Fic: sokuseisaibai (1/?)

[buffythebushkangaroo@xxxxxxxxxxx]

This fic is a result of the collaboration of efforts of both Fox 
and Anne-Lise. We'd both love and appreciate any feedback/criticism 
you'd care to send our way.

We love you all!

sokuseisaibai [Vb] Trans. Raising out-of-season crops with artificial 
heat.

--

Where was the rain? Willow's soul felt dull and grey. The sky 
impudently refused to respond to her emotions with thunderstorms and 
rainclouds. She knew she could change all that with her magic but she 
hadn't the will, and she realised the urge was petty. It didn't 
matter anyway. The world without Buffy would be forever colourless to 
her. She felt like going back to bed and just lying there, thinking 
about everything and nothing, let the world just... go away. Yet a 
part of her knew it would be futile; the world would be waiting for 
her, hungry to hurt her yet more. But she couldn't live her life as a 
hollow shell despite her feelings. Still, maybe for a little 
longer... Just a little longer...
Giles had gone away to England to report in person to the Watcher's 
Council on the death of Buffy. Willow sympathised with Giles... The 
Council would probably rake him over the coals, or perform terrible 
acts of English torture to him. Confiscate his scones or something. 
Before he left, Giles had asked her to take inventory of the magic 
shop. With rampaging trolls and preparations for their fight against 
Glory, the shop was in need of a real stock-take, and Giles hadn't 
really trusted the inventory performed by the Council on their last 
visit. Or maybe he did, and had just given her the task to perform to 
keep her occupied. Whatever.
Willow turned into the alley that led beyond the back of the magic 
shop, beyond the neon safety of the street lamps, her thoughts and 
emotions a swirl of grief and pain. She stiffened as a patch of 
darkness broke away from the shadows and moved determinedly towards 
her.
"what have we got here?" The voice, male and guttural, startled 
Willow from her troubled reverie. "Little girls should know better 
than to be out alone at night." He laughed. "At least in this town."
Willow's mind snapped back to the reality of her situation but 
still she felt disorientated. The vampire stalked carefully towards 
her and Willow shrank back against the alley wall. Where was Buffy? 
She needed her so badly...
But Buffy was dead, and the shock of that knowledge burned through 
her inflicting worse torment than anything this vampire could 
provide. And as the vampire bared his fangs and lunged for her neck, 
Willow kicked him hard in the groin and ducked under his flailing arm.
"Bitch!" The vampire snarled. "So, the little girl wants to play..." 
Despite the banter, there was no humour to be found in the vampire's 
angry countenance. Willow ran, but the vampire was easily faster and 
brought her crashing down to the floor. He pinned her there, and let 
out a triumphant laugh when he saw the waking fear in her eyes.
"Sweet little bitch," the vampire leered as he gazed down at his 
victim. "How I'll enjoy playing with my food..."
Willow felt only anger. Anger that she was powerless against this 
unholy monster, anger at Buffy for selfishly dying and leaving her 
here. How could she leave her friends to face these monsters alone?
The urge to live welled up within her, and then to Willow the only 
thing that mattered was to be alive. Alive, and elsewhere. As the 
vampire forced her head to one side, exposing her neck, Willow 
mouthed the words she couldn't remember learning. Primal majick 
flared from her fingertips, and in blinding whiteness the weight of 
the vampire was no longer upon her.
She lay still, her depleted energy slowly returning, her breathing 
softening as the adrenaline stopped pumping through her laboured 
heart. The flashes that had obscured her vision became less random 
and frequent, and the dark shapes that defined the interior of the 
magic shop became less obscure to her. She was somehow inside the 
magic shop. She stumbled carelessly to the wall where the light 
switch provided welcome and comforting illumination over scattered 
boxes, gaudy displays... and the crimson red splotches of vampire 
blood that soaked her favourite sweater, explaining the wetness she 
felt.
Unable to help herself, Willow burst into tears.

*

Cataloguing the contents of the magic shop was methodical work, and 
took up far too little of Willow's grieving mind. The raw wounds in 
her side, vestiges from her fight against the vampire, ached 
abysmally and renewed her physical pain with stabbing agony whenever 
she tried to lift anything heavy.
Her old self would have headed straight for Sunnydale's Accident 
and Emergency, where she'd have been stitched back together and 
teased gently by concerned scoobs; but right now she simply wished to 
be alone. She couldn't face her friends, didn't want to mouth inane 
platitudes or share mendacious feelings of happiness. She wanted the 
whole world to just go away and leave her the hell alone. So she made 
do with a splash of fiery iodine, and a bandage from Giles' small 
first-aid kit that he kept in the training room out back.
A savage fury filled Willow's heart in a way she couldn't express. 
She was angry at the world, with Buffy for leaving her unrequited, 
with herself for feeling the way she did now. How could she focus on 
counting the remaining packets of newt's eyes, or whether the mugwort 
was fresh and usable? It was maddening, and yet despite this 
unfocused anger, she tried to continue with her reckoning. The 
manacles of duty had been instilled deeply within her, forcing her to 
continue. Even so, many items she had to recount at least once.
The shelves were in disarray, organised by a mind that appreciated 
profit over a semblance of utility. Near the front were boxes of 
items that sold quickly but behind these were the dustier crates of 
the more obscure, some left unopened from the day they'd been 
carelessly packaged prior to the destruction of Sunnydale High's 
library. Others remained from the previous owners, awaiting the warm 
caress of human hands once more.
Ordinarily, Willow would have delighted in the prospect of delving 
amongst the dust and boxes, seeking hidden treasures amongst the 
baubles and stigwart. But right now it all seemed rather pointless, 
and an aching depression descended upon her once more.
A faint noise caught at the edge of her hearing. A susurration not 
unlike the whispering of many voices. Willow looked around her, 
trying to determine the origin of the sound, but failed to see 
anything that could have caused it. Perhaps it was imagined. What did 
it matter, anyway?
In one corner a big crate had been shoved against the wall. From 
the dust that coated its rude wooden surface, it had probably lain 
there undisturbed for years. Willow dutifully levered off the top of 
the crate, sending fresh waves of agony through her wounded side. 
Clouds of dust billowed out as the lid scrawnched onto the floor. 
Willow dissolved into an agonised coughing fit as she choked for a 
moment on the dust cloud.
Inside, almost as an anticlimax - no body parts or gloves of power -
Willow discovered various small packages, mostly books wrapped in 
vellum or hide. She lifted them out, examining each with interest and 
piling them carefully on top of the old oak table that served as 
Giles' writing desk. Finally, she came across a long, thin package 
that had been buried at the bottom of the crate. The whisper came 
again and passed just as swiftly. She looked around, and still she 
saw little to arouse her suspicions, but even so her anxiety grew. 
Nothing moved, no tacit awareness of movement in the periphery of her 
vision; was she going mad? Now, on top of everything else?
The package was incredibly heavy for its size, and something 
tickled her awareness, which further intrigued her and pulled her 
thoughts away from morbid recollection. Slowly, almost reverently, 
she unwrapped the yellowed cloth packaging to reveal the intricate 
scabbard of a sword. Willow recognised it as a Japanese warrior's 
sword, a katana.
The katana had a slim blade, unlike the swords used by the Chinese, 
and its hilt was long enough to be wielded in two hands. The 
whispering came again, but this time the anxiety she had felt before 
no longer affected her. She could almost make out the words, even, 
words addressed to her, speaking to her.
Willow was unable to withdraw her gaze from the sword. It 
captivated her, entranced her with its magic, and its promise. She 
drew the blade slightly, the pale illumination of the shop's interior 
lights glittered along its razor edge. And with the blade's naked 
emergence into the light, the whispering grew to a deafening roar.
A rush of wind, thunder without sound, roared through the magic 
shop causing dust and minor debris to sweep into the air and swirl 
about her. Willow doubled over into another coughing fit that again 
brought agony through the wound in her side. She sneezed, and a fiery 
dagger of raw pain knifed into her side, causing her eyes to well 
with tears and fury to bubble up inside her once more.
Screw the inventory! Damn Giles! Willow rocked back and forth 
cradling the katana in her lap as the pain engulfed her. Finally she 
felt her reprieve, and she was able to sit upright once more. She saw 
the katana in her lap had been smeared with her blood, blood that had 
oozed from the wound in her side, but also from her hands where she'd 
gripped the blade's naked edge. The blood stood out stark against the 
lustre of the lacquered wood and polished metal.
Willow swore. Everything was turning to shit today. Then, as she 
watched, the blood coating the blade drained away as if it had never 
marred that polished blade. Her sliced hands, and the wound in her 
side that had caused her to spasm so violently... were now gone, 
erased.
The whispering returned in a torrent, a deluge of commands and 
promises, words beyond meaning, words that spoke directly to her 
soul. The voices promised power beyond imagining, strength to rise 
above her pain, an end to the darkness of her misery.
Willow listened.