![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
{ we could leave, I'll dim the stars }
Aug. 26th, 2015 11:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
guiltapaloozaWillow isn't nervous exactly. So what if she's going to go liaise with the established government of a secret, historical, well-educated society of magic users, and she was some homegrown American upstart who'd gotten excited over her librarian's magic books? She's powerful; she'd still needed that coven in Devon to get her head screwed on right. Willow is much better and more confident about using her magic, but part of her is also waiting for the other shoe to drop and her to mess everything up again.
It would shame Tara's memory if she did that again. Willow knows better than anyone what Tara would want her to do, and she's determined to live up to that.
"Buck up, Rosenberg," she tells herself, shaking out her ankle-length olive green circle skirt and double checking she has everything she needs in her messenger bag. She can do this. She's one damn strong Wicca, and anyway, have any of these witches saved the world? She doesn't think so.
Of course, it doesn't matter how nervous she is: the Portkey is set to teleport her in twenty seconds, and she's going with it. Willow takes one final deep breath and reorients herself. Council. She's on the Council, and if she's playing second fiddle to Giles on the magic front that's only because she trusts him a heck of a lot more than she trusts herself. But he's too busy to do this and he hates politics and she's fresh-faced and idealistic enough to work for this instead, so he's sending her.
Willow owes so much to Giles, there's no way she wants to let him down, either.
Something hooks into her navel and jerks her forward, and she stumbles when it deposits her in a massive atrium that looks like something out of a previous century. Willow straightens herself up and tucks the enchanted pen into her bag. (She's dying to examine it later and see if she can find residue of the Portkey magic.)
"Talk about rickety," she mutters to herself, suppressing the thought that her teleportation is much smoother. That way leads to badness. Willow looks around for her welcome party instead.
It would shame Tara's memory if she did that again. Willow knows better than anyone what Tara would want her to do, and she's determined to live up to that.
"Buck up, Rosenberg," she tells herself, shaking out her ankle-length olive green circle skirt and double checking she has everything she needs in her messenger bag. She can do this. She's one damn strong Wicca, and anyway, have any of these witches saved the world? She doesn't think so.
Of course, it doesn't matter how nervous she is: the Portkey is set to teleport her in twenty seconds, and she's going with it. Willow takes one final deep breath and reorients herself. Council. She's on the Council, and if she's playing second fiddle to Giles on the magic front that's only because she trusts him a heck of a lot more than she trusts herself. But he's too busy to do this and he hates politics and she's fresh-faced and idealistic enough to work for this instead, so he's sending her.
Willow owes so much to Giles, there's no way she wants to let him down, either.
Something hooks into her navel and jerks her forward, and she stumbles when it deposits her in a massive atrium that looks like something out of a previous century. Willow straightens herself up and tucks the enchanted pen into her bag. (She's dying to examine it later and see if she can find residue of the Portkey magic.)
"Talk about rickety," she mutters to herself, suppressing the thought that her teleportation is much smoother. That way leads to badness. Willow looks around for her welcome party instead.
