Oz was very quiet.
Sitting on top of a mountain in the Middle of Nowhere, Tibet, will do that to a person, and if Oz was already quiet by nature, well. He was even more inclined to be so, now that the vast landscape of the Himalayan Mountains lay before him with lush beauty.
He closed his eyes, shutting them out, and breathed in deep, crisp air. His spine straightened slightly, and he rested his palms on his knees. Had someone been looking up at him, they would have been surprised to see a short, red-haired Westerner calmly sitting on an outcropping of rock that jutted far off the mountain in a sheer drop, wisps of clouds coalescing near his body. He seemed to take it in stride.
Choden had told him to come to the mountains and see what he found there; Oz had never discounted his advice, but he suspected Choden knew something he wasn't telling him. That was fine, though. If it wasn't his time to know, then so it was.
It had taken Oz a long time to learn that.
And so, here he was. Peace suffused his body, and his breathing slowed to a mere drag of air between his lips. He felt the wind brush at his hair, the rough surface of the rock, the tip of sunshine against his shoulders. It felt good, alive, but he pulled himself deeper within his mind that he recessed from his physical feelings.
In his head, he was walking down a corridor with infrequent doors lining the walls. He stopped, just a moment, at the grey door with a crescent moon hung above it. There was a rustling, and a low whine, but when he passed his hand lightly over the wood it stopped. Oz gave a small smile and continued on.
There were other doors: a slightly red one with a fuzzy sign hanging from the knob; another with the vinyl cover of CREAM's third album stapled to it; one that was plain and brown, but held something precious inside.
None of these were his destination, not today. He instinctively knew to go to the end of the hallway, where the white light began. It got brighter as he got closer, and he had to hold an arm up to shield his eyes as he pressed onward.
He felt himself breaking through something, and then the brightness receded; when he opened his eyes again, he was standing on thick green grass and looking out at a quiet park. There was a bench off to the side, a large black lamppost hanging over it, and Oz shrugged and made his way over to it. Things happen for a reason, his mother had once told him, and it was something that he'd taken to heart. He sat down, looking at the park, which was falling into evening sun. Oz slumped a little against the bench, looking at his hands, where his fingernails were cut to the quick.
"Hello, Oz," Joyce said. Oz turned his head slowly, blinking.
"Mrs. Summers?" he said with some disbelief.
"It takes a lot to surprise you now, doesn't it?" she said pleasantly, playing with a blade of grass. "I figured I might as well come, as anyone. How are you?"
"I'm...fine," he said blankly. "Is that a boa?"
She looked down at her clothes, and smiled when her fingers found the feathery accessory hanging from her neck. "So it is! I always loved them when I was a girl."
"Okay." He turned to look back at the darkening sky.
She placed her hand comfortably on his shoulder. "Oh, Oz. I thought you knew."
He shook his head, moving to rest his arms on his knees. "I haven't talked to anyone in...years. I didn't know that you'd died."
She smiled. "Yes, I did. A couple years ago. It's fine, Oz, really. They all missed you, though. It was hard for them."
Oz nodded, and turned to look at her. "I guess you have something to tell me, other than this."
She relaxed a little, and met his eyes. "It's time for you to go home, Oz. You've been away too long. It's not good for you, not good for them. When was the last time you let them know you were alive?"
Oz thought back, and couldn't answer when he realized the last time he put an unmarked postcard in the mail. It was a long time.
She pulled him close with her arm, and he shifted against the unfamiliar touch. "Oz," she began, "sometimes it's hard to accept that there are people who care about you just as much as you care for them. Unfortunately, that's why they're called family." She laughed lowly, a clear, pure sound, and Oz felt his heart jump. There had been snacks and dinners at the Summers' when none of them wanted to go home to the remnants of their families, Mrs. Summers constantly coming in to ask them if they needed anything, even in the face of Buffy's annoyed looks. They'd all appreciated it, even if they never said anything; it was something wonderful that went unspoken, that at least one of their parents would take the time to think of them.
Oz felt tears prick his eyes as the flood of memories flashed past his eyes. "Okay," he said thickly. "Sunnydale?"
A shadow passed over Joyce's face. "Sunnydale fell," she said, and Oz looked at her in shock. "They're fine, mostly. Recovering. It's part of the reason you should go back now. They're in England--you'll find your way."
Oz nodded, pulling away and wiping surreptitiously at his eyes.
"And Oz?" Joyce said carefully. He met her eyes. "Wake up."
Oz's eyes sprang open, and he was back on the mountain. He took some time to compose himself before rising and making the long way back to the monastery.
When he arrived, Choden was waiting for him with his things bundled and a smile on his face. "Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked easily.
Oz felt a smile break over his face in return. "Yes," he said.
Postscript:
The title for this comes from Songs of Tsangyang Gyatso, sixty-six poems by a Tibetan poet. They're meant to be sung, but, you know. I don't do that. It's from the second poem; this is the English translation:
Last year’s tender young sprouts,
Are this year’s stalks of straw:
Young men’s bodies turn old,
Turn stiffer than a southern bow.
words © SA. characters, show, and people not mine. no infringement is intended.