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            The marble was cool under her feet, and Willow paused just a moment in the rectangle of light that sprawled from the doorway. The dimness of the room beyond seemed to glow green as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, but soon she began to pick out the bulky shapes of furniture that nestled against the walls, began to see the darker traceries of chains that dangled from the high ceiling. Memories also clung to the walls, tissue-thin ghosts that clustered like gabbling souls, almost as visible as the newly-disturbed motes of dust that swirled frantically in the sunbeams now penetrating a ways into the darkness.
            Ignoring these half-formed and nagging thoughts, she set a candle on the floor, on practically the exact same spot as Angel had once stood, tearing his own heart out as he pretended to taunt the Slayer, chained to the wall a few paces away. Willow knew the story, of course, or at least its basic elements, had listened late at night to Buffy as the girl wept bitter tears over what had to be done, but was unaware of the significance of the spot she had chosen on which to center her ritual. Instead, letting neither another's memories nor her own cloud her mind, she concentrated on the elements of the spell she was preparing to cast. First the candle, thick, white beeswax, scented with juniper. It had melted from its use in countless other rituals, the wax cascading down one side to pool around the base, while the remainder of the cylinder rose unblemished, as tall as the day on which she and Tara had first lit that candle. That memory rose unbidden, of the slender hand twined with her own as the two of them poured a flow of power into the candle's wick, set it alight to blaze with a bright, consuming flame. Resolutely, she pushed aside the memory, knowing that she would have to take time later to cry a bit.
            Next, a sprig of rosemary. The earthy smell of the herb, plucked from a bush in the courtyard outside, filled her nostrils, as she laid it alongside the candle and gently crushed it with a bit of amber. Opposite that, a small bundle of dry white sage, with its slightly bitter scent. Once again, a promise to herself to think later about the trip into the arid hills surrounding Sunnydale when the two of them had collected that and other bits of plants for potions and spells. A small chunk of very flawed amethyst, a smooth jade pebble brought back from the beach, and she was ready to begin the casting of the spell.

Triform Hecate, goddess of the crossroads . . .

A nudge from her mind sent the blackened wick of the candle bursting into a steady golden flame.

Maiden, mother, crone . . .

White sand dusted down from her fingers onto the candle flame, each grain sparkling and burning black as it encountered the intense heat. Shimmers of air danced up around the vague eddies of smoke that rose from the glowing flame, and Willow's eyes idly followed their play as the words of the spell continued to roll off her tongue.

Spirits of the aether, souls of the lost . . .

She wondered if that was the souls of those turned to vampires which she was calling on. Really, despite being such an avid student for so many years, and despite the keenness with which she pursued her witchcraft, she hadn't exactly combined the two as much lately as she ought to have done. She didn't know the origins of far too much of what she cast; the joy of studies with Tara had gradually changed to a delight in the ease with which she could simply do; and then she had suddenly had to focus on the not doing, since with the texts of so many grimoires flowing through her veins, it would be far too simple to cast spell after spell without any awareness of even doing so. From what she had seen, Fred was far more a scholar these days; like Giles, she thought briefly, and this brought her attentions back to the matter at hand.
            Xander and Anya had both come to her with pleas to try and find out the consequences of Buffy's sudden dismissal of Giles, both very certain in a panicky sort of way that all of this was against the right order of things, that somehow Buffy, or Giles, or both, were being played against each other by the First at this crucial time. Kennedy had frowned and scoffed slightly, and shrugged at Willow's attempts to sound her out on the matter; ever since the night Willow had used her lifeforce so violently, things had just not been the same between them. Oh, there were soon kisses and cuddling again, and they shared a bed most nights, and the others thought that they had made up, but a thin wall had begun to develop between them, like ice beginning to crackle over a still pond in winter. Willow thought she could find a stick to break that ice if she tried, but her memories of Tara had instead begun to impinge more strongly on her consciousness again, though they did not weigh on her conscience as they had before Amy's hex had been tripped. Only Faith, so recently back in Sunnydale, had taken one glance at a look not-quite-exchanged between Willow and Kennedy and commented to Willow later that the Potential was clearly just a sucker for red hair and power, but she couldn't bear the consequences of either, the temper or the being helpless. Willow actually found that somewhat unfair, though perhaps more to her than to Kennedy; she had very little of the hot temper that redheads were so famed for.

Grant me sight of what may yet come,
Grant me sight of what has not been,
Grant me sight of things still to be.

She fingered a red lock of hair idly as she mentally catalogued the items which she had set before her. Each of the four stood for an element: rosemary for earth, jade for water, amethyst for air, and sage for fire. The candle in their midst was for spirit, the core on which the magic centered, the riotous stream of memory and possibility into which she soon would plunge. That was why she could not afford memories of her own at this moment; the magic would provide too many as it was. "Thou the stream, and I the willow." Oh, Tara. She hovered briefly above the bright flows of power that she could see emanating from and looping back toward the steady flame. A hawk, poised on steady wings as it stares penetratingly at the plain below. The preparation for that swiftest dive, terrifying and exhilarating together . . .
            A quiet step behind her broke her concentration, and her hands fell to her sides, curled into tense balls, as she half-spun on her heels, fearful of what intruder might interrupt her magical endeavor. At least it's daylight. But no one was there. Willow rose from her crouch, heard a soft, slightly mocking laugh in the shadows by the thick velvet curtain. "Who . . . ?" she began, uncertainly. Magic crackled at her fingertips, lightning kisses that she kept at bay, not wishing to accidentally incinerate a possible friend. She had come here to be alone, though, not wishing Buffy to know of the spell she cast, not wishing Xander's loveable but sometimes nerve-wracking worried presence in the background. The curtains rustled, and the invisible someone sneezed in the unsettled dust.
            "Oh damn. Never mind, anyway." The someone stepped into the light, her hand rising in an unconscious gesture to brush a dark curl behind her ear. "Faith?" Willow frowned. "What are you doing here?"
            "Well, maybe I thought I'd come watch you work your magics, Red. Looks like nobody's been here in ages. Since fang boy went south?" Despite the cynical quirk of Faith's eyebrow, something wasn't quite right in the tone of her voice, and she had a funny expression on her face, like she was struggling not to cry. Which made no sense whatsoever, Willow thought. Maybe she'd come to terms with herself in the two years she had been imprisoned, but even then, Faith just didn't cry, and why would she now anyway?
            To cover her confusion and vague annoyance, Willow took a step back. Or started to, but saw that her foot was about to come down right on the amethyst. Struggling at the last moment to avoid crushing the delicate crystal, she flailed backwards, off balance, and her heel encountered something hard which gave a moment of resistance. And then the candle toppled all the way over, and the memories and possibilities which had been drawn to its flame like moths burst free of their bonds, and Willow was drowning. . . .

sadness. pain. immense, searing, soul-rending grief. joy. laughter. swirling butterflies of myriad impossible colors. faces, but not all are familiar. she surfaces briefly, sees equal pain and confusion reflected on the other's face, and knows that not all these memories are her own. hears tender words, feels a caress, on cheek, on naked back, oh Tara-- tears spring up, but they might not be hers. she tortured Angel here in this room, tortured Buffy, tortured herself-- no, that isn't her, that is the other. isn't it? a flash of comprehension, lost in the torrent. future possibilities, carnage heaped upon slaughter, gruesome ranks of inhuman soldiers, oh that's what Buffy saw, shadow demons leering at her through the mists. triumph: how? it nestles in there somewhere, but she is no longer in control of this raging flood and fails to pursue the glinting spark of hope. drawn back through the layers of nostalgia, finding a brief pocket of calm, the eye of the storm. . .

Sweaty, laughing, watching the bright air glint off Tara's hair. She smells the faintly rancid odor of the broken weeds along the side of the fire trail. Finding mistletoe clutching at the branches of the dying sycamore, and they both reach up simultaneously to break off a piece. Soft lips, a gentle caress against her own, her cheek, drowning in Tara's eyes until she closes her own, bare skin rasping against the tree's smooth bark. Later, still sweaty, still laughing, trying to wipe a smudge off the bridge of Tara's nose and leaving a darker streak. Their surprise and delight at finding not just sage growing in abundance up the sandy rocks of the hill, but white sage as well. White . . .
            . . . shirt . . .
                       . . . Your shirt . . .

. . . whipped back into the maelstrom, the echoing, pounding stream of memories both good and bad, but she must fight her way above the water, it isn't water, it's magic, oh magic, she can control magic, just not memories--

Willow sat up with a gulp, her body tingling, aching for a vanished touch, the black fading from her eyes. The Slayer still stood where she had moments (hours?) before, gripping the heavy curtains so tightly that her knuckles stood out white; her cheeks were slightly flushed, her lips parted and trembling. Willow wasn't sure how much of each other's memories they had actually encountered in that span of time, but she knew now why Faith had come to Angel's mansion. She hadn't been following Willow, but rather attempting to bring closure to what had transpired those four years ago. Their meeting here was coincidence. But now, as she studied Faith, the other girl relaxed her fingers, flicked her tongue briefly over her lips, and looked at Willow oddly through her dark lashes.
            "That was some headtrip, girlfriend. But man, I'll tell you, you and that chick of yours had some hot stuff going on. Gives me an itch that needs scratching." The voice that issued from her lips was husky, and her gaze remained steadily focused on Willow, strangely compelling.
        At first Willow thought she felt like she'd been socked in the stomach. Such an infuriatingly casual reference to Tara . . . but then again, that was Faith's way, always had been, and nothing suggested that prison-enforced soul-searching was going to change a person's basic nature or heal their deep-set insecurities. It was something she'd hated about Faith, when she had first felt that the Slayer was edging in on her deep friendship with Buffy. That Faith could saunter up to the window in broad daylight, wink at Buffy suggestively, and the older Slayer would slip out the window and go running free, leaving Willow and Xander behind her, both with treacherously aching hearts, neither for the same reason. But recently she had been watching Kennedy, seeing the younger girl striving to achieve the same relaxed and careless attitude, and had realized that it didn't necessarily cover a heartless interior.
            And then Willow blinked, as her mind belatedly processed the final phrase that had emerged from Faith's mouth, took in the Slayer's somewhat provocative and invitational posture. Though, to be fair, that was how Faith often stood. Faith noticed Willow's double-take and smirked slightly, twitched an eyebrow. "Well, how about it, Red? Tara's dead, and that Kennedy baby isn't up to much. And those memories of yours made me horny as a toad." Ever so softly, she added, "I'm not looking for romance, you know; still not down with the whole commitment jive."
            Willow started to reply, heard a few meaningless syllables escape her lips rather than the words she thought she had marshaled into a coherent string, and shut her mouth again; thinking had just become very difficult, for her body was reacting treacherously to the Slayer's indolent stare, especially after the oh-so-vivid memories revived just moments before. Faith smiled lazily at Willow's obvious reaction, reached out and traced a fingertip down the curve of Willow's cheek. The redhead's eyes slid shut as she reveled in this new and unfamiliar touch. Faith's finger continued to trace the curve of Willow's jaw, stroked along the soft skin of her neck, and edged its way under the collar of Willow's light shirt.
            "Mm, no bra," Faith commented wickedly.
            Willow didn't bother to reply, instead stepping closer to the Slayer as she felt the cool fingers sliding along her shoulder. She let her own hands drift to Faith's slim hips and up under her shirt (Buffy's shirt? Willow's mind queried in a disruptive aside, as the garment finally registered as familiar, but she pushed the thought away, its relevance very questionable), questing over the tender skin of the Slayer's stomach. Strong muscles quivered, tensing and relaxing in quick succession as Willow ran her hands up Faith's sides, sliding them around back to undo the Slayer's bra. She felt Faith's spine, bumpy under the silken skin, let her fingers drift across each of the vertebrae. Their lips, now so close, tangled in a crushing kiss, met a second time more gently. Willow gasped as Faith's roving fingers brushed her nipple, causing it to tighten painfully. Faith chuckled at that response, her lips forming a slight smile against Willow's own, which then proceeded to travel slowly, caressingly, along Faith's invitingly bared throat. Dark hair fell away as the girl arched her neck to leave the pale skin visible, although a mischievous stray strand clung and tickled Willow's upper lip, causing the witch to twitch her mouth and duck her head away momentarily.
            Feather-light tracings of tongue on skin left silver trails to glisten in the slanting afternoon sun, which Willow admired briefly, but she was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore the slightly tickling (and definitely arousing) sensation of Faith's fingers caressing her breasts. A small panting moan escaped her lips, and she grasped Faith's forearms, trying to pull her hands away from her breasts and down to lower portions of her anatomy. "Steady on, girlfriend," Faith laughed, her own voice equally breathy, but she slowly drew her fingers down the witch's abdomen and towards the waist of her jeans. Willow's own hands carefully, tantalizingly, drew gentle circles around Faith's nipples, while her mouth sucked and lapped eagerly at the delicately shadowed hollow above Faith's collarbone. This pairing of slow, controlled movements with ones that were, conversely, almost frantic served to set Faith's heart racing. Her fingers fumbled to undo the jeans' tight button, to zip down the fly. Then she slid one hand past the elastic band of Willow's panties, tangled her fingers in the slightly coarse curls that matted against smooth, smooth skin. Willow made a pleased sound in the back of her throat, abandoned Faith's neck and breasts in favor of wrapping her own hands in the Slayer's dark locks, pressing her lips against the Slayer's own. Tongues reached for each other, gently touched, flickered against lips, snaked suggestively as the kiss grew deeper, more passionate. Meanwhile, Faith's fingers were questing downward, finding a damp heat, sliding against the folds buried between Willow's legs. She gathered moisture, spread it upwards, was rewarded with more small sounds of pleasure. With her other hand, Faith began to unbutton Willow's shirt, then slid it from the redhead's shoulders to reveal creamy flesh, melted gold where the sun struck.
            Their kiss broke, finally, both of them gasping apart with more than just a need for oxygen. Faith trailed her mouth down between Willow's rounded breasts, her knees bending, the fingers of her hidden hand caressing ever so, so gently, while her free hand tugged Willow's jeans and panties together down off her hips. A sharply defined triangle of russet-gold curls stood suddenly exposed, springing out into a looser mound as they were released from the jeans' confines. Dropping to one knee, Faith gently nipped at the slight curve of Willow's stomach with her lips, her fingers always busy in their incredibly delicate application. Willow untangled her hands from Faith's hair, leaned her weight ever so slightly against the Slayer so that she could reach to pull up the Slayer's shirt, cup her hands around firm breasts, caress the nipples with her smooth palms. Her breathing grew quicker, and Faith quickened the rhythm of her fingers to match, their pressure against Willow slightly greater now. Back and forth, from just barely touching the witch's wet opening to scribbling an intricate, arousing pattern against that one small, hard, ever-so-sensitive node, keeping pace with Willow's racing breathing. And then, hearing her emitting small, scratching gasps, holding off for just one heart-stopping moment, Faith gave one hard rub, plunged her fingers deep inside. Willow screamed, clutched convulsively at Faith's breasts and kneaded them roughly, her passage throbbing around the Slayer's hand as her knees buckled slightly.
            Faith felt her own breath coming hoarsely, felt herself growing wetter in response to Willow's orgasm, and in a moment, when she sensed the witch's spasms easing, she reached up to pull Willow down on the white marble of the floor. Willow succumbed unresistingly, pinning the Slayer with her own lithe form as she dropped. Then her hands were busy lifting Faith's shirt over her head, and she slid down so that she could kiss the girl's now-exposed, hardened nipples. Her pink tongue caressed, stroked, teased, and then her lips surrounded one nipple and sucked, teeth nibbling gently. Faith arched her back, pressing up towards Willow, and traced her slippery hand up along Willow's stomach to encounter the girl's own erect nipples. Hands now unencumbered, Willow proceeded to unfasten Faith's pants and managed to shove them a ways off her hips, all the while suckling at Faith's nipple. Her stomach encountered the Slayer's crinkle-haired mound, rubbed against it enticingly, bathing itself in the wetness that seeped unceasingly from within. Faith's hips wriggled in response, and Willow drew herself up away from the Slayer just enough so that it was her own coarse hair that gathered the moisture. Then a rocking rhythm ensued, as Willow rubbed herself provocatively against Faith, continuing to suck at the girl's nipples. Faith's breathing grew more intense, and Willow shifted to the side so that her hip slid between Faith's legs, ground roughly into her sensitive spots, pressed into her opening, eliciting a growling moan from the Slayer. Willow continued to rock, slid stickily back so that her belly once again nestled in the embrace of Faith's groin. Sensing that the rough nature of her ministrations appealed to Faith, as she had thought it well might, Willow rubbed against the girl more strongly, but stopped before bringing her to a climax. Instead, she wriggled down along the cool floor, her own breasts dragging heavily at the flesh of Faith's stomach, allowed them to brush in passing between Faith's legs, and brought her mouth to rest just where the stain of dark curls began, playing an exquisitely tortuous game of how-long-can-I-wait.
            Willow brushed her lips against the sensitive skin of Faith's lower belly, causing it to flutter. Then kisses dropped on the soft insides of each thigh as Willow allowed her nose to just brush the very tips of Faith's wiry hair, knowing that the Slayer could feel even that gentlest of caresses. More kisses followed, covered Faith's hips, thighs, stomach; cool fingers stroked the backs of Faith's legs, traced nonsense patterns against the soft and invisible hairs that grew there. Every so often, Willow brought her mouth close, very close, to where she knew Faith desired it, but still she held off, until she heard the girl moaning beneath her, saw her trembling with barely contained need. Then her lips parted other lips, tongue traced velvet folds, suckled, moistened, caressed. She could feel Faith melting into the polished floor, her hips thrusting her up towards Willow as the rest of her body went nerveless at the sensations which ravished her. Willow began to suck hard, and as she felt that Faith was just on the brink of a climax, she drew her tongue lightly, ticklishly, down to Faith's opening, let it nestle there for a moment, and then slid inside, tasting Faith's cool, slightly salty, slightly sweet wetness. She brought her hand to rest lightly on Faith's curls, heard her whimper, masturbated her until the girl cried out and convulsed, shuddered, lay still, panting slightly. Slowly, Willow allowed her tongue to come to rest back in her mouth, sat up and leaned over the Slayer, kissed her with slippery lips.
            Once more they passionately explored each other's mouths, lying there naked on the floor, bright-haired witch and dark-haired Slayer. The sun sank towards the wall of the courtyard and the shadows lengthened, marking an accumulation of time. But as the warm rays of the sun crawled across their flesh, the two rose, their ardor and lust at last sated. Silence hung between them, seconds ticked by without sound. Finally, Faith shrugged, smiled her half-smirk, said, "Anyway, I ought to be heading over to B's." She paused. "Coming?"
            An answering smile touched Willow's lips, and she glanced away. "No, um, getting late. There's still that whole repeating-the-spell-properly thing to take care of." And it's best done here, she thought, here where I know the memories I'll face. And she knew that this would be just one more memory from a spring afternoon, tucked away on a mental shelf . When she looked back, Faith was gone. Willow stood there for a moment in the doorway, absently watching the bright green leaves of spring ruffle in an invisible breeze, and the bright afternoon sun engraved her inky shadow in the rectangle of light that sprawled behind her, and the marble was cool under her feet.