Part Thirty: Rest
Amy Madison and Willow Rosenberg stood on the edge of a cliff. Below them, ocean waves crashed on rocks. Above them, the sky was blue and cloudless. Birds soared on distant thermals, and everything stood at peace.
“This isn’t real, is it?” asked Amy. Her body felt lighter. She glanced at Willow, who had returned to normal. Her hair was red again, her stance relaxed.
“No,” said Willow, staring out at the ocean. “It isn’t it. It’s a construct, something to allow our brains to see something they otherwise couldn’t process.”
“See,” said Amy, “This is what I hate about you. You can’t just say, ‘we’re in another dimension.’ Oh, no. You’ve got to give up the Funk and Wagnels.”
Annoyance flashed across Willow’s face, but then it softened. “You saved my life back there,” she said. “I’m pretty sure you saved all our lives.”
“Well, yeah,” said Amy. “Let’s not have a moment, OK? We’re not out of this yet.”
“No,” said a gentle voice, seeming to lap up from the waves. “No, you very much aren’t.”
The two young women stiffened. They turned away from the ocean, and a beautiful, dark-skinned woman stood opposite them. Amy’s first instinct was to bow, or kneel, or something like that, but she fought it back. She glanced at Willow, and could tell she was having the same experience.
“Who are you?” asked Willow. “Where are we?”
“I had a name once,” said the woman. “But I was mistaken in taking it, and in my mistakes, I brought myself to ruin. I would have saved you all, but at a cost not worth the bearing. I was vain in my power, and now am just a sliver of myself.”
“Uh, yeah. Cool,” said Willow. “Got it. But….”
“I am not here for myself, though there is one I’d see you save,” said the woman. “I speak for one who cannot speak for herself. One denied the eternal repose of man and god alike.”
“You mean death, right?” asked Willow.
The woman smiled, and Amy wanted to cry, it was so beautiful. That alone, she figured, should be enough to hate this woman, but she didn’t. She loved her—like she loved her father, like she even loved her mother, despite it all. This woman was everything she’d ever lost, returned to her again.
“Yes,” said the woman. “But death is not the same for such as she and I. It is simply a term you understand, just as this is a place you understand.”
“I think I get it,” said Willow.
“Then fill me in,” said Amy.
The woman smiled, and snapped her fingers, and suddenly Amy saw herself opening a sarcophagus as locust rise from the depths of history. Amy felt her blood crystallize and harden. She lay in a bed, as a man’s voice recited a children’s story, and it faded further and further into the background. And then, she was nothing at all. Forever. And then forever ended, and she saw stars twinkle in the night sky, and then another. Amy could feel herself suspended in the sky, weightless and intangible, not thinking so much as dreaming, yearning for something she cannot name. And then, she feels the fraying again. There is someplace she’s supposed to be. It’s important. There’s someplace…
Amy awoke in the temple, Willow beside her. Both women were shaking and exhausted. Giles was leaning over them, his brow knitted with concern.
“I’m so sorry,” muttered Willow. “I never meant…”
“It’s not important,” said Giles, softly, and Amy couldn't suppress the pang of annoyance at Willow being forgiven again. “We have other concerns right now.”
“Yes,” said Wesley, standing apart from the others. “Amy’s quick thinking has kept us in the game,” he said, the praise surprising her. “But we still have work to do, and we’ve lost valuable time.”
Amy listened to Wesley’s voice, and in the back of her head could hear it reciting a children’s story to her, and she knew that, in that instant, she loved him. And just as quickly, she knew that emotion wasn’t hers.
She looked at Wesley, and could hear the woman’s voice echoing still, in the back of her head.
“Listen,” said the voice. “To not die is a terrible thing.”