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Buffy’s body lay on the ground.
Willow screamed. She tried to run to her. Tara had to hold her back, and she sank into her arms, breathing heavily. She was shaking her head—like she was trying to convince herself that– that Buffy wasn’t–
But she was. She was. Willow had to have known it. They all did.
Spike first. It made sense that he would—being a vampire. He must’ve sensed her skin getting cold, or her heart not beating. He fell on the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.
Giles knelt down. He touched a finger to Buffy’s neck.
“There’s a pulse, right?” Xander said. He was almost shouting. “Giles, there’s a pulse, right?”
Giles shook his head. Xander opened his mouth again, but he didn’t speak. He probably wanted to cry too. Or at least do something. Close his eyes and look away. Rip out his hair. But he couldn’t; he was holding Anya in his arms. One of them had to be strong.
Tara knew what that was like.
Willow tore herself out of her arms, and staggered to the body. She pushed Giles away, and threw herself on her knees next to her. She started pushing on Buffy’s chest. Tara could see her mouth moving, counting the pumps. Then she pinched Buffy’s nose and breathed into her mouth. She repeated this, again and again, until her arms gave out, and she collapsed on top of Buffy. Tara tried to pull her away. So did Giles. She wouldn’t move. She clung to the body, staring at it silently.
Then she forced herself up on her knees again. She took a deep breath. Her expression became… defiant. It made Tara shiver. It was like she was daring the world to take Buffy away from her.
She talked in a slow, hard voice. It took Tara a few moments to recognize the words. They were ancient Greek, begging the Asclepiades sisters to heal the wounded. At least, the words were begging. Willow wasn’t. It was more like a command. She didn’t have any offerings, or a focus that would help steer the magicks. She shouldn’t have been able to do it. After everything she’d went through.
But the spell took, and huge waves of energy poured into the world. Healing energy. Maybe enough to–
It wasn’t. There was nothing to heal.
So Willow tried another spell. Then another one, and another one, and another one. The air was buzzing with power. She was chanting in Greek, Latin, Sumerian, English, and half a dozen other languages Tara didn’t recognize. Most of the spells that she understood were for healing, but some were darker magicks, messing with demons, old gods, and other dark forces.
Blood dripped from her nose, her mouth, and even the corner of her eyes. She was trembling, hunched over the body, gasping for air. She wasn’t stopping.
“RISE,” she screamed. The word echoed in Tara’s mind.
“COME BACK.” Tara felt sick from the raw power in those words. She must’ve been draining her own life force for magick like that. Her hair was graying now, and her whole body was shaking. She couldn’t sit up anymore. Her head was pressed to Buffy’s chest, her skin paler than the body’s.
“Come back,” she said again. She was too weak to scream; her voice just broke off. “Come back!” There was no more magick behind her words. But that didn’t stop her. “Come back,” she repeated, “come back, come back, come back, come back…”
“I don’t think she is, Will,” Xander said.
Willow didn’t answer. She let Tara hold her, but she didn’t turn away.
After a while, Giles came back, with Dawn clutching his hand. He must’ve went and got her from the tower. When no one else thought to do it.
Willow looked up at them, with eyes full of tears. She started murmuring again.
Tara didn’t understand the words. It didn’t matter. There was no magick left in them. Willow had used up all the borrowed power too—it was a wonder she was still conscious. She could barely speak. Her voice was cracking, she had to pause and catch her breath, but she kept repeating the incantation, over and over and over. Her hands were latching onto Tara, gently rocking herself in her arms.
“Sweetie, stop,” Tara said, holding her. “Magick won’t fix this.”
“I don’t think that’s a spell,” Xander said. “I think she’s praying. I remember some of the words.”
“It’s the mourner’s Kaddish,” Giles said softly. He stepped closer, with his arm wrapped around Dawn. “He is blessed,” he started translating, “more so than any prayer or song, or praise or any consolation that is ever spoken anywhere. Say now…”
“Amein,” Willow and him said together.