AUTHOR: Head Rush

RATING: FRT

SUMMARY: Giles, a few months post-Chosen. Everyone deals in their own way.

SPOILERS: Up through season 7.

FEEDBACK: Always welcome, but please be gentle :-)

EMAIL: head_rush100@yahoo.co.uk

THANKS: To Vatwoman for the beta; and to audrey3_71 for the beta and the translations. Any errors are my own.

ARCHIVES: Sure, but please email me first so I know where it’s going.

NOTES: This fic is partly inspired by the bits in ‘Chosen’ where Buffy says, "Every girl who *could* be a slayer, *is* a slayer", and shows a very young girl as an example of this; and also the apparent lack of reaction to everything that was lost in Sunnydale besides the mall. I think both of those needed a bit of follow-through. The story is set in Salzburg, Austria. There is a German/English translation at the end of the story.

DISCLAIMER: All things ‘Buffy’ belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. This was written for fun, not profit, so please don’t sue.

"There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will."

- Shakespeare. ‘Hamlet’, Act V, Sc. II.

It had been exhilarating at first. When he’d stepped onto the freezing train platform at Salzburg, his aches and pains from the last battle seemed to disappear, the formless weight he’d been carrying lifted, and for the first time in forty years, Rupert Giles knew how it felt to be free.

He kept a flat in Bath he’d not inhabited long enough to feel at home in, and had a few old friends scattered about the country. That was fine. He didn’t want to see them, or anyone else he knew. His life had been regulated, his every move scrutinised, from the age of ten, if not before. He’d been at the beck and call of his father, his masters, the Council, and finally his slayer. He was lost, invisible, anonymous, and relieved to be so. He was not running away.

Several weeks after he’d arrived in England, he’d packed a duffel bag, taken the Eurostar to Paris, and from there made his way from one Benedictine monastery to the next. He was, after all, thoroughly unemployed, and couldn’t afford hotels. He didn’t know where he was going, and he didn’t much care. Monasteries offered sanctuary of a sort; at least, they did so as long as you didn’t stop to reflect too deeply. The hospitality of the monks was unflagging; and the inviolable, relentless rhythm of their daily offices was soothing, in its way. Not that he required much soothing. This surprised him, given his current circumstances, but he was, as the Pink Floyd song went, comfortably numb. He stayed only a night or two in each place, not wishing to outstay his welcome; not able to settle in any case. Movement, too, quieted him.

The guestmasters never commented on his limp, but usually would offer to carry his duffel if there were stairs to negotiate. The accommodation varied; some rooms were Spartan, others nearly indistinguishable from a hotel. It didn’t matter; he couldn’t bear to be alone with himself in an enclosed space, and so used the rooms only for sleep. Sleep, or rather, respite, was something he looked forward to from the moment he woke in the mornings.

The design of the monasteries was immediately calming, even to a heathen such as himself. Solid, built to last, and with a regard for simple but effective aesthetic pleasure, as befit institutions whose business was solitude and praise. During the daylight hours Giles walked the grounds. At night he investigated the libraries. When allowed, he earned his keep by helping with the washing-up or doing clerical chores. On one memorable occasion he’d translated an elusive passage from a twelfth century Psalter. It was a singular pleasure to feel the smooth vellum under his hands; to lose himself in communion with a scribe long dead, to bring forth a message that no one’s life depended upon. The atmosphere of these places was more benevolent than anywhere he’d been for a very long time, and the tasks he performed were a meditation.

Now he’d arrived in Salzburg; a city dominated by ‘The Sound of Music’ and Mozart industries, but nonetheless, it appealed. His lack of fluency in German added to his vague feeling of disconnectedness. He walked the narrow alleys and streets of the old town until it got dark, the rain turned to sleet, and sleet turned to snow that stung his face and forced him to remove his glasses. Giles shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and kept walking.

The crowds rapidly thinned, then disappeared altogether but for some children hurling snowballs by the light of the street lamps. Giles turned off the Getreidegasse, the old town’s main street, into a dark side road that led to an attractive little square framed by shops and Salzburg’s equivalent of the local pubs. Light spilled out, and the untrodden snow glowed pale yellow. He paused in a doorway to fumble for his gloves.

He looked down to unbutton his coat, and saw at his feet a dead bird. A small thrush; its grey feathers soaked charcoal, its head at an unnatural angle. It had obviously collided with a window and come to an abrupt, hopefully painless end. It had only just happened; the snow was melting as it landed on the bird’s body. Giles stared.

Without warning, an explosive sob escaped him; the shock enough to make his heart pound. He took a great, gulping breath and felt on the verge of blacking out. He walked twenty feet to a bench, and collapsed onto it. He rested his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands, and closed his eyes. Again and again the sobs wracked him, but few were about to witness it. Those that were quickly skirted around him.

At some point, a bundled-up waitress came out of the bar behind him with a mug of hot chocolate.

"Kommen Sie herein."

When he shook his head, she brushed the snow off the arm of the bench and set the mug down on it. Later she returned, put a glass of brandy in his hand, and briskly, but kindly, patted his shoulder.

Giles’s face was raw with the tears and the cold, but emotion forged a hot shield between him and the world. He undid his coat the rest of the way, took a long swallow of brandy, and choked as the liquid going down coincided with the next wave of sobs coming up. He’d no choice but to give in to the onslaught of grief, anger, guilt, loss, and fear.

Anya’s blistering courage; his frantic struggle to reach her; the agony of the flat side of a bringer’s axe connecting with his leg. Three potentials… slayers… girls… had died in his arms that day: Petra, whose effing and blinding rivalled his own, but slept with a teddy bear called Growly. There was Faisa, who had only just arrived in California and didn’t speak any of the languages he did. She’d entrusted him with her last wish, but he hadn’t understood it; he’d try to find someone who would. He must remember to do that. And then there was Holly, the youngest, who had followed him around like a duckling, though the others teased her mercilessly. She’d declared she’d rather be a watcher than a slayer. He’d held all of them as they’d made their way from this world to the next in fright and pain. Afterwards, of course, came the phone calls to their families.

Was there anyone he could have saved?

Then there was Angelus, who still invaded his dreams with memories of weakness and betrayal. He could come back at any time. He thought of Jenny, Joyce, and Tara; their final resting place a crater eight miles wide.

He shifted, and the pain in his leg made him catch his breath. It was going through one of its periodic spasms, and soon he wouldn’t be able to walk on it. He had to get up and move.

Which he did, hanging onto the back of the bench and standing on one leg. He lowered his foot to the ground, tested his weight on it, and caught his breath again as a sharp pain flashed from knee to hip. He froze, cursing silently.

He flexed the leg a bit, and soon it settled into a sharp ache rather than a sharp pain. Giles dug into his pocket and found the bit of paper with a smudgy map and the address of the hostel by St Peter’s Kirche printed on it. He began to make his way through the near-deserted streets. The snowstorm muffled all the usual sounds of the city, and the dim orange streetlamps added to the feeling of unreality. Snow melted off them, sparks raining down.

Was there anyone he could have saved?

The wind caught up with him as he rounded a corner, needling him through his coat. He shivered, and shrugged deeper into it, closing in on himself.

The walking eased him a little. Up ahead he could see a church spire, and opted to take a short cut through the car park rather than circumnavigate the expansive property by way of the path. The little iron gate was open, and the snow beyond it well-trodden, so he supposed it was all right to go in this way. As he closed the gate behind him, he noticed the wrought-iron rendition of a lamb, and wished he could appreciate it as it had been meant to be appreciated.

The car park was still quite full. As Giles walked between the rows, following in the footsteps of those who had gone before, he noticed that the footprints looked… wrong. They did not continue in a straight line. They were far apart, as if made by someone who was running rather than walking. They doubled back on themselves, dodged in and out between parked cars, and occasionally clustered in wide circles of disturbed snow. Children playing? No, the prints were too large. He looked closer. One set was large, the other small. A chase, probably. A fight, perhaps. An attack? Giles stood in the centre of one of the scuffed-up circles and bent down. No sign of blood.

Giles stood up, and again surveyed the area. His stomach lurched. There was a body on the ground, mostly hidden between two parked cars. He looked around, but no one appeared to be about. The attackers must have fled.

***

Slowly, Giles approached. When he had a full view of the victim, he stopped. It was a child. A girl, about eleven or twelve from the look of it. She wore a long pink overcoat with a furry trim, and white boots. Christ. On the ground beside her was a stake. Giles stepped closer. On the snow around her, and now, he could see, on her coat, was a fine dusting of ash.

Right. He looked around again. Where the fuck was her watcher?

He knelt beside her, took off one of his gloves, and pressed his fingers to her neck. Yes. There it was. Not gone yet, then. He brushed the hair out of her eyes and gently lifted her eyelid with his thumb. She shuddered and gasped, groping clumsily for the stake. Giles stayed her hand as non-threateningly as he could, and wracked his brain for some rudimentary German. "It’s all right, I’m going to help you," he managed, or some approximation thereof. "Where is your watcher?"

The child continued to stare up at him with unfocused, frightened blue eyes, and obviously hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. "Do you understand me? I’m English, and my German is not very good." He smiled apologetically.

"I speak a little," she said in hesitant English. "We learn it at school."

He nodded. "My name is Rupert Giles," he said in German, resolved not to tax her any more than necessary. "What’s yours?"

"Hanna."

"What is your last name?" he asked. Whatever happened, he’d have to give it to the authorities so that they could contact her parents.

"Adler."

"What is your telephone number?" She told him, and he wrote it down.

Her dead-white face suddenly creased in pain. Fuck. She had to be seriously injured somewhere.

"Open your mouth," he said, demonstrating. She did, and he was not surprised to find blood inside.

"May I see?" he said, gesturing to her coat, keeping his tone light and authoritative, reassuring her that an adult had come to take charge, and everything would be all right. Perhaps she was still innocent enough to believe it. It appeared to work. She nodded. He unfastened her pink overcoat and opened it. There was no obvious blood on her white sweater.

Giles pressed gently on her stomach and she swallowed a scream, a real little slayer. Uselessly, he apologised. She didn’t make any more noise, though tears coursed down her face. Stoic to the last, even as children. Anya had been right. These potentials, no, *slayers*, were little more than cannon fodder without protection and the proper training, especially at this age. They’d never been called so young before. He kept his examination minimal and rapid, but by the time he was finished, he was certain she had extensive, if not fatal, internal injuries.

Her teeth chattered. She was in shock, and soon she’d be hypothermic as well.

He took off his coat and put it over her. "I’m going to call an ambulance," he said in English, forgetting. "I’ll be back in two minutes."

"Lassen Sie mich nicht allein!" She grabbed at him as he started to rise.

"I will come back," he said slowly, gently prying her hand from his leg, making sure she understood.

She nodded miserably, and he took off, giving no concession to his leg. By the time he reached the phone booth around the corner, he was limping badly. He made the call - thank goodness they had someone there that spoke English - and ran back to her.

Giles removed his scarf and folded it under her head, then worked his warm gloves onto her hands. "They’ll be here very soon." As he began to move away, her hand closed around his, and hung on.

Her grip was just like Petra, Holly, and Faisa’s had been; the way they’d clung to him as though he was their anchor to this world.

"Ich will zu meiner Mama."

She’d gone back to German. Probably not a good sign. "Mama", he understood. "She’ll come to the hospital. I’m here now. I’ll stay with you till your mama comes."

Hanna grimaced in pain again, squeezing his hand, breathing hard. He talked to her softly, though he doubted she understood much, if any of it. It didn’t matter. At least she wasn’t alone.

"You fought a vampire? A monster with pointed teeth?" he said, when her pain seemed to abate again. He had to be sure, and was unlikely to have any time alone with her once the ambulance arrived.

She could not speak her confirmation, as though she still could not believe it, but she nodded.

"Was it the first time you did this?"

A nod.

"And nobody has shown you how to do it?"

She shook her head slightly.

"You were very brave." She had been, to stand alone in the dark and fight a creature three times her size. Perhaps she was already aware that she was special; that she was at least somewhat equipped for this task, or else what had she been doing out at this time of night? Perhaps there was some other explanation. In any case, the vampire would have been drawn to her, sensed she was a slayer, and been delighted to have discovered her to be a child.

It was unlikely that she’d survive, but if she did, she deserved all the help she could get. "Hanna, you’re not the only person who fights vampires, and there are people who can help you, teach you. They’re called watchers. I used to be one." She looked utterly blank. She didn’t understand. How could she?

Gusts of frigid wind drove the falling snow into his sweater, where it soaked in and chilled him further. His own teeth chattered with the cold now. He unbuckled the address label from his duffel bag, and tucked it into her coat pocket. He could only hope that, as the coat wasn’t ruined, the hospital would give it back to her. If she lived. "When you’re well, call me, and I’ll find someone who can teach you what you need to know; so that next time you’ll be better prepared." He winced, hearing the echo of another girl’s voice. *I think you’ve taught me everything I need to know.*

"No more," she said, so faintly he could barely hear it. "No fighting."

"I understand. But you might feel differently later." If she lived to be attacked again. She might recover. She would have slayer healing abilities, and children often survived the most incredible injuries, didn’t they?

She shuddered violently and began making low cries.

"Hang on, Hanna." Giles’s heart hammered. He strained to hear sirens, but there were none. Where the fuck *were* they? He could hear something. He listened, and heard the piercing, unearthly notes of a boy treble singing *Vespera* in St Peter’s. Almost as soon as he had registered the sound, another one obliterated it. The ambulance. Thank God. Hanna stirred; she was saying something, and he looked back down to her. "I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you."

She gathered herself, and spoke again. "Will it… get… better?"

‘Better’? Did she mean ‘easier’? Was she talking about the injury, or her calling? "Yes," he lied smoothly.

Her eyes closed just as the ambulance pulled into the car park. Giles hauled himself up painfully, and directed them over. All was van-noise and light then. The paramedics both squeezed into the gap between the cars, blocking his view. They worked quickly to get her into the van where it was warm. Their backs were turned. They were focused on Hanna. If he ran, they wouldn’t waste time chasing him. It was just a thought.

One of the paramedics threw a thick wool blanket round his shoulders and fired questions at him, none of which he understood, but he gave them Hanna’s name and her home phone number, and tried to indicate the nature of her injury. As far as they knew, he might be her father; they did not question his accompanying her, nor did they express concern at his holding her free hand the whole, interminable, breakneck journey to the hospital.

***

On arrival, Hanna was bundled out of the ambulance, and into the emergency room. One of the paramedics gave Giles his coat back, and stopped him following them through the swing doors into the treatment area, indicating that he should wait down the hall. Hanna was unconscious anyway. Giles nodded. He watched them disappear down the corridor, and turned to leave. He’d not reached the door before he felt a touch on his arm. He stopped, and found himself face to face with what had to be Mr and Mrs Adler.

Shit.

"You were with our daughter. With Hanna," the woman said in shaky English. She indicated one of the paramedics filling out a form at the desk. "They told us you are English."

"Yes."

"What happened?" Mrs Adler looked near to collapse herself.

What could he tell them? Sooner or later, if she survived, he might have to speak to them about Hanna being trained, but now was not the moment. "I was walking through the car park at St Peter’s Kirche, and I saw Hanna lying on the ground. She’d been attacked. I called the ambulance, and stayed with her till it came."

"You saved her life," said Mrs Adler. She took his face in her hands and kissed him on either cheek. "Thank you. We can never repay you." She put her arms around him and hugged him hard. Giles reciprocated politely, though unselfconsciously embracing strangers had never been his forte.

"I’m glad I was there." He was.

Her father was taking out his wallet, offering all the money he had. He’d no other way to express his thanks. Giles was glad for Hanna that her parents were so loving; he wondered what it would do to them to lose her, now or later.

"I’m afraid I must be going," he said. "I have a train to catch." At this time of night? Brilliant, Giles.

"Please, we must know your name; how we can thank you."

Giles shook his head. "Really, that’s very kind of you, but it’s not necessary. My name is Rupert Giles. Hanna has my telephone number and address in her coat pocket. When we were talking, waiting for the ambulance, I asked her to write to me when she got better, to let me know she was all right." Mrs Adler nodded, speechless, and a tear ran down her cheek. She understood, or thought she did. "Please just let me know what happens."

He told the stricken parents this so that they could let him know how things turned out with their terribly injured child. He did not tell them this as insurance against Mrs Adler finding his details in her daughter’s coat pockets and becoming alarmed; thus preventing Hanna from contacting him to be trained for a life that promised nothing but duty and pain.

Christ. There was no escape. Wherever he went, there were lies to tell to good people, were vampires, were slayers, were children needing guidance and protection.

A surgeon emerged from the treatment area and called Hanna’s name. The Adlers reached for one another’s hands and went over to him. Giles waited as they were briefed, trying to gauge from tone and reaction whether the news was hopeful. They signed some forms. When the surgeon left them, the Adlers went to sink down on the hard plastic chairs.

"She is having an… operation," said her father. "There was so much damage…" he broke off.

Giles nodded. "She’s a strong girl. She’ll fight." He cringed at the choice of words. "I must go now," he said. "My train. Please. Let me know what happens."

They nodded, their shock sinking in, putting a natural end to the conversation. Hanna’s parents shook his hand and hugged him again, entirely unaware of how near he was to collapse now, between the spent emotion and adrenaline. He walked out the main entrance and was relieved to find a taxi rank there.

His map was soaked and unreadable now, and he couldn’t remember the name of the hostel, so asked only for St Peter’s Kirche. When he got out of the cab, he checked his watch. 12.43am. He wouldn’t get into the hostel, or anywhere else, now, and it was still bloody snowing. In despair, Giles turned to the large Baroque church. A faint light glowed in the windows. Perhaps he could just wait inside until morning. It was either that, or trek back down to the train station, and he really wasn’t sure he’d make it. Still, he approached with the utmost reluctance.

***

He pushed the heavy, worn wooden door open and entered the foyer. It wasn’t much warmer in there, and there was nowhere to sit, so he went through the next set of doors, into the church itself. It was cathedral-like inside; soaring, vaulted ceilings, frescoes, stained glass; all the accoutrements of a church that had weathered nearly a thousand years, and numerous architectural styles; some better advised than others. It was a bit warmer in there, or at least the candlelight gave that impression, and Giles lowered himself onto a pew. The evening had well and truly caught up with him now; he rested his crossed arms on the back of the pew in front, and put his head down. If there was a God, he might question what right Giles had to be sheltering in His house. Irony seemed to be the order of the day.

***

The next thing Giles knew, someone was gently shaking his shoulder, asking yet more questions he didn’t understand and couldn’t answer. He looked up into the worried, but not hostile, face of a priest in his late middle-age.

"Du bist hier willkommen, mein Sohn. Ich habe Dich vorhin schon gesehen, als Du mit dem kleinen Mädchen in den Krankenwagen gestiegen bist. Ich habe für sie gebetet."

Giles shook his head apologetically. "English." He was too tired to make any more effort tonight, regardless of the consequences.

The priest nodded, his expression of concern unabated. "No English," he said, regretfully.

Giles nodded, and waited to be shown the door. These days, churches couldn’t afford to be too trusting at night. Instead, the priest squeezed his shoulder gently, and left him alone.

Giles lay down on his side on the wooden pew. It was impossibly narrow and uncomfortable. He sat up again with a deep sigh and closed his eyes, taking advantage of the shelter, at least, while he could. Just as he was drifting off, the priest returned. In his hand was a tray with a pot of coffee, and what appeared to be some leftover cakes and biscuits. He grinned ruefully and shrugged, as if to say, ‘sorry, it’s the best I could do’. He moved off, indicating Giles should follow, and led him through a door off to the left, into a more modern addition.

They passed a couple of meeting rooms, and arrived at a small, simply but comfortably furnished office. The light was already on. In the corner by the window was a sofa with a pillow and some blankets on it. The priest indicated it, making it clear that Giles could spend the night. He pushed a stack of books and papers aside on the large, polished wooden desk, and set the tray on it. The smell of fresh coffee filled the small room.

"Gute Nacht," he said, "Friede sei mit Dir." He left, closing the door on Giles’s stunned expression.

Giles kicked off his shoes, sank down on the sofa, and was asleep in seconds.

***

The next morning Giles rose early. He thanked the priest profusely and, obviously, incomprehensibly, and left as generous a donation as he could manage on his way out.

He would go back to England soon.

But not to wait for Hanna’s call.

End.

23/1/05

Translation:

"Kommen Sie herein." = "Come inside."

"Lassen Sie mich nicht allein!" = "Don’t leave me!"

"Ich will zu meiner Mama." = "I want my mama."

"Du bist hier willkommen, mein Sohn. Ich habe Dich vorhin schon gesehen, als Du mit dem kleinen Mädchen in den Krankenwagen gestiegen bist. Ich habe für sie gebetet." = "You’re welcome here, my son. I saw you earlier, getting into the ambulance with the little girl. I’ve been praying for her."

"Gute Nacht," he said, "Friede sei mit Dir." = "Good night," he said, "peace be with you."