Rising from the Wreckage

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Summary: What's Giles been doing all this time back in England? New discoveries are abound.

Rupert Giles closed the ancient text he was studying, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and cursed himself for the ten-thousandth time since he returned to his native land. Ever since he came back to England, he had buried himself in research, attempting to find any information, description, prophecy, anything that could point him toward this great threat his source had warned him about.

Above all, he hated lying to Buffy about his true reason for leaving her (abandoning her, his inner daemon corrected him). Just hours after that incident with the musical magic, he had received a phone call from an anonymous source, warning him of a great threat that would originate in Europe. When Giles pressed him for a name, the source simply answered, "Call me Mr. Dent."

He initially dismissed the source out of hand, but then his source said something unusual; that Giles would briefly forget who and what he was. A few days later, Willow's reckless dabbling in magic did indeed wipe out his memory. He then regarded Mr. Dent's information a little more seriously.

Buffy was in no shape to fight anything major, certainly after she was still trying to regain her bearings after her sudden (and as it turned out unwished) resurrection. So he opted to face the threat at its source. If it originated in Europe, it would likely strike at England before arriving in the States. So he invented an excuse, that he didn't feel that Buffy needed him anymore, and left Sunnydale to confront this new threat. If Buffy chose not to forgive him for deserting her, it was a small price to pay to insure her safety. Maybe if for once he handled the world-threatening menace, she could rest. And maybe finally heal.

After he returned to England, he requested access from the Council to some of their more esoteric volumes, and once they learned the reason for his request, they were more than happy to comply. Quentin Travers even invited him to the Council retreat in the Cotswolds, to allow him to study uninterrupted.

But so far, he had little to go on, only a name for the threat. The Beast. That was the only concrete information he had to go on, and it wasn't enough to gain any substantial information. Not that his search was totally fruitless; he did learn something interesting regarding 'The Three who are One'. Several queries through the Search function of the Council computer system (a last ditch resort for the normally techno phobic Brit) revealed a prophecy regarding a great threat attacking the "Western end of the New World". California, he surmised. And given the existence of the Hellmouth in Sunnydale, it wasn't a stretch. The prophecy then spoke of the Three;

Three will stand against the Darkness---
One will be raised from madness,
One will be raised from death,
One will be raised from darkness.
These are The Three, Who Are One---
United in power,
United in weakness,
And united in love,
For all time

This sent Giles' mind to work; he realized that two of the Three may already be in place. Tara had been raised from the madness that Glory wrought upon her, when Willow restored her mind after Glory's attack. And certainly Buffy had been raised from death, whether she desired it or not.

And considering the dark magic that Willow had been throwing about, that could easily make her the third. He found himself breathing a sigh of relief; at least if he was reading this prophecy correctly, it meant that Willow would recover from her darkness. How this prophecy might affect the relationships between the three young women was another matter entirely. But Giles was prepared to maintain an open mind.

He would have considered the prophecy further, but a cursory glance at his watch reminded him that he had an appointment. On the flight back to England, he had an idea regarding how he could aid Buffy further. Of course, it relied on the good graces of the senior members of the Council, and they often didn't see eye to eye with Giles. Oh well, he mused, all he could do was ask. He replaced the text he was studying, and left the library for Quentin's office.

"I must admit, Rupert," Quentin Travers rested his forehead against his steepled forefingers, "I always thought that you have brass ones. I find it somehow gratifying to know that I was right."

Giles knew why Quentin had requested meeting him in his office. He admired the burl-wood finishings, the deep mahogany desk behind which Quentin presided, the bay window with a broad view of the lawns outside the Watchers' Retreat, and the general aura of British stuffiness that permeated the retreat's rarified air; the effect was calculated to make Giles feel as though he were a schoolboy being called to the principal's office. Of course, Quentin didn't know Giles that well; after three years of the ultimately ineffectual Mr. Snyder, school principals held no fear for him.

"I fail to see what is so unreasonable about my proposal," Giles answered calmly. "After all, we Watchers enjoy drawing a regular stipend from the Council, why shouldn't the Slayer? After all, she's on the front lines in this war."

Quentin Travers, Senior ranking member of the Council of Watchers regarded his former protégé with a bland distaste. "No Slayer before Miss Summers ever drew a stipend from the Council," Travers protested. "What makes her so special?"

"The fact that she has lasted longer than any Slayer before her, for a start," Giles nodded slightly as he began to present the logical argument he had prepared. He knew that getting emotional in front of Quentin would work against his purpose. So going against his desire to break Quentin's nose on general principles, he reined in the Ripper and presented his case calmly.

"First," Giles started to tick off his arguments on his fingers, "Buffy Summers has done more than any ten Slayers before her. The fact that we are here to argue this matter is due to her perseverance and her sacrifice. Second, Buffy has other responsibilities besides slaying; since the death of her mother earlier this year, she has become the legal guardian of her sister."

"I fail to see how that is the Council's concern," Quentin huffed. Giles could feel the Ripper straining to free itself, and tightened the mental chains that bound it. For Buffy's sake, he reasoned, he had to remain calm.

"Think of it as pragmatism," Giles suggested. "The Council would make it easier for Buffy to concentrate on her mission against evil by insuring that she didn't have to worry about bills and groceries. Furthermore, we no longer live in the Dark Ages. When the Council was formed to aid the Slayer, women weren't expected or even permitted to seek their own employment. Those days are long gone, my friend. To paraphrase someone I once knew and loved very much, 'I know our ways may seem strange to you, but you will join the twenty-first century'."

Quentin stared at Giles for a few seconds, ascertaining whether he was willing to compromise on this matter. Seeing that Giles wasn't going to give an inch, Quentin sighed theatrically, and opened a file cabinet under his desk. "Well, Rupert," he announced as he produced a file folder, "the matter is academic now; the issue has already been voted on by the Council."

Giles sat up, anger illuminating his features. "And you didn't even have the courtesy to inform me, so I could present my case to the Council?"

"Your input wasn't deemed necessary," Quentin answered passively. "As I said, the vote was taken yesterday afternoon, after you submitted the proposal last week."

Opening the file folder, and taking a small sheath of papers in his hand, Quentin announced, "As you know, Giles, on such major matters as this, a two-thirds majority is required to vote 'yay' for the measure to be passed." Giles began to shift slightly in his seat, fearing the worst. Oh well, we made the effort, Buffy, he thought anxiously. Sorry it didn't work out.

Quentin smiled slightly as he watched Giles in his uncomfortable posture. He decided to put him out of his misery. "The final vote of the seventy-five person Council," he droned as he read the paper in his hands, "taken at three-fifteen on the first of December, 2001," Yes, yes, go on with it, Giles wanted to scream, "shows 59 votes 'yay', 15 votes 'nay', and one abstention."

Giles found himself frantically working out the percentages in his head, only to see an oddly comforting smile creep its way onto Quentin's face. "Your proposal passed, Rupert. Buffy Summers will get her stipend."

"Oh, um, yes," Giles stammered, barely containing his joy at the surprise outcome of the vote. "Thank you, Quentin, thank you very much."

"Don't thank me, Giles," Quentin answered firmly, "I just delivered the news. Now then," he pulled out a blank sheet of paper and a fountain pen, "the real reason that I asked you here today is to discuss the particulars of her stipend. I believe that a thousand a month, in American dollars, is more than fair."

Giles quickly regained his composure and pursed his lips in thought; even though Buffy was unaware that he had even considered the idea of her receiving a stipend, he felt that it was his duty to represent his friend and former charge. "Quentin," he quizzed, "have you ever tried to live in California for a thousand dollars a month? I don't believe it can be done, even if she didn't have a teen-age sister to look after."

Quentin's pen slipped from his hand and clattered to the desktop. "Eight thousand? Are you mad? When you said she lives in California, you said nothing about Rodeo Drive!"

It was Giles' turn to smile at Quentin's discomfort. "Quentin, old man, you don't understand the basic concept of negotiation. First, I ask for the moon. Then, we haggle."

Quentin considered Giles' words for a moment, then gave him a slight smirk. "Fifteen hundred."

With supreme effort, Giles managed to suppress a chuckle; even if he had expected the Council to favor the stipend, he hadn't even dreamed that he would get more than fifteen hundred for Buffy. He managed to negotiate a larger share than he had even dreamed.

He knitted his brow as he looked at the man across the desk. He decided to press his luck. "Twenty five hundred," he nodded, "retroactive from the time Merrick first contacted her. You can consult Merrick's journals for the exact date."

Quentin's eyes widened as Giles made his offer. He had underestimated the lengths Giles would go to care for his foster daughter. "You still have a father's love for Miss Summers." It was a statement, not a question, and for once Quentin said it kindly.

Quentin barked a friendly laugh. "How about retroactive from the moment you first contacted her? If I'm doing my math correctly, that will be close to one hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

Giles nodded an affirmative toward his superior. "Very generous," he agreed. "Done." The two men reached across the desk and shook hands.

"I will be meeting with a solicitor within the hour," Quentin informed Giles. "We will draw up the legal documents at that time, and within the week we will mail her the retroactive payment."

"By all means," Quentin said, getting up from the desk and opening a small liquor cabinet. Pulling out a bottle and two crystal tumblers, he asked, "Would you care for a glass of single malt scotch?"

"So, Giles, is there any other business keeping you here? Any luck tracking down this European threat?"

"Little luck so far," Giles admitted. "I have several ideas, but no evidence. I even thought that Dracula might be returning. His legend did originate in Wallachia, the country formerly known as Transylvania, in Eastern Europe."

"Dracula?" Quentin asked, surprise in his voice. "I read from Buffy's journals that she had succeeded in slaying Dracula last year."

"Indeed," Giles answered as he sipped his scotch. "But as you know from reading the journals, Dracula was no ordinary vampire. I do not doubt that he may rise again. However, as I said, I have nothing concrete linking him to this threat." Nursing his drink, he concluded, "I suppose I'll have to continue to soldier on."

"Well, good hunting, Rupert," Quentin answered. "Oh, before I forget, I received this in the mail." He produced a cream-colored envelope. "It's addressed to you." Giles opened the envelope and quietly read the contents. He pocketed the letter in his jacket, and rose from his seat. "Thank you, Quentin. Please inform me when the solicitor arrives."

"She should be here shortly," Quentin answered. Giles nodded a brief farewell, and turned to leave the office. Just short of the door, he turned around and said, "One question, Quentin. Just to scratch my curiosity. How did you vote regarding the stipend proposal?"

Quentin leaned back in his chair and answered, "One nice thing about being the Senior member of the Council, Rupert. You don't have to answer that sort of question."

He eyed the interior of the dimly lit tavern for the seventeenth time since he arrived. Everything was the same as it was five minutes earlier; the deep red wood paneling, the swirls of cigarette smoke being scattered by the weathered ceiling fans, the fading green felt of the snooker table, the beeps and whistles emanating from the pinball machine in the corner, and the general air of melancholy that seemed to permeate the room, from the floorboards to the rafters. Typical of a Soho bar. Except for the six-armed bartender and the Fyarl demon bouncer, as well as the assortment of demons, vampires and other supernatural beings who frequented the pub.

Rupert Giles smirked sardonically at his thought. He and his mates had certainly made their rounds along the width and breadth of London during his misspent youth. He had recently watched a program on BBC about four middle-aged men prowling the London nightlife. Take twenty-five years off of each of them, Giles thought, and you'd have my mates. If the fellows on the telly were into summoning demons, that is.

He opened the letter he had received from Quentin and read its immaculate hand-written script for the hundredth time;

Giles,
I must speak to you in person. Meet me tonight at the Bell Book and Candle in the Soho district, seven sharp. Come alone, or you won't see me.
H. Dent

He glanced at his watch again; seven thirty-seven. Exactly two minutes since the last time he checked his watch. Giles wondered if the mysterious H. Dent was lost in traffic, or if maybe he had forgotten their appointment.

Giles was openly curious about the Bell Book and Candle, having heard of its reputation. A recently opened bar, it was reputed to be a neutral ground for the London nightlife, both human and inhuman. The owner of the pub, who only went by the name of Van Helsing, evidently enforced the peace within the pub, and from what he had heard from friends in the area the pub was both successful and peaceful. From his conversations with Angel, Giles knew that there was a similar bar in Los Angeles, although from what he saw so far, the Bell Book and Candle at least didn't have a karaoke stage.

It did, however, have a pinball machine. And a very loud one at that, as Giles broken concentration could attest. He turned around at one point, watching the man playing the machine. He glanced at the machine's back-board, seeing the garish images of Batman and Robin, facing down two of their most recognizable villains, the Riddler and Two-Face. Whoever was playing the game had racked up an impressive score, well into the hundreds of millions. And as Giles observed him, he looked more and more familiar.

Something clicked in Giles' mind, like a tumbler in a lock. A connection was made, and Giles found himself cursing under his breath, berating himself for not figuring it out sooner. He rose from his seat, approached the pinball player, and said loudly enough to be heard, "How's the game going, Mr. Dent?"

The player lifted his head, and regarded Giles with a lunatic grin. "Why, Ripper! How good to see you again! How about a hug?"

Ethan Rayne chuckled throatily, then turned his back from the machine, allowing his third pinball to drain and his game to end. "I must say, you didn't take as long to find me as I thought you would."

"I'm ashamed that it took me this long," Giles growled. "I probably would have missed it entirely if I hadn't been associating with Buffy and her friends for five years, but the pop-culture clue was obvious once I knew where to look. H. Dent. Harvey Dent from the Batman comic book. He was the former district attorney of Gotham City, and a very handsome man, until the day he prosecuted a desperate criminal. The defendant threw a vial of acid into his face, scarring the left side completely. This drove Harvey insane, leading to his becoming the criminal mastermind Two-Face, a madman obsessed with duality. From there, it wasn't too far a leap to Janus, the two-faced Greek god, whom you invoked four years ago last Halloween."

"Yes, Ripper," Ethan smirked sardonically, "guilty as charged. I shall have to be cleverer next time. But come, let us not take this Bata an Death March down Memory Lane. We have much to discuss."

Giles immediately grabbed Ethan's throat in his hand, pinning him to a support pillar near the billiard tables. "I'll give you ten seconds to convince me not to crush you larynx."

"Well," Ethan gasped, "for a start, there's the matter of the proprietor of this establishment not liking any altercations in his place." Giles turned toward the bartender, who now held three guns in his right hands. Grinning sheepishly, Giles lowered Ethan, who smiled broadly at the bartender. "It's okay, gents," he apologized gregariously to the patrons. "Just a friendly dispute over the pinball scores. Nothing to be worried about."

"Fine," the bartender grunted. "But one more outburst and I'll have you removed from here. One body part at a time."

"Fair enough," Ethan smiled, as the bartender lowered his guns and returned to serving his customers. "'Out you two pixies go, through the door or out the window'. I saw 'It's A Wonderful Life' too, you know. Although personally I would have had more fun in Pottersville than in Bedford Falls."

"Why did you contact me?" Giles asked, his voice a quiet growl. "Did you send me on a wild-goose chase to separate me from the Slayer?"

"Very good, Ripper," Ethan cheered. "But it wasn't entirely my idea. My, uh, former employer instructed me in the matter."

"Yes," Ethan said casually. "That would be the threat I warned you about. Oh, the threat is real enough, and more powerful than you could possibly guess."

"Was working for it," Ethan corrected sharply. "Once I learned its true intentions, I chose to cut my losses. I'm not interested in destroying the world, only playing with it." Gesturing toward a pool table, he added, "Fancy a game? You know how I like to play, don't you?"

Giles nodded grimly, as he selected a pool cue from the cue rack. "Yes. 'On a cloth untrue, with a twisted cue'," he recited grimly, "'and elliptical billiard balls'."

"Fair enough." Ethan racked up the fifteen brightly colored balls, and then lined up the cue ball on the opposite side of the table. Bending down into a proper playing stance, he knocked the cue ball into the fifteen balls, scattering them across the table.

"Now then," Giles bent down over the table, "would care to explain how you escaped the Initiative compound?"

Ethan watched as Giles lined up his shot. "Oh, it's easy enough to escape from a government facility when the government's in the process of covering their asses and closing the facility. Besides, I had a little help. A Mr. Bester, to be exact, he helped me escape a few months ago, and in return I agreed to do him a service. I created the fiction of H. Dent, and sent you the warning about a threat from Europe. Mr. Bester, well, you might say he represents someone."

"And who might that be?" Giles asked as he made his shot, watching with satisfaction as the 4 ball fell into the side pocket. "Solids," he added.

"Someone with many names," Ethan intoned. "For the sake of the argument, I'll call it The Beast."

"The Beast?" Giles huffed. "How melodramatic. So, is this Beast a demon, or perhaps a form of were-animal?" He managed to sink two more balls, before missing his fourth shot. He stood back as Ethan approached the table, examining the position of the balls.

"The Beast is beyond any mere demon that you or the Slayer has ever faced." Ethan leaned forward with the cue lined up in his left hand. "Tell me, Ripper, have you ever wondered why so many cultures, faiths and mythologies have tales of great monsters?" He shot the cue ball at the nine-ball, sinking it effortlessly. "The Aztecs bled themselves to death in worship of a winged serpent Quetzacotl." He slammed the eight ball into the eleven, pocketing it. "The Egyptians feared Sehkmet, a mighty lioness, the blood of whose victims soaked the marshes of the Nile." He pocketed the ten. "As for the Greeks, take your pick!" The fifteen. "Typhon." The thirteen. "Echidnea." The fourteen. "The Kraken." The twelve. "And my personal favorite, Cerberus."

"And the point of your little Joseph Campbell lecture is?" Giles didn't try to hide the irritation in his voice.

"The point, my dear Ripper," Ethan answered jovially, "is that all these monsters, and many more, were merely aliases of one monster. The true parent of all monsters." He lined up a final shot and fired, pocketing the eight ball in an easy bank shot. "The Beast."

Giles pondered Ethan's words. "The Council knows," he commented, "that before humanity flourished in this world, demonic beings held sway. But the evidence held that all of the arch-demons were banished to other realms by the first Slayers, realms from which they continue to bedevil humanity."

"All, friend?" Ethan chuckled. "One remained, hiding from the crush of humanity. The Beast lived on, through all times, in many lands, leaving its legends behind. It bides its time, learning. Always learning."

"You'll forgive me, Ethan, if I think you're lying," Giles scowled as he ventured toward a table and sat down. "I have gone through several prophecies recently, and found no information pointing to anything called 'The Beast'."

"You want prophecy?" Ethan challenged. "I'll give you prophecy. The book of Revelation, Chapter 13, Verse 1. 'And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy'."

Giles could feel the perspiration forming on his brow, and a familiar electrical charge of fear through his system. "Are you saying," Giles asked, "that this Beast is the creature of the Apocalypse?"

"It could be," Ethan mused. "Then again, it might not. The point is that The Beast fancies itself that creature. Its plans are large."

Ethan leaned against the pool table, flashing a dark look at Giles. "To conquer Hell, and make war against Heaven. And the Earth will be its battleground."

Giles stumbled into his apartment, his mind swimming in a thousand questions. All leading to the same terrible conclusion; if Ethan was correct, this Beast would be a far greater threat than anything that Buffy had ever faced. And if Buffy failed against The Beast, the world would pay the forfeit.

At least he now had an idea what the true enemy was, he had a more clear direction for his research. Hopefully tomorrow, he would have more luck finding out about the Beast.

He flipped on the light switch, and noticed the flashing light on his answering machine. An infernal contraption, he mused, but on occasion it has come in handy. He pressed the button on the machine, and a familiar voice chimed through the speaker; "Rupert, you naughty boy. I found out that you've been in London for over two weeks, and you haven't looked me up once. Oh well, I'm prepared to forgive you, if you agree to meet me at the Blue Parrot tomorrow night at eight. You're buying." *Beep*

"Hi, Giles. Uh, this is Dawn. I just thought that—well, I was wondering how you were doing, and—Giles, it's going to hell here! Willow's gone, Buffy's depressed, everything's falling apart here! Look, I don't know why you left for England, but you were wrong. Buffy needs you here. We need you. 'Bye."

Giles stood silently, not moving for over a minute as he digested Dawn's message. He could hear the desperation in her voice, could almost see the tears in her eyes from the other side of the globe. "Dear God," he muttered to himself, "what is happening to us?"

Before turning in for the night, he called up Olivia to apologize, and to say that he wouldn't be available for dinner. He had work to do. He had to find out more about The Beast.

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Rising from the Wreckage

Chapter 8

By Kirayoshi

JDmeans@aol.com