TITLE: Never The Twain? (Part 31/31)
AUTHOR: Zahir
FEEDBACK: Well, yeah! And not simply compliments, if you're so inclined. Personally, I'd like some real constructive criticism.
ARCHIVING: Just ask is all.
SYNOPSIS: This is an alternate history in which Willow never completed the Soul Restoration Spell. Of all the changes that flow from that one, the biggest is that Tara is a vampire. Oh, and Faith never worked for the Mayor.
COUPLES: W/T, X/Ay
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: Up through and including "The Gift" as well as some stuff from "Angel."
DISCLAIMERS: The toys I'm playing with belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I promise not to make money off them and to put them back none the worse for wear. My hope is that they won't sue me. Besides, I don't own much. Honest.
NOTES: Here it is, the last chapter. At least for now. I can't thank folks enough for their wonderful feedback, which has helped sustain me (and in more than simply writing). The whole experience has been a blast and I've learned so much that merely "thank you" seems hopeless inadequate. But it is all I have to offer. Again, thank you.

* * *

First, Willow looked frightened. Second, she looked horrified. Third, she looked determined--fiercely so.

The words to the spell were simple, really. A single drop of light was conjured out of the air, and it floated its way through the crack in Tara's wall. Neither of them was surprised. Of course Miss Xita would go exploring once such an opening appeared in her home. That she still wasn't home was the cause for worry.

Within yards, the crack narrowed, but its other end led to natural caves. Sunnydale was riddled with them. Tara knew that even better than Willow. Vampires nearly always traveled underground. It became their highway, their concourse, their personal world--along with the other demons. Yet Tara didn't take the lead. For one thing, the light was Willow's spell. It obeyed her will, not Tara's. And for another, she by now recognized that her lover wouldn't relinquish the lead position. Not right now.

"Miss Xita!" Willow's voice echoed. Tara listened, hoping for a response. Her superior hearing picked up sounds, some of them quite odd, but nothing like a kitten's cries.

Steadily, the glowing drop of light continued along its way. For a long time, maybe even an hour, the going was rough. These were not tunnels frequented often by human-sized creatures. Boulders packed atop each other made up the cave floor, leaving barely two yards between them and the jagged ceiling. Willow never really hesitated, though, clearly focused on the light and where it would lead. Tara believed she understood why. No one had been able to save Buffy, not even her best friend--who had herself been defended and saved countless times by Buffy for years. Yet at that final battle, Willow had failed to do as much for her. She had been unable to, that was the truth. It was little short of a miracle they hadn't all died, with much of the world's population slaughtered as well, but Willow did not see it that way. Or more accurately, that wasn't how her heart could. Buffy had saved her. She had not saved Buffy. That it had been impossible could hardly eclipse that blinding fact. And right now, what else could Willow see? Save perhaps the opportunity to succeed for a kitten where she had failed for her best friend.

Oh Willow, the vampire thought to herself, how can I help you get past this? The only answer that came to mind was to help rescue (or find) Miss Xita. So she followed her love, deeper and deeper into the earth.

After another hour, Tara reached out and held Willow's shoulder.

"What?"

"I'm listening," said Tara. Yes. No mistake. What it was remained a mystery. But she heard it. Heard...what? "Have you ever listened to the songs of whales?" she suddenly asked.

"Uh...I think so. Yeah." Willow didn't have to actually say the word Why.

"That's kind of what I'm hearing. But something else...as if there were words..." She shook her head, lacking any more details. But she pointed to where the sound or voices or songs seemed to originate. In just the same direction as the light had been leading them.

Both of them hurried, but carefully, trying to make as little sound as possible. Another minute or two passed before Willow whispered that she, too, could hear something. Within another five, both could have given a description of it. There seemed to be a chorus, singing some weird language more suited to whales than human or human-like creatures. Harmonies interlaced, clearly meaning something and certainly creating an effect of terrible beauty and power. Magic? A ritual of some kind? Both? Neither? The possibilities raced through both minds amid a shared glance--and both of them pressed on.

Here the caves also echoed with the drip-drip-drip of seeping waters. Bric-a-brac lay in odd corners, like the broken shards of a wheelchair. And a stained porcelain doll, broken cleanly in half. Exactly how these and a handful of colored balloons--fresh, unused, in a neat little pile--ended up here wasn't something either of them wanted to guess. More importantly, past the next turn, a greenish luminescence seemed to wait for them. As if to make that clearer, Willow's little blue glow headed directly for it.

And the...music...voices...sounds...rose in volume and tempo. The green light pulsed in matching rhythms.

Willow ran. Forward.

"No! Wait!" Tara hissed. Much as she loved her pet (the first she'd ever had, some part of Tara reminded her for some reason), she loved Willow a thousand-fold more. Danger to one was as nothing compared to danger to the other. Yet Willow ran faster than Tara had ever seen her move before--round the corner to where the sounds and glow continued to swell.

Tara rounded the corner herself perhaps one full second later. Before her was a nearly circular chamber, as if a molten bubble had simply evaporated amid the rock. One meter-long pillar of onyx lay in the center of the space. Atop it was Miss Xita, laying on her side but with both ears now pointed to where Tara and Willow had just entered.

Surrounding her were...Things. Leathery long robes (that seemed sewn directly into the flesh) helped give the proceedings a ritual air. The fact that none of the five were even remotely human rendered the air sinister. Each of the five had long, hairless heads with tiny eyes too far to the sides. Maw-like mouths resembled those of horses. But their singing revealed the fact that every single tooth was a fang. No noses, or nostrils or anything like them was visible. Meanwhile, hooked claws were raised ritually in a circle around the defenseless kitten.

"Leviathan...!"

Just ahead of Tara, Willow's head was bowed and she was uttering words. Names. Powerful, malevolent names.

"...Azreal..."

"Willow!" Tara managed to step directly in front of Willow, just in time to see her lift up eyes now grown black as pitch.

"...Barrabas..." Her voice was rising in pitch, volume, and power.

Tara tried to grab Willow by the shoulders, give her a shake. Power such as she was getting ready to channel was made even more dangerous because they were underground. Surrounding walls could easily collapse. But the effort she expended towards her lady had an unexpected result--namely, throwing her back as if she were a doll! Amid a thunderclap, Tara found herself arching away from Willow and landing with a heavy thud on the other side of the chamber!

Dizzy, Tara tried to make out what was happening. The Singing Things had stopped singing. One was staring at Tara herself, taking a step towards her. Most of the others had formed a wall between Willow and the meowing Miss Xita. A lone Singer had raised his claw, palm open, towards Willow--who had begun to elevate as she finished her spell.

"Strike and let unjust ones fall!" From Willow's hands flared out bolts of red lightning!

With a gesture, the lone Singer managed to gather the lightning and take it entirely onto itself. From the screeching sound that came from its throat, this must have caused vast pain. But, although staggered, it held its own.

Seeing this, Willow bellowed in fury. Her lovely lips pulled back in a grimace of hate, or raw and primal rage. Both hands extended like talons, she spat something in Russian.

The Singer gasped and collapsed. All its fellows cried out!

And at that moment, a spiral of black flames materialized directly below Willow in a cone. It began to grow like a tornado. She didn't notice, too intense on making arcane gestures as part of her magical attack. Not until the black flames actually touched her feet did she even react, and then her eyes--black to mirror the flames beneath her--showed alarm. For all of a second and a half. It took that long for the cone to envelope her and fade away.

Willow was gone. Tara could think of nothing else. She was aware of nothing else. Even her own skin seemed countless millions of miles away, far too far for her to feel or be more than faintly notice. Willow was gone. My lady. My love.

Willow!

* * *

"Your magicks are powerful..." said the voice.

Willow didn't know where she was, save that it was dark. Robed figures hovered nearby, so it wasn't pitch black, but on the other hand she couldn't make out any details either. And her head hurt.

"...but it was your pain that we responded to."

Behind her. She turned around, and managed not to vomit doing so. Her internal organs felt as if they were dancing together. To punk music. Like a mosh pit. Blinking, she tried to make out the speaker.

"Pain such as we understand. Pain we have all shared." It was an old voice, a powerful one. "The pain of loss, of injustice unavenged and wrongs unpunished. We understand."

"Oh...that's nice...'cause I don't..."

The speaker moved closer. Like the others, he was robed but his hood was thrown back. At least Willow thought of him as a "he." It must be the beard. Beards said male to her. Just as his pointed ears, protruding teeth and horns said something else.

Demon.

"The pain you feel at what has happened is something we very much know, Willow Rosenberg. For a long time, we've heard echoes of it until at last we were compelled to seek you out. Already, your rage has enflamed your powers. Given time, it may elevate you to still higher and higher levels. Because you have discovered that which all things that live instinctually desire." He didn't seem so much threatening as proud. Like a coach, maybe. For some reason, he reminded her of Ira Rosenberg, her father.

"Okay, I'll ask--what is this thing?"

"Purpose," he answered. "For you have tasted how the world may wrong you."

"I suppose so, but really no more than anybody else really..."

He interrupted her. "But you have not shielded yourself. The mundane deaden their own hearts so that the world causes them less pain, and as a result they survive but very rarely live. And in turn they thoughtlessly add to the miseries each of them fears but refuses to acknowledge. But you, you Willow Rosenberg...!"

"Uh...what about me?" She so did not like this conversation.

"When Oz left you, it was as if your soul had been crucified, left nailed and exposed to the elements. Was it not?"

Appalled, Willow nodded without thinking. It was true. No one had ever betrayed her so deeply, so horribly as Oz. She had forgiven him, true, largely out of an understanding that he suffered under a curse that eroded his precious self-control. He had not chosen to be unfaithful, she knew that.

That hadn't made it hurt any less, though.

"And since that time, has the pain really grown any less keen, Willow Rosenberg? Do you feel it less when Joyce Summers died, or your friend Xander's mind was flayed? Even so, your friends themselves hurt you, did they not?" He stepped closer. Those eyes, milky yet deep, held hers. "You, whom they knew to have suffered terribly from a vast loneliness--when you found a beloved one again, they sought to kill her. Because your love was a demon, to them your feelings were as nothing. All the affection you had lavished upon them, in the just expectation they offered you the same--it stood revealed for what they truly felt." Willow didn't want to hear the next word, because she suspected what it would be. She was right. "Pity!" She flinched.

"No, they just didn't understand..." she whispered...

"They never tried to! You had sided in your heart with a member of demonkind, and in their eyes what was any chance of happiness of you compared to that sin?"

"But...but..."

"And now, the world has lashed your soul yet again, has it not?" The demon's voice had grown quieter. Wiser. "Your best friend, slaughtered like farm animal. She died a hero--the salvation of untold billions--yet forgotten. Even by the others."

"That's not true."

"Now the most innocent of creatures, your kitten, it too is taken from you. Is it any wonder, then, your magicks found such potent fuel in your rage and pain and grief? Accept the implications of this Willow Rosenberg! Let your mind be open to the great truths that lie before your open eyes! See all the pain this world offers you, forces upon you! And use it--to shape the world into something better!"

Every word out of this demon seemed to ring with indignation and promise. The resemblance to some kind of coach, or the very best and most challenging of teachers, was never more acute. He seemed to realize this, as he nodded again.

"Walk the path of vengeance and power, Willow Rosenberg. That is what I, D'Hoffryn, offer you. A chance to right all the wrongs of the world, and soothe the pain even your closest fellow humans inflict."

He stretched out his hand to her. In it, lay a kind of amulet. A rounded pentagon of silver, embossed with a black shape, something like a star.

"For you," he said. "A talisman of power."

Willow picked it up.

* * *

"We are the Aratl'liw," said the leader of the Five.

"The...Aratle-oo?"

"Aratl'liw."

"Ah-rattle-loo?"

"The double ll requires something between a trill and a mild glottal stop. Try again."

"Atiloo."

It sighed. The fact its voice was practically identical to that of David Niven (a fact Tara found vaguely disturbing) make its sigh a precisely civilized yet expressive thing. "Close enough, I suppose."

"Never mind that, what did you do to Willow?" The demon rose up in Tara, shifting her features. She felt her fangs extend, her brow furrow, and she welcomed the blood rage that simmered deep inside. If Willow was gone, so too was any reason to hold back. Let death come, but she would not greet it alone.

"Your soul, you mean?" The long-headed creature said this nonchalantly. "Nothing. Honestly."

From the crook of another of the creature's arms, Miss Xita made a plaintive meow. It stroked a claw gently behind her ears, and she purred in response. Something seemed off. Off enough for Tara to retain control.

"That vortex," the leader continued, "was none of our doing, I assure you. For one thing, we don't have that kind of power. Not that we can't traverse the differing realities," this last was said with something like a laugh--the kind Giles or Wesley might have made at their most arch, "but our natures do require us to the actual traversing, as it were. No, your soul was taken by someone else."

Only one person had ever called Willow Tara's soul. He had been an essentially benevolent demon. Did that mean so too were these?

Now the creature opened its mouth and inhaled. "Hmmmmmm...from the taste of the magicks, I suspect one of the specialty hells. Willow--that is her name, yes?--may be in great peril." Behind it, another creature was scratching Miss Xita behind the ears. She of course purred, accepting her due of worship as befitting any feline. That detail, more than any other, was evidence to Tara that these beings might be telling the truth. Cats were notoriously difficult to deceive.

"Um...sir?" It was the smallest of the creatures, voice preposterously young. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

"Well, I certainly hope so!"

"Just a second," said Tara. "Who are you?"

"The Aratl'liw."

"No, not what you're called--I mean who are you?

"Travelers," the leader said, "nomads along mystic paths, seeking out the holy beasts where ere they may gather so to sing their praises and tell them the wonders we've seen on our journeys." From the posture all them had towards Miss Xita, Tara suspected she knew what time of being this holy beast was. Nor, to her mind, did that seem inappropriate.

But...

"Your soul," it went on, "is much troubled. When she unleashed her rage with magicks in our direction, it was evident just how troubled, I'm afraid. There are beings, sad to say, fully capable of sensing the tempests within her heart and welcoming such as something delightful."

"Sir?" The young one tapped the other one's shoulder.

"Yes Glim'th'th'thrik'doodle?" Even Tara, distressed as she was, blinked at that name.

"Does not this one" it gestured at Tara, "seem familiar?"

All five of them stepped forward, tilted their weird heads and inhaling. Some licked their lips. Tara was reminded of wine tasters.

"Our young colleague is correct," spoke a third. Although rail-thin, its voice was deep and robust enough to make Orson Wells seem distinctly Pee Wee Hermanish. "This creature with but one eye was one of those present at the conflagration which diverted us into these caves. Do you recall?"

The leader nodded. "Indeed I do. Thank you, Sally." It looked at Tara again. "You were present when the Slayer went to heaven. Perhaps she was a friend of yours?"

Huh?

* * *

The talisman sang to Willow. Its song was a remembrance of disappointments and rages, of hurts minor and vast, of betrayals and the urges she'd long ago learned to suppress. Free me, sang the tiny piece of metal, free yourself! Swallow the power and make it part of you. Let the flames jump high! Let them dance!

Let them burn.

You.

All around her, the cloaked figures were chanting something. What, she didn't know. Mostly, she didn't care. In the darkness, the talisman in her hand, memories washed through every cell.

Her mother was forbidding her things--pets, toys, asking questions of Rabbi, silly little holiday shows on TV. Willow had arguments in defense of what she'd done. She knew what she wanted, and why. None of it unreasonable. Didn't everyone long for the uncomplicated friendship of a puppy? Especially a single child whose parents never noticed her loneliness, never offered to assuage it? Why not let her play with that doll instead of this? Who was the doll for, after all? Mother or child? Wasn't anything for her, for Willow? Anything? No. Be quiet. Do your homework. Of course you got straight A's we expected no less so there's really no reason to single you out for great praise or any praise really when you really think about it. Don't disagree with your mother. This is for your own good. Because I said so, that's why. Everything will be fine in the end. The end is just one of those sayings. You'll understand when you're older. Be a good girl. Be quiet. I said be quiet. Do as you are told, not as you desire. You're too young to know what you want anyway. Don't be disagreeable young lady. Go to your room. Stay there. No you may not have a cookie.

But I want one.

Since when does what you want matter? Each word was a drop of acid.

Jesse and Xander were laughing with her. No, at her. She loved them both. Xander especially. Neither one ever flirted with her. Both sets of their eyes mooned and traced the path of every vacuous bitch with big tits and noses higher than Everest. They never looked at her with anything like desire. Pity, understanding, even a little sympathy would have been such a tiny gift. Yet too much for them to give. And for all of that, they were her best friends. So of course they hurt her the most. Because she let them.

Buffy valued her. Liked her. Used her. Ignored her advice or insisted she do things as Buffy would. Had Buffy even once changed to suit Willow instead of the other way around? She was the stranger, after all, and had needed Willow, rewarding her with a pittance of thank you's. Lording it over Willow because she was Chosen. Chosen by Xander. My Xander.

Her head hurt. Twin headaches pounded on either side of her temples.

And her eyes itched. 

Dizzy, Willow recalled every sneering word Faith had ever aimed at her. The way Principal Snyder had simply assumed she was a slave to his image of school as a haven for thick-skulled jocks. Giles was shaking his head as she dared to read books he didn't want her to. Then there was Cordelia. Evil and vicious, with her fellow harpies like Harmony. Cackling at the thought of each wound Willow's heart might feel. Of course sweet Xander fell in love with Cordelia. It was the most hurtful thing he could have done. So he did it. Of course.

Oz. Wonderful, mysterious, judgmental and betraying Oz. Everything on my terms Oz. No listening to Willow's needs Oz. Here's my groupie Willow. How cute. Calling himself her love, then slaking his lust on a whore because she was just as much a monster as he was. Is this your heart, Willow? Pardon me while Veruca and I rend it with our teeth. Think of it as a kind of foreplay.

How could Willow be so hot and still live? This talisman--was it molten? If so, the burning wasn't what she expected.

Anya and her thoughtless mouth. Dawn and her young greed. Wesley's nose was ever further up that Cordelia's, even though he was a coward and useless and arrogant and a fool. Joyce, smothering Willow in fake concern, eager to feel good about herself rather than to help Willow feel better about anything.

Her friends always hurt her.

Always.

But then, so did everybody else. Which was wrong. Wrong! WRONG!!!

Now all of Willow's body that itched, and hurt, and burned. All around her, the darkness twirled. Hooded figures, led by that D'Hoffryn guy, chanted. Exactly what she couldn't say. For one thing, it was in a language she didn't know--or even recognize. Yet it was the same phrase over and over. Pain wracked her body, a delicious pain that purged her of...what? She didn't know. Did she care?

"Take it!" whispered/shrieked D'Hoffryn "Your destiny. Your Glory!"

Her hand hurt. The hand that held the Talisman. She looked at it, opening the palm where claws had dug into her skin. Her claws. Thick, green blood dripped from the open wounds, boiling in the air as it dropped. Willow snarled. It felt good to snarl. Just as she knew it would feel good--great--to rend the flesh from those who dared hurt her or hers. More than feel great, it was Purpose.

Purpose seized hold of her, and with the mildest effort of her will, she wrapped herself in black flame. Reality twisted, and she was hurled back to where she'd been. Vengeance. Yes. It was a good word. A delicious word. More, a delicious Purpose. In the name of Vengeance she landed into the earthly realm, stepping with her hooves upon the stone floor.

Still here. Good. She hungered to gnaw upon their bones. All five turned to her, startled in fear at what had arrived in their midst. Their fear was also a good thing. Purpose flowed through her, hurling more lightning bolts at them. Ha! Let them weaken those few bolts with their puny magicks. She had more. Lots. And they knew it! See how they flee from me?

And now what they'd been hiding was revealed--their latest victim.

Who looked...familiar.

And pretty. Her eye was deep gold, her fangs dainty and long. Very pretty indeed. At the corners of her awareness, the Evil Ones were scattering. Let them. She could find them later. Right now it was this one who intrigued Willow. Floating across the space, she came to rest in front of this pretty demoness. Traced one claw against the edge of her jaw.

Pretty. So very, very pretty.

For one long moment their mouths almost touched. Then, at last, they did. Willow was startled. How could anything be better than Purpose? Yet this was. Beyond doubt. Growling, Willow devoted herself to the better-than-Purpose that was kissing this lovely demon. Feeling her hands against Willow's chest was good, too. Very good. Vengeance could wait a little while.

She was still thinking that--in so much as she was thinking anything--when Tara crushed the talisman with her superhuman strength.

* * *

Tara thought the idea of a wake good. It gave loved ones what they most needed--a chance to grieve. Together.

Kinda sentimental coming from a blood-drinking undead fiend.

Oh well.

Giles and Wesley were with the other Watchers, off in a corner explaining things to Michelle. Tara didn't know Quentin Travers, but she thought the expression of shock on his face wasn't quite subtle enough to be invisible. She could relate. If having a vampire turn into a human again wasn't strange enough--having that same ex-vampire turn out to be the new Slayer certainly upped the whole level of bizarreness. Being the sire of said ex-vampire was fairly weird, too.

"As near as we can discern," the bearded Watcher was saying, "these unique series of events must be the cause. A completely unprecedented confluence of mystical forces aligned in a precise, never-to-be-repeated manner." He'd been going on in the same vein for some time, but so far Michelle had showed no signs of panic or mental shut down. Nor did Tara think she would. She suspected this flooding of a new Slayer with high-sounding verbiage was part of doctrine. Given her past, was it any wonder Michelle found this terribly unimpressive?

Tara wondered among the others in the Summers home. Anya and Dawn were chatting at once end of the couch. Interesting how those two had managed to become friends. From what Willow said, Dawn's crush on Xander had been quite intense. But, people grow. Even teenagers. And ex-demons.

Gunn and Faith were sharing a beer in the kitchen. They toasted to Tara as she passed, then went on reminding each other of stories--something about Faith's haunted apartment back in Los Angeles. She made a mental note to ask for details some night.

On the back porch sat Willow. Alone. Staring into the night. Tara sat beside her, as ever acutely aware of her touch, even hip to hip through their clothes.

"Hey," her love's voice was low.

"Good Evening. That's supposed to be a good vampire line, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Its in all the movies."

"I wouldn't want to go against type." She hoped the jibe would get a response. It did not. The silence stretched on.

"Do you think Buffy would mind?" Willow's voice finally broke the silence.

"Not according to the Aratl'liw."

"Oh, right. She's in heaven."

"Well, that does make sense, doesn't it? If there are countless hell dimensions, shouldn't there also be an equal number of paradises?"

"Guess so." No emotion. Or--were they elsewhere? "But--do you think she'd mind. About April, I mean?" Just a trace of emotion there.

Tara pondered. "Buffy was a hero. So was April." The pieces left of the robot had been gathered and buried next to Buffy's grave, even given its own headstone. Anya had chosen the words: She Did Not Fail. Buffy's headstone had been written by Willow: She Saved The World. A Lot. "No, I don't think she'd mind. Especially now."

Willow nodded.

Did you think I'd love you less, Willow, because your pain could be used? Tara didn't say those words, merely thought them. One hand reached out and entwined with her lover's. The tension in that hand was great, but did relax somewhat over a minute or two. Soon, Tara leaned over to graze Willow's ear with her lips. And was rewarded with a welcoming tremor. "Can I tell you something?"

"Sure."

"You had the most adorable horns."

Together, they grinned. Lips found lips. And soon it was Willow's turn to speak. "Just thought of something." To Tara's relief, her voice held just an echo of pleasure. From this echo, she believed more could grow.

"What?"

"Something you told me once." Willow spoke, lip grazing lip, so low even Tara had trouble hearing. "Even as a demon, I could not help but love you."
* * *

An hour later, Willow and Tara walked hand in hand to where everyone else had clustered together, around the piano. There, a startling figure in a charcoal gray tuxedo ran lime-green figures across the keys. His eyes were bright red, his horns the same shade as old ivory. Who knows, thought Willow, maybe that's what they are. She had thought the Host quite strange looking last time she'd seen him.

Of course, that was before she grown horns and hooves of her own. Just as well she hadn't kept them. Not her style.

But certainly his.

Smiling, the Host began to sing.

"A long time ago, a million years b.c.," he began,
"The best things in life were absolutely free.
But no one appreciated a sky that was always blue
And no one congratulated a moon that was always new."

Willow noted how everyone--Gunn, Faith, Dawn, the assembled Watchers (for once not inching away from Tara)--listened to the words. Song had this power, she supposed. No, she knew. Holding Tara's hand tighter, and remembering another song, she found herself smiling.

"So it was planned we should vanish now and then,
And you must pay before we see them again--
That's what storms are made for--
And you shouldn't be afraid for..." The Host held the last note of the first part exactly long enough. Proof of that was how everybody held their breaths.

And then...

"Every time it rains, it rains pennies from heaven," the melody kicked in, simple but full of grace.
"Don't you know each cloud contains pennies from heaven?
You'll find your future falling
All over town
Be sure that your umbrella
Is upside down."

Now his eyes met those around him. To Anya and Xander--
"Trade them for a package of
Sunshine and flowers"

Next he looked directly into little Dawn's blue eyes.
"If you want the things you love
You must have showers!"

He sang to Wesley and Giles
"So when you hear it thunder,
Don't run under
A tree..."

Then gazed at Gunn and Faith, smiling at his words,
"There'll be pennies from heaven
For you and me!"

Everyone applauded as the Host let the last notes of his voice and the piano fade. His smile at their reaction was genuine. Rising, he gave a little bow. Clearly, he was experienced at it.

The words of the song for some reason touched Willow. Maybe that's why we have music, she mused. To remind us of truths we forget. Like how the world is a hard but beautiful place. How our joys are purchased with troubles, which means of course they're that much more valuable. After all, isn't that proof of things like love? How much pain we'll pay for it? If I had never been lonely, could I love Tara as much as I do?

"Penny for your thoughts?" Tara's voice both startled and soothed. Each had their arm around the others' waist.

"Do I gotta?" Willow said in a mock whine. She didn't really want to say these things, just think them. For now, anyway.

"No rush," whispered Tara, "we have all the time we need."

THE END
(for now)