Ophelia

Author: Cara Ellen

Summery: A fluffy, sappy, writer's blocky little piece.

Rating: PG

General Disclaimer: Willow and all Buffy characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy!

Feedback: I make no excuses...you may love it, you may hate it...hopefully you'll tell me...:-)

Distribution: I doubt anyone will want it, but if ya do, let me know!

Timeline: Takes place approximately five years after Becoming

Author's note: I don't want to study and I can't seem to get anywhere with "Gone"...so I wrote this...a product of procrastination, exhaustion and depressing sappiness.......

**The paintings described here can be viewed at: http://www.webmagick.co.uk/prcoll/frames.htm under the heading of "Maidens of Death - Ophelia"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Her shoes echoed through the hall. She tried to step lightly, however the marble floor denied her the peaceful quiet. Walking through a great, carved archway, she entered a new room. The paintings on the walls called to her.

Willow approached the first piece. The woman, draped in the finest white gown, was enchanting. Her red hair fell in waves down her back, and was accented with flowers. Her face was fair and soft, and her features were tiny.

She stood at a large oak, a bouquet of flowers in her hand. Willow imagined she was a bride-to-be. < What a beautiful woman. > The woman's eyes caught Willow's attention. They were large and blue, and full of coy mystery. Her head was flung over her shoulder, she appeared to be playing the part of the tease. She was beckoning someone....maybe her lover. She looked content and peaceful.

Willow felt a pang of envy and forced her attention down. < I bet she's happier than she's ever been. She's probably in love, looking forward to a long and happy life. This is probably her wedding portrait. How lucky...to have found someone... >

Moving to the next work, Willow felt her breath catch. < Oh God. > The painting...it was as if the artist had reached inside the depths of Willow's mind and soul and had poured it out onto canvas.

This painting was darker, more destitute. The woman was small and frail, almost childlike. Her red hair hung limply, tucked below a crown of thorns. She held onto a deathly bouquet of weeds, clinging them to her torn white gown. < Could this be the same woman? >

She was running through a pond at the end of a bleak field, filled with barren trees and wild grass. The sky showed the signs of night, yet the woman was illuminated, her paleness accentuated.

Willow looked frantically between the two paintings, desperately trying to tell if this was the same woman. < Oh God, it is. What happened to her? How could she go to being the picture of love and happiness, to the model of sadness and desolution? >

She couldn't take her eyes off the second painting. Her sob echoed through the empty museum. She wanted to yell, to reach out and help this poor soul. This woman who could have been her.

Willow froze in a moment of clarity. < This is me. This is what I have become. > Tears spilled down her cheek. She reached her hand up, tracing the woman's face lightly. < This is me. >

Looking around to make sure she was still alone, Willow noticed a third and final painting in the series. Stepping cautiously closer, she began to cry openly. < No... > her mind cried. < This can't be...this didn't happen... >

The red-haired woman was floating. Her hair flew free and the flowers still clutched to her chest slipped from her fingers. Her white gown swirled at her feet, seemingly becoming its own entity. The lake grass and trees swayed with the currents, bowing to their new queen.

The look on her face, previously so lost and alone, was peaceful once again. The quiet happiness she felt in the first painting had returned. She'd escaped whatever had tormented her mind and her soul.

< She killed herself....drowned. > Willow stood in shock, occasionally sniffling back her tears. Thoughts flew through Willow's mind. She tried desperately to cling to one coherent idea, but the woman's rapid decent plagued her.

She stepped back, looking at each painting again and again. Finally, unable to focus her eyes, Willow broke down. She stumbled back into the center of the room, falling onto a viewing bench. Her cries served a soundtrack for this woman's life and death. < Maybe that's how I'll go too... >

Willow was unaware of a second presence in the room. She didn't hear the footsteps. Nor did she hear the concerned question and the following gasp. She did, however, feel the strong arms that encircled her.

Normally she would have flooded with embarrassment at being caught so emotional. She would have shrunk away from a stranger's touch. But Willow was simply too far gone to care.

"Shhhh...." The stranger tried to sooth her, gently stroking her hair. He rocked her softly, and waited patiently till she calmed. "It'll be alright..."

"No." Her voice was strangled by emotion. "It won't be alright. It can't."

"Why not?" He continued, allowing her to speak at her own pace.

"It's too late. It's gone too far. I've gone too far."

The man was confused, but didn't want to push. "Why is it too late?"

"Because–" Willow answered angrily, pushing out of the man's embrace. She looked up into the eyes of her comforter, ready to unleash her emotional burden.

But she stopped...and froze. Willow tried to speak, but her voice wouldn't raise past a whipser. < This can't be! How is this– > Her eyes searched his face, trying to decide whether he was real or if this was a sick hallucination.

"A-angel?"

He nodded, allowing his lips to smile. "Hi, Willow. It's been a while."

Willow pulled back, taking him all in. "How is this possible? You're in hell! And–without a soul!"

"No, your spell worked, Willow. I was sent to hell, that's true. But I went with a soul."

"How are you back?" Despite the emotional turmoil, Willow's scientific mind was always working. "Did someone do another spell?"

"No," Angel smiled. "I was supposed to go to hell soul-less. The point of the torment was to take someone who didn't care, and destroy them with feelings of guilt and remorse. I kinda had that done on my own. The Gods of the underworld decided I would do just fine torturing myself, so they spit me back. I guess instilling suffering on someone who feels they deserve it, just isn't as much fun."

Willow couldn't believe he was being so blase...even joking about his time in hell!

"When I got out," Angel continued. "I left. I left Sunnydale...I left the country. I couldn't bear to be around those I hurt the most. You, Giles, Buffy..." He broke off. Though Angel thought of Buffy often, he hardly ever spoke her name aloud. "I knew you probably didn't want to see me. And frankly...I didn't think I could handle seeing all of you. So I left."

Angel stood, stepping slowing towards a different wall of paintings. "I went abroad. Europe, Asia, Africa...anywhere that I could be alone with my thoughts."

Willow turned and watched him lace his fingers behind his back. < He looks exactly the same. Duh, of course he does. He's a vampire, he doesn't change. > But Willow wasn't sure that was true. He somehow seemed different. More...at ease?

"I didn't come back to the States until last year. I had lived in Manhattan before moving to Sunnydale," he said, gesturing to the walls of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. "It's a god place to get lost in the crowd, you know?"

Willow nodded in agreement. She knew all too well.

Angel kept his back to her and continued. "I come in here a lot. Especially to this room, the Pre-Raphaelite collection. The people...they remind me of you." Willow looked up in surprise and confusion. "You, and everyone back in Sunnydale."

Angel moved to stand before a painting. "I especially like this one." From her seat, Willow could see a beautiful woman leaning over to a brave knight. "La Belle Dame Sans Merci," he read.

"The beautiful woman without mercy." Willow translated quietly.

"It reminds me of her." Angel looked thoughtfully at the piece for a moment, before moving to return to Willow.

Willow swallowed before speaking. "She died two years ago...or so we hear. She left after killing you. We never saw her again. Giles kept looking, but it was useless...she didn't want to be found." She studied her hands, not wanting to see Angel's reaction. "The Watcher's Council called Giles back to England. I think the official story is that he retired. Sometimes I hear from him...but mostly..." She trailed off, looking back to the series of paintings before her.

"Oz left to tour with his band, and Cordelia finished her senior year at a private school in Boston. Xander and I stayed behind until graduation. He got accepted to a school in LA. He couldn't wait to get away," She remembered. "He said it was too painful for him to stay in Sunnydale."

Willow wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, remembering her last day with Xander. "So I came here. Everyone left me alone, and I couldn't stand it. I tried to stay. I tried going to a community college, so I could stay and watch over the Hellmouth. But it was too much. I couldn't handle it anymore, so I got as far away as I could."

"New York," Angel finished.

She nodded. "I'm graduating soon. I even have a job offer from a big computer company. I'm finally starting my life." She looked up into Angel's face. "I'm supposed to be happy, right?"

Willow stood and quickly walked to her paintings. "But then I come here, and I see this. These paintings. This is what I've become," she pointed to the middle piece. "This is me, Angel. She's so–lost..."

Angel joined her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. "She's crazy, Willow. But she's not you."

Willow struggled to keep her tears back. "It is me! This is what I've become. I'm wandering through my life without any feeling...any emotion. Look," she pointed to the last painting. "Do you see what happened to her? That's what's going to happen to me, isn't it?" Willow paused. "At least....at least she looks peaceful. I wonder if she's happy where she is."

Angel spun her around, looking fiercly into her eyes. "No, Willow, this is NOT you! The woman in these paintings was mad. Insane! She didn't even live in this world anymore, she was lost."

"And how does that make her any different from me!" Willow screamed.

"Because she didn't have anyone to pull her off that bridge before she fell." Angel's words stopped her cold. "She was alone, surrounded by people, she was alone. And no one noticed. No one cared that she was drowning. But you! You, Willow, are not alone. You're never alone."

Angel pulled her to him, allowing her to sob into his chest. This is what felt right, finally. This is what brought him to New York. Since that night of the Acathla, Angel had felt the connection. He'd felt Willow's presence...her sadness...her fears. He knew the moment she left Sunnydale. And he knew where she'd be tonight.

Angel knew better than Willow herself that she was strong. He knew she could survive anything. But when he felt her losing control, he knew he had to come back. He owed her everything. She'd saved his life.

And now he'd save hers.

Angel comforted Willow, assuring her he'd never leave. They stood for a while, holding each other. Angel told her of the connection since the spell. He told her how he felt her suffering, and how he found her tonight.

Silently, Angel cursed himself for not coming sooner. However, he realized she wouldn't have accepted him before tonight. For some reason, until seeing these paintings, Willow hadn't realized how lost she was. She was content with her class-homework-sleep existence. She hadn't allowed herself the time to take inventory and see just how miserable she was.

After she'd calmed down, Willow untangled herself from Angel's arms, and looked at him gratefully.

Angel lowered his face to hers and lightly placed a kiss on her lips. It was a gentle, full of friendship and love. Willow smiled, finding his hand with hers.

For the first time since Buffy left, she felt somewhat whole again. He life suddenly had meaning and she could feel happiness threatening to take over.

Together they faced the first painting in the series. "I wonder who she is," Willow said absently, allowing Angel to lead her from the room.

Before passing under the great marble archway, Willow caught sight of a small plaque beside the painting. She blinked, wondering why she hadn't noticed it before. It was small and simple, but Willow could read the title clearly: "Ophelia"

THE END

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