BOOK III

The Crone

(Fifteen years later)

The figure in the bed lay quietly, the white cotton sheets folded neatly around his form. The room, a warm, well-lit space, was filled with books and memorabilia of esoteric sorts. Framed photos took up most of the remaining surfaces, and a small laptop, it's screen glowing, was the only concession to the 21st century. The screen indicated that the owner had mail. But the figure in the bed would not be reading it, or anything else, again.

The door opened, and a woman came in. Wearing jeans and a man's button-down shirt, she looked at first glance to be a teenager, but a closer look at her face showed the gentle lines of a woman in her thirties. Her hair, cropped in an easy-care pixie cut, emphasized the enormity of her eyes, now filled with an almost unbearable sorrow.

"I came as soon as I could," she said, moving to the side of the bed and taking the figure's hand in her own. He looked up at her with a smile. No words were needed -- he had known that she would be there.

"Xander sends his love -- he's somewhere in South America, getting into some kind of trouble. I can't keep track any more. And Buffy would be here herself, except all the flights are overbooked for the holidays, and getting that chair onto a train is just a nightmare and a half."

A pained expression crossed his face, and she shook her head.

"Stop that! You weren't to blame, Giles, do you hear me? And it's thanks to you she's alive at all. How many Watchers can say they successfully retired their Slayers, huh?"

He shook his head, and her free hand came up to stroke the clean-shaven face, now nothing more than skin drawn sharp against bones. His hair had fallen out from the radiation, but his eyebrows were still dark, and his eyes spoke volumes.

"I just wish you had let us be here for you," she said, half-scolding. "It wouldn't have been a weakness, you know."

He nodded then, acknowledging her words, but not regretting his own actions. One long-fingered hand raised up, touching the silver pendant worn around her neck, and his eyes smiled. Her shirt was open at the neck, and a small, white scar in the shape of horns to match the pendant was visible at her collarbone, matching the one still visible agaisnt his pale skin.

"Stubborn Watcher. You all think that you're the only ones who are allowed to suffer."

That earned her a pale grin, and what might have been a laugh. Her heart broke then, as it hadn't upon first seeing him. The cancer which had begin in his stomach had spread too quickly for even the finest medical team to catch, and it had eventually taken his lungs, and his throat, leaving him helpless and mute.

And now, the doctors said, it was reaching for his brain. That brilliant mind, which had seen them into and out of so much trouble, had gotten them out of high school in one piece, made sure they surivived college, listened to their woes and cheered their successes as they entered their professional careers...

Now that brain was beginning to fade. Memories, ideas, love, inspiration... all to liquify into a piece of meat that would not be Rupert Giles.

And that was why, finally, she was there. To say farewell. And to speed him on into the next world.

Releasing his hand, she sat down on the side of the bed, careful not to jar him. "We love you, Rupert. I just -- we needed to say it. To make sure you knew."

Their hands met again, warm flesh connecting one last time, and then his eyes slid closed, his body relaxing into the embrace of the too-soft bed, trusting her to do the rest.

The enormity of his trust filled Willow with a pained awe, but her movements were smooth and steady as she disconnected the leads from the humming machines by his side, slowly, surely, inevitably shutting them down. No alarms rang, no footsteps came running. His death, as his life, would be performed with a quiet, understated dignity. And if the world did not know what a great soul it had lost, there were those individuals who did. And who grieved.

Willow didn't have to look up to know that they were no longer alone. As a scientist, she could have explained all the changes to electricity, to the charging of ions in the air, to... something. But as a guardian, tied to the Land, she knew she was in the presence of her Lady.

Raising her head, she looked into glorious green eyes, drowning as always in Her depths. Mada passed her hands over Willow's head in benediction, resting one warm-fleshed palm against her cheek. A second face overlaid hers for an instant, that of a wrinkle-faced old woman, with eyes the color of faded moss, eyes of the same discerning wisdom.

"The Great Dance demands forward motion," Meddy said. "But nowhere is it said that it must be danced alone."

And then Willow was alone in the room. And she raised her face into the sun, and laughed.