DISCLAIMER: Joss owns them, along with a lot of other folks at FOX, various production companies and a network or two. Joss has publicly stated that BtVS was always intended as a show which would inspire fanfiction. Fanfiction he wanted, fanfiction he’s got. No infringement intended.

RATING: R

SPOILERS: Everything through the end of seasons 5/2.

NOTE: Students of ancient myth and literature will recognize a portion of the verses that can be found describing variously Inanna’s (Ishtar’s) descent to the underworld and Ereshkigal’s marriage to Nergal. I have, for the purposes of my story, added to the lines, then repeated them in an amended version to fit the needs of Willow’s mission. There are a number of versions of the translated texts on the net. Anyone interested in reading them might want to try these:

The Marriage of Ereshkigal and Nergal:

http://members.aol.com/kheph777/mideast/mythos/babylne.html

The Descent of Inanna

http://www.mindspring.com/~mysticgryphon/descent.htm

It is also worth noting that there are different versions of the relevant myths. Willow’s recollection of the myth is accurate, although not identical to the version of the myth recounted in the texts above.

DEDICATION: Parts 10 and 11 are dedicated to SpikeNip, who works in a hospital in New York City, and who wanted to give desperate relatives whatever information she had, but was told to send them to the Armory. They are dedicated to her because all she wanted to do when she got home Tuesday night was curl up with some fanfic. {{{FIERCE, LOVING, PROTECTIVE HUGS}}}

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Storming Heaven  part 10

The only thing she wanted to do when she left Angel was return to him.

Story of my life, she thought bitterly. And my death. An eternity spent in such dreams as they shared was all either of them wanted. But, even if she abandoned the task set for her and clung to him as her heart wished, it would purchase them not eternity, but a few bittersweet days of longing, quickly devoured by eons of despair. If she failed to play her part in the events unfolding, he would begin the apocalypse, and there would be no one who could stop him. For all her burgeoning powers, even Willow must fall before the assembled might of Hell. It was Buffy’s part to play Heaven’s champion, and to recall Angel to the purpose he had been born for.

And to do that, she had to go not to Angel’s dreams, but to Willow’s.

*********************

"It’s the fortune telling scene from Carmen," Spike whispered to her. He was standing on her left. "But we only have the one girl."

"Shhh," Giles said, on her other side. But he didn’t take his eyes from the performer. People were crowding around them, and Willow was pressed tight between Spike and Giles.

"Encore! Encore! Toujours la mort!" sang the unseen woman and Willow shivered, understanding enough French to follow this: Again! Again! Always death.

"I am helping you, Will," Buffy said. "That’s why I’m here." Willow could see Buffy’s mouth, below the shadow from her hat brim. Buffy wasn’t moving her lips to speak, and when Willow looked closer, she realized that Buffy couldn’t move them, because they’d been sewn shut. Which was what they did with dead people, Willow remembered. So, that was why Buffy couldn’t move her lips. But, she wasn’t sewn to the fence, and she was moving her legs, so she ought to be able to help with the trash.

Buffy nodded. "There always has to be a sacrifice Willow. You have to understand that. Sometimes they’re willing, and sometimes they’re not. But, you have to be willing. It won’t work otherwise. And you need to know, Will: it’s okay if you’re not. I’ll understand." Buffy looked into the distance. "Our table is ready," she said, guiding Willow to a food court in the middle of the fair. The girls ate pizza and drank Cokes. Willow asked how Buffy managed to get anything past the stitching in her mouth, and wondered how she had managed to sing. Buffy laughed, saying it wasn’t so hard, once you knew the trick. Then she sighed, and said it didn’t matter, because it was all dust and clay.

"We are paying, Willow," Buffy told her patiently, and held her hand out to Cordy, who was in charge of the concession stands. Cordy took a little silver needle and pricked Buffy’s finger, so that a few drops spilled into a jar she had beneath the counter. Then she smiled and let Buffy go, before handing he jar to Wesley.

Buffy shook her head. "No, I know what she wants. You’ll see. Soon," she said, and pressed her cold, dead lips to Willow’s cheek.

*********************

Willow came awake with a gasp, still feeling the icy touch of Buffy’s good-bye kiss against her skin. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It was three a.m., and Tara was sleeping beside her, undisturbed. Willow shivered, realizing that she herself was far more than disturbed. Because, suddenly, everything that Dawn had said, and everything that she had read in The Gate of Darkness made a horrible kind of sense. Quietly slipping from the bed, so as not to disturb her lover, Willow went into the living room and headed over to the bookshelf there.

Pick a god. Any god, she thought, fighting back the hysterical laughter that bubbled in her throat as she reached for the book with shaking hands. When it came to the petition she had to make, they were all the same, just like the cards in her dream. Willow opened the book at random. The page she came upon was dedicated to one of the oldest gods, Ereshkigal, Sumerian Queen of the Dead.

"That’s not so bad," she said to herself, as hysteria threatened once more. "At least it’s not Holer." Willow carried the book to the kitchen table, and pored over it, as if she hadn’t already done so half a dozen times.

It was amazing, after weeks of fruitless study, how little time she needed once she understood what she was looking for. Willow read over the texts quickly, reinterpreting the memorized passages in light of her dream. It was all there, in Inanna’s descent to the underworld. Inanna had to strip herself, leaving a garment at each of seven gates, so that she came before Ereshkigal naked. Even having obeyed the laws of the underworld, she did not escape Ereshkigal’s wrath. With a word the Goddess of Death smote the Goddess of Life, and hung her naked corpse on a hook by the door. In the world above, this was not without consequences, and the land suffered, as did the gods, who sent messengers to Ereshkigal, hoping to retrieve Inanna. When they arrived in the underworld, they found the Goddess of Death in the pangs of childbirth. But, Death could not bring forth Life. The gods sympathized with her pain, and eased it, and Ereshkigal offered them a boon. They wanted Inanna, but Ereshkigal would not let her go unless someone agreed to take her place. In the end, it was Inanna’s husband who came down to the underworld in Inanna’s place. The Gods bore away Inanna’s dead body. They sprinkled her with the Water of Life, and An breathed life into it once more, reviving Inanna, so that order was restored to the world.

"Water of Life," Willow muttered sickly, getting it. Dawn was right: Buffy had to be revived, so that order could be restored to the world. But it would take a sacrifice, and it would take blood. Didn’t Spike say that there always had to be blood? And, God, so much of it, she thought, remembering the blood-soaked ground of her dreams. Willow closed the book, and got up to check her calendar. Not that she really needed to. But it confirmed what she knew intuitively. It was almost the dark hour before dawn, on a moonless night, when the darkest magics were at their most potent. It was a good time to perform the darkest rituals, such as the one that would let Willow approach the Goddess of Death, and beg from her a boon.

If it were granted, Willow would return, and tomorrow night, the night of the New Moon, a night when the dark magics would be at their very strongest, she and the gang would make the required sacrifices that would bring Buffy out of the House of Death.

Time. She didn’t have time. She couldn’t gather the gang and tell them what she’d learned, couldn’t wake Tara and explain, or argue or persuade her to let her do what had to be done. She didn’t even have time to write Tara a note that would let her know what had happened. She had to settle for scrawling a few simple words: If I don’t come back, remember that I love you. Good-bye. Was this better or worse? If she didn’t survive what she was about to do, would Tara ever forgive her? Would it matter? Willow was uncannily certain that if she didn’t come back, that nothing really would matter. The world was going to end, and if Tara were angry with Willow for getting herself killed beforehand, she would soon be in a position to tell her so, herself, and they could argue about it in the afterlife.

Willow could almost believe The Powers That Be had chosen to keep things shrouded in mystery until the last moment, so that there would be no opportunity for the gang to raise objections. She wasn’t sure whether to be grateful to Them for that, or to resent Them for depriving her of a choice. She realized Buffy must often have felt the same.

Willow quietly opened the door to their bedroom, and stood over her sleeping mate, memorizing each beloved feature. She whispered the words of a sleeping charm, ensuring that Tara wouldn’t wake up before sunrise, no matter what happened in the room where Willow was about to perform her ritual. Willow bent to kiss her lover’s mouth, then left before her courage failed her.

First was a quick shower, ritual purification. Willow had kept some of the herbs Angel had used in his own purification. If they were good enough for The Powers That Be, they should be good enough for Ereshkigal. And, if they weren’t . . .there was really no point thinking about that.

Carefully drying herself off, Willow donned exactly seven garments, one to leave at each gate. Finished, she moved into the living room, and quickly pushed the furniture out of the way, rolling up the area rug. Miss Kitty Fantastico became curious, and had to be locked in the bathroom with her litter box and bowls of fresh food and water. She didn’t complain too much, because she liked sleeping on top of the heater in there, anyway.

Willow returned to the living room, where she lit candles, and drew the required pattern, while reciting the required hymn. Then, she seated herself in the center of the pattern, and began the invocation.

She was not surprised, when she opened her eyes, to find herself on the road on which traveling was only one way, in a landscape that had no features. There were trials. She passed them. There were temptations. She ignored them. A sibilant voice whispered in her ear, now offering threats, now promises. She paid it no mind. There were gates. She went through them. And at each, she left a garment until she came, naked, into the presence of Ereshkigal.

The air around her was warm and dry, so even naked, she wasn’t uncomfortable. Willow wasn’t the boldest person on the face of the earth, and she instinctively held one hand before her breasts, another before her exposed mound, in the ancient gesture of feminine modesty. But, no one seemed to be watching her, and before she had taken a few steps, she dropped her hands to her sides, and began to look at her surroundings.

The landscape was no longer featureless. She stood in an open courtyard filled with fragrant blossoms and tinkling fountains. Of course, the sky was night dark, and there was no moon, but there were plenty of torches set around the courtyard, and she didn’t lack for illumination. The place looked new. That is, it was all fresh, and bright, as if the fountain had just been delivered by the stone mason, and the flowers had just come into their first bloom. The columns of the courtyard were gaily painted and the colors had not faded. They looked as fresh and bright as if the workman had applied the finishing touches to them only hours before.

And yet, it felt . . .ancient. Timeless. The weight of countless centuries bore down on Willow, as if the time that had passed in this place had left an impression on the very air around her. She shivered. So, this was what eternity felt like. Willow devoutly hoped she would not have to spend her eternity here.

She walked forward, along a path of carved and colored stones, mosaics showing scenes of hunting, farming, dancing, revelry; the common topics of ancient art, familiar from the art history intro class she’d taken in her freshman year at UC Sunnydale. At the end of the path, she would find what she was looking for, she was sure. Willow steeled herself. She was about to come, naked, into the presence of the Goddess of Death.

With each step she took, her imagination conjured visions of what she would face. The myths described Ereshkigal, when she wasn’t angry, as a beautiful woman, who had tempted the god Nergal to her bed, and later into marriage, with glimpses of her body when she rose from her bath. But, in approaching this goddess, Willow was approaching one aspect of Death. There were other aspects, not so pleasant to behold, and Willow had no real clue as to which one Death would choose to manifest itself. Would Ereshkigal be shrouded in black, with a scythe in her hand, like the Grim Reaper? Would she be hideous, skeletal, like a blood-starved vamp, or rotting corpse? Willow tried to put the breaks on her riotous imaginings. That way lay madness. Or, at least, the end of Willow’s courage. Fortunately, the path was a short one, and the goddess herself soon came into view. Willow heaved a sigh of relief.

Before her, seated on a chair of carved ebony, placed between two columns with lotus capitals, sat a woman with pitch-black hair falling in ringlets from beneath a diadem of gold. A broad gold collar covered her breast, and more gold dangled from her ears and encircled her throat, including an amulet pulsing with so much power, Willow could feel it even at this distance. Ereshkigal wore a waistcloth of sheer white linen, and a belt of broad gold links. Even the sandals on her feet were of gilded leather.

Willow came closer, until she was a mere yard away, then knelt at the goddesses’ feet. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she began the next part of the ritual.

Let my sister no longer moan like a dove.

Willow fell silent. For a long time, the only sounds she heard were the calls of night birds, the chirping of crickets, and the tinkling of the fountains. She began to worry. Had she gotten the wording wrong? She thought she was supposed to call Buffy her sister, because in ancient times, that could mean someone you loved like a sister, as well as a sister by blood. Or, maybe she’d been wrong in thinking she could do this in English instead of Sumerian? Maybe Ereshkigal didn’t have a clue what Willow had just said, and she would end up waiting here for eternity.

"If I didn’t understand your tongue," the sibilant voice chuckled, "however would I have been able to tempt you to leave your path?"

"Oh. Good," Willow said, in relief. Then another thought occurred to her. "Um. So, you’re not gonna kill me?" she asked with an attempt at nonchalance.

"The last time I killed a living woman, I suffered the pangs of child birth," Ereshkigal replied dryly. "But the Queen of Death may not bring forth Life, and I suffered them in vain." She sighed, and shifted on her throne. "Rise child."

Willow got to her feet. Seen up close, the Queen of the Dead didn’t look all that frightening. Actually, she looked a lot like pictures of Willow’s Grandmom Rose in her youth; voluptuous, rounded, ripe. Matronly, Willow thought. That was the word she was looking for. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, after all. She began to relax.

Prematurely.

"Is this the face you were expecting?" Ereshkigal asked mildly. And, suddenly, there was no ebony throne and no beautiful young matron. There was a stack of rotting corpses, fodder for writhing worms, carrion crows, and hungry rats. Crouched above this terrible bed was a figure out of nightmare, a naked, rotting corpse with the withered dugs of a crone, scraps of thin red hair plastered to the gleaming skull showing through greenish, decomposing flesh.

Willow screamed, covering her eyes, having recognized in the decaying features of the corpse, the remnants of her own face.

Whatever sanity Willow had held onto through her sojourn to the underworld promptly fled. She was reduce to gibbering, mindless fear, the only concept she was capable of grasping that of her own hideous mortality. Around her, the stench of rotting flesh grew thicker, and the taste of dust, food of the dead, filled her mouth and clogged her throat, choking off her screams, and her very breath, threatening to make the gruesome image before her an horrific reality.

The food of the dead was rising to choke the life from her: the food of the dead, which was all dust and clay

"But not for you, Willow. Remember that." Buffy’s words from the dream came back to her, and she clung to them like a lifeline.

Suck it up, Rosenberg, Willow commanded herself. You can’t afford to die here. Buffy can’t afford for you to die here, and neither can the world.

Willow forced her eyes open. The image was every bit as horrific as it had been last time she’d looked, and it was growing worse.

Vermin devoured Willow’s desiccate flesh, tearing at the poor scraps of mortality. Willow did not try to lie to herself. She did not try to say that it wasn’t her. This was the decay to which all flesh was heir, and she forced herself to watch as sinew, muscle and bone were eaten away, and she was left to bare bone. Then, even her bones were crushed and fragmented, until there was nothing left but of her but a dry powder, indistinguishable from the dust to which vampires were reduced when they were staked. But, then, wasn’t that the point?

Willow fought back the bile rising in her throat, and continued to watch. With the pile of corpses reduced to dust, there was nothing for the vermin to feed upon, and they scattered away. In the end, only the ashes were left, and there was nothing particularly terrible about them. Willow stared unflinchingly at her future.

Except, it isn’t, she thought. I’m more than this vehicle of flesh, spirit as well as body. My body may turn to dust, but my spirit will be resting in the aether, and I won’t care what happens to my bones.

The dust blew away, revealing the ebony throne with its beautiful matron once more.

"I thought you’d pass that trial," the Goddess said with a hint of a smile. "After all, you managed to get this far. You do realize that what you’ve done is madness, though, yes? You know that the road to this place may only be traveled one way." After the theatrics of the moment before, Willow wasn’t unduly disturbed by the veiled threat.

"The last time you killed a living woman, you suffered the pangs of childbirth, and you suffered them in vain." she reminded Ereshkigal. "I’m guessing that you don’t want to go through that again." A dry chuckle answered her.

"Nor do I. But, you are not Inanna, child. You are not the Queen of Life."

"No, I’m not," Willow agreed, and took a deep breath, forcing herself to say what she had to say. "But, I can give you what she couldn’t, can’t I?" she choked out. Silence greeted her words.

"Yes, you can," Ereshkigal said at last. She leaned forward on her throne, staring at Willow intently. "Do you truly understand what you ask of me? And, do you truly understand what the price will be if I accede to your request?"

Willow laughed bitterly. "Oh, yeah. I get it. You want to know if I understand the price? What I understand is that there’s no point in refusing to give them up if the world gets sucked into hell, that’s what I understand. And I understand that Buffy is needed in the world above, not the world below, to keep that from happening."

Ereshkigal nodded, undisturbed by Willow’s bitterness. "What else do you think you understand, child?"

"That there is more than one road to the Dark House. Most can only travel one way, but there are others. You let Buffy go once before."

"Perhaps I regret that."

"Perhaps you don’t really want to keep her," Willow rejoined. Another dry chuckle greeted that remark.

"Clever girl," Ereshkigal said. "Buffy has delivered many to my House who have been overlong in journeying here. I would like her to continue to do so." Willow sighed in relief.

"So, you’ll let her go?" she asked.

"Say, rather, that I will let you take her. But you’ll need more strength than you have, more power with magic.

"What do you mean? I was powerful enough to go up against Glory," Willow said. "And I was powerful enough to find my way to you."

"But you weren’t powerful enough to keep Buffy from dying, and you couldn’t have found your way to me without her guidance," Ereshkigal pointed out. Willow looked at her doubtfully, and the goddess sighed. "Don’t quarrel, child. Do you think I want you to fail? You will need this." She reached up, removing the pulsing amulet from about her throat and beckoning Willow forward. Hesitantly, Willow approached, and knelt before the Queen of death, letting her fasten the powerful artifact about her own neck. The amulet lay against Willow’s breast, burning like a heart of ice. "Rise, and I will show you what is needful."

The visions that struck Willow when she regained her feet were almost as horrific as the ones of her own decomposing corpse, and just as uncompromising. There was the blood she expected, and the water of life, as well. Water of death? Yes, she could understand the symmetry. Wasn’t it all a question of balance, after all? The images kept unreeling before her, and Willow saw, in explicit, unrelenting detail, what rituals needed to be performed, what sacrifices had to be made, to return Buffy to the world above.

"Oh, God," Willow moaned, weeping, as the visions left her.

"Do you understand?" the Goddess of Death asked once more, not ungently. "You see what is expected of you?"

"Yes," Willow whispered. "And the sacrifice," Willow said, looking at Ereshkigal, her eyes streaming.

"And the sacrifice," the Goddess agreed, implacable.

"There always has to be a sacrifice Willow," Buffy had said in her dream. "You have to understand that. And you have to be willing. But, you need to know, Will: it’s okay if you’re not. I’ll understand."

The hell of it was, Buffy would understand. She would not blame Willow if she refused this sacrifice.

She wouldn’t have to: Willow would blame herself. Because, as she’d told Ereshkigal, her refusal to make the sacrifice would be pretty pointless if the world came to an end. Was this what Buffy felt when she had to stab Angel with that sword and send him, as she’d thought, into the eternal torment of hell itself? Had she been consumed by this bitter, aching grief? For the first time, Willow truly understood why her friend had been unable to face the rest of them, and had run away. For the first time, she felt truly ashamed of her own anger and inability to see why Buffy had been so steeped in pain, she’d needed to shut out even those who loved her most.

None of that mattered, now. It was Willow’s turn. Could she do any less than Buffy had done? Buffy had to give up three things: her life to the Master; Angel to Acathala; her life, again, to close the portals opened by Glory. It was only fitting that Willow’s sacrifice should also be three-fold.

"I accept the price," Willow said through cold lips. Ereshkigal nodded. "So shall it be."

Willow opened her eyes, and found herself lying on the floor of her living room, the candles surrounding her burnt out as the light of dawn filtered through the curtains at the window. Turning on her side, she curled into a ball and wept.

Thankfully, the sleep spell she’d placed on Tara held. Willow indulged her grief for an hour, then forced herself up, cleaning away the traces of the spells she’d used, putting the rug and the furniture back in place, retrieving Miss Kitty Fantastico’s water and food from the bathroom, and putting them back in their usual spots in the kitchen. Miss Kitty Fantastico herself looked at Willow curiously, yawned, and went back to sleep on the heater.

Willow finally crawled back into bed, hoping that she would be asleep before the spell she’d placed on Tara wore off. She desperately needed rest, to prepare for what she was going to have to do that night.
___________________________________________________________________

Still not the end.

FEMFIC     PART 9     PART 11    FEEDBACK

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