happen until Chapter 11. I've got some good Tara stuff coming up first. I hope you enjoy it as much as the dream. Thanks for reading!

CrazyTaraWitch - I'm so glad you are enjoying this story as much as I enjoy writing it. I hope you like what comes next. Thanks for commenting!

Nenyath - Too bad about the whole computer eating the feedback thing. You've mentioned you spend as much time composing feedback as you do reading it! I certainly won't complain - I love your feedback! I'm glad you were able to recognize Spike before I said his name, let's see how well you do with other characters! This is fun, actually writing with other characters in the Buffy universe... maybe I shouldn't kill them off all the time. Don't worry too much about the mental frailty of Willow - I'll explain the black cat sometime...soonish? Thanks for the awesome comments.

ceridwen - Money or a kiss? When we're talking about our favourite ladies, it's always kisses! I hope you enjoy the next chapter.


That's everyone! Thanks for commenting, and enjoy the next update!

Phoenix

[Tara the Phoenix]

[center]~9~[/center]

The stack of money stayed for a long time exactly where Willow had placed it.

After clearing away the tea tray, Tara went back into her den. With grey silk whisking at her ankles, the beloved scent of her books merely a hint and a wish in the air, Tara parted the beaded curtain that led from the stairwell into her home, then closed the steel door. She took only one client every day.

Her bare feet stepped lightly on the Persian rug of her den as she made her way back to the little chintz-covered tea table. The stack of bills was an abnormality, almost menacing in its silence. By the very way it took up space it seemed to remind Tara of the difficult choice she had made.

(Don't come back, Willow.)

Tara picked up the heavy volume that Willow had been reading. There was no way to tell what part Willow had been reading; Tara found that she wished she knew. She wished she could open the book to the page that Willow beheld last, as if the book itself was aware of its reader and could be a mirror into Willow's indomitable soul. Could the words feel the undivided attention of the red-haired enigma, words desperate to share secrets and truths of a universe that could have been real?

Maybe there was a Narnia, and a lion named Aslan, a place where animals spoke and trees came to life, where the pennants of Cair Paravel snapped in a lively breeze as the sons of Adam and daughters of Eve began a true and just rulership.

In the loft above her own, Eva would know. If Tara asked, Eva could show her the other worlds that lay like a filter upon this one. But Tara wouldn't ask.

Her eyes stinging with remorse, Tara sat down in Willow's chair. As the cushions deflated under her, there was a soft sigh of the perfume Willow had been wearing; the scent seemed to circle Tara in chains. Tara closed her burning eyes and rested for a moment, bringing to mind every moment of her kiss.

Her fingers curling reflexively on the arms of the chair, Tara softly bit her lower lip in remembrance. Willow had caressed her lips with her tongue, had teased them open. She had pressed so soft, and then so hard, her breasts lightly touching Tara's own, their clothing sliding over each other in earnest reflection of the action of their lips. As Willow kissed her, tentative at first, then stronger

(deeper!)

Tara had felt like a woman again, beautiful, enchanting, essential. It was a feeling she hadn't experienced in over five hundred years. The only reason she had been gifted with such beauty, with such a kiss from a stranger, was because Willow must have seen it, she must have seen the stale and dried anguish in Tara's eyes, the monotony of hundreds of years and thousands of forehead kisses and nearly 183,000 nights alone in her tiny bed.

And Tara remembered the mirrored pain in Willow's eyes, those eyes that had seen too much. Stormy eyes, wracked with remembrances of shattered swords and gouged eyes and scars on cheeks.

Willow had been as desperate for the kiss as Tara. Why was it that no one loved her?

(If only I could love her.)

So Tara wept.

At this point Tara didn't really understand why it had to be Willow who saw through her, and not one of the other thousands of her female clients. She didn't comprehend the soul deep connection she felt with the woman, the connection she noticed the moment Willow first walked timidly into the poppy den downstairs. The blonde and bubbly capitalistic purveyor of the den had wasted no time in teaching Willow the way of the dragonsbreath, how to light the bowl just so, how to hold the precious smoke for a moment in the mouth, until it penetrated her very blood.

And when the despair became evident, Anya did as she always would; she mentioned Tara's name, and the chance for a manufactured dream, soporific perfection for the dark watches of the night. Who would not take the opportunity to relive again some moments of bliss, or to find fake vengeance for slights and wrongs?

Her green eyes blighted, Willow should have been just one of thousands, nothing remarkable about her at all.

Unless...

Tara almost forced the thought away. God did not smile on her, He had no blessings for her like arrows in his quiver, no reason to send an angel in Willow-clothing. How could He, while Tara served an agent of the Adversary?

(who has my collar and by whom I am damned)

Here, in the chair with Willow-scent cloaking her like a blanket, Tara allowed herself to think it. Just once, and only once, or it would drive her mad.

(Unless Willow is the one to free me.)

True to her iron willpower, Tara then forced all thoughts of Willow from her head. She rose from the chair, put the fifteen thousand dollars into her safe in the front room and then changed into sweats and a tank top. With a tap on the vid, she activated the alarm that lay across the stairwell, which would warn her when someone was coming either direction upon the stairs. Pulling her mostly blond hair into a ponytail, Tara opened the door to her workroom and flicked on the cheery electric light.

The room was similar to her library in function; the walls were ceiling to floor shelves, row upon row and along the walls, and there were no windows. Yet instead of books, these shelves held thousands upon thousands of little jars. Inside the jars were powders and petals, oils and unguents and essences, liquids and silicates and scrapings and more. Unlike her library, all these jars were carefully labeled and catalogued in Tara's tiny and precise lettering.

There was a locked metal cabinet on the back wall that Tara ignored. It was not as full as it should be with the gallon jugs of inky oil she produced at night. She had a quota to meet for her Master, and she never knew when he would be coming to claim it.

(I have work to do)

Tara knew she could not afford to begin her work until all thoughts of Willow were stashed away in her brain as airtight as these little jars. There was a silken cushion on the floor near her worktable; she sank on it in the lotus position.

She had hundreds of years of practice, her mind a well-oiled machine. Soon enough she was focused on her breath, her chi, a white blanket of supernatural protection and bliss covering her soul. Only then did Tara rise and begin to walk the narrow aisles of her dream superstore, touching a jar here and there, finally choosing one or another. When her arms were cluttered with half a dozen jars she made her way to the worktable.

Still operating in that dreamlike and near-trance state, Tara opened the jars and began measuring out precise amounts into a stone mortar; a little this, a little that, a few grains of sand, a pinch of red powder, four drops of some oil, a crushed leaf of nettle, making notations of each in a ledger she kept at hand. When she felt she was finished with adding ingredients, she brought out her pestle and began to grind the ingredients together, always breathing slowly and deeply, her mind floating and still.

(I am the apothecary

and I am damned)

Then she breathed upon it, and the dream was ready for delivery.

She poured the contents of the mortar into a small paper envelope and sealed it. She returned all her materials to their proper positions on the shelves and gathered the ingredients for another dream.

Hours later and lost in her work, her mind so occupied at shutting the memory of Willow away, she nearly shrieked as a hand touched her shoulder. Tara whirled, her hand slopping some of the essence of lavender she had been about to add to her concoction, her heart drumming in surprise.

Eva was already a step away, looking at Tara with a mixture of mirth and confusion. Tara looked from the catalyst to the open door of her workroom, then back to the catalyst and the plate of food in Eva's hand.

“Geez, Tara, I haven't been able to sneak up on you for at least sixty years,” Eva said, looking concerned. Tara saw Eva's gaze snap to the three inches of changed hair, then back to Tara's flushed face. “I don't understand... it doesn't look as if you had a particularly bad day.”

Tara chose to let that comment rest, knowing that the only answer would be a long and hard one, and one she wasn't about to share with the woman who would eventually take Willow away from her, as she had so many of Tara's clients.

(What Willow? She's not coming back, remember?)

“Sorry, Eva, I guess I was just concentrating on my work.” Tara set down the jar and picked up a paper towel to wipe her hands.

“I'd have to agree,” Eva replied, looking meaningfully at the small collection of sealed packets clustered at the top of the worktable. “You missed supper.”

Only as Eva said those words did Tara realize that she was ravenous, and the smell of the coconut curry in Eva's hands was intoxicating. “What time is it?” Tara asked as she got up, her lower back screeching in protest. She half shuffled to the basin to wash her hands, aware of Eva's eyes on her the entire time.

Eva was as good as Tara at reading people, maybe even better. Tara had learned a long time ago not to lie to her.

Well, not to lie very much.

“It's past ten in the evening. When you didn't come up for supper I wondered if some client had either killed you, or seduced you.”

Tara blushed as she toweled her hands dry, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ears. Eva enjoyed being seduced, by man and woman alike. Tara, on the other hand

(I will wait for the right one

even if I wait forever)

“That's not very likely, Eva,” she said, taking the plate from Eva's hands and shooing them both from her workroom. Eva made a rather interesting harrumph of sound, which Tara decided to ignore.

They sat down at the small kitchen table; there was a vase of calendula and narcissus upon it. “Did you have a good day?” Tara asked as she began to eat.

In the winsome glow of naphtha, Eva looked every part of the seductress she was. Eva was the second most powerful of all of Tara's race; Tara herself ranked about seventh in the pantheon she belonged to. With glossy black hair and enchanting violet eyes, Eva was the most skilled hunter Tara had ever known. No wonder it was her duty

(and pleasure?)

to act as catalyst for the unfortunate fools that Tara and the other apothecaries sent her way.

(the fools, the damned)

Not everyone who succumbed to Anya's poppy den were desperate enough for Tara's dreams. Even fewer of Tara's clients made that extra trek up the stairs to Eva's parlour. As a result, Eva was not always at the Sunnydale poppy den. She traveled between the near-twenty poppy dens that were skittled all over the globe, acting as the catalyst for each one.

The world was corrupt, and mankind was desperate and weak. Eva was kept busy, hopping over the planet. She had only been home for the past two days. As much as Tara detested what the catalyst did

(as I detest and loathe what I do)

Tara was glad for her company, and her cooking. Anya, the matron of the poppy den downstairs, took her work obscenely seriously

(I swear that money is the only thing she is in love with)

and kept the poppy den open until past midnight each night, resulting in not very much contact with the other women who worked this poppy den. Sometimes Anya would join them for supper, but more often she would not. After five hundred years of eating, most food on Earth tasted like ash in Tara's mouth; she ate only to keep her body running. Eva was an immensely talented chef

(how many centuries of practice?)

for Tara actually enjoyed today's coconut and curry; it had a tiny tinge of green chili that warmed her tongue like an ember.

“It was quiet day,” Eva replied to Tara's question. “Spent some of it watching a very hot chick smoke cigarets at the curb. She looked vaguely familiar, but I can't place her. The gentleman with her would have been completely uninteresting had he not had this very conspicuous scar on his face.”

“Mmm,” Tara murmured, her mouth full. She looked up at the horloge, startled to find it was so late.

Eva noticed, and said, “Don't you have an alarm in the stairwell? I thought no one could sneak up on you.”

“I was busy,” Tara replied between bites, her voice a little icy.

“Fine, fine,” Eva said, lifting her palms in a gesture of peace. “Keep whatever secrets you must. You better hurry up if you're going to get anything done before midnight.”

Tara didn't need to be told. She finished wolfing down her supper, and then stood, Eva rising with her. “Thanks for the meal, Eva. I better be on my way.”

Eva took the plate from her and said, “Be careful tonight, Tara.”

“I'm always careful.”

(Uh huh. What do you call what happened this afternoon?

Liar.)


See you Friday!

Phoenix

[ceridwen]

Dibs!!

Well, I must say I'm very intrigued. It's very interesting to know a bit more about Tara since so little of her has been revealed so far.

I admit that I'd forgotten that Tara was so old, heh. And I hope to find out more about this new character, Eva.

Excellent work as usual. Until Friday it is