Author: Sandra Pascoe

Pairing: None - there’s a turn-up!

Rating: FRT

Disclaimer: Giles doesn’t belong to me…I’m only borrowing him. Can I keep him...please?

Spoilers: I don’t think there are any …

Setting: When Giles returns to England in S6

Notes: The Museum of Ancient Antiquities doesn’t exist - I just sort of slotted it into Bath. Thoughts are in Italics. Oh and the Latin quote will be translated at the end.

Dedication/Thanks: This fic is for Pam for introducing me to the joys and delights of Ice Hockey (Go St Louis Blues!)… and also for any other B5 fans out there.

Translation of the single remaining piece of a scroll dating from the 2nd Century AD:

The original segment of this scroll is currently housed in the British Museum.

The final piece, he thought, gazing down at the incomplete metal sphere on the table before him. He rummaged in his satchel, pulling out a small, bejewelled, metallic shape and gazing at it with something akin to awe. How many years has this taken? My grandfather found the first two pieces … my father the next two … and the fifth and final piece I have here in my hand. Ten years of searching … of begging … of borrowing … of … sacrifice. He swallowed nervously, took a step forward and, with a shaking hand, slotted the final piece into the sphere. He gazed down, watching with bated breath.

"And so it begins," he intoned.

"Someone has been watching WAY too much Babylon 5," came an amused voice from behind him.

"This IS an important moment," he smiled, turning to face the young brunette who stood at his shoulder.

"Sure Alistair … of course it is," she grinned. "I mean, look - a metal ball! Well done, you now have a metal ball."

"My dear girl, this is much more than a ‘metal ball’ as you so quaintly put it."

"Sure Alistair … whatever you say, sweetie," the smile slipped from her face. "Um … is it supposed to be glowing like that?"

Alistair swung around to gaze at the sphere. "To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure precisely WHAT it’s supposed to do…"

"You’re kidding me, right?"

"Um … no," Alistair’s eyes never left the now intensely glowing sphere. "Grandfather spent years researching it. All he really found were snippets of legends, tantalising but not terribly informative. Basically, all I know is that it’s supposed to be a gift from the Gods." Alistair paused briefly then continued. "Apparently it promises immortality."

"Immortality? Is that what this has all been about? Is that what you want?" She looked at him in disbelief.

"Oh come on, Emma," Alistair scoffed, "you know me better than that."

"Do I?" She remarked. "I’m not…" She broke off, staring at the sphere, which now seemed to be pulsating with energy. "I think we should get out of here."

"Nonsense, my dear girl. Nothing to worry about." The words had barely left his mouth before he was suddenly aware of a change in the atmosphere. Everything seemed to be slowing. He turned to face Emma and it felt like he was struggling through treacle; he tried to speak but couldn’t form the words; he couldn’t lift his hand … couldn’t move at all. Then he felt it … a probing in his mind … something forcing it’s way in … thrusting … invading. He tried to struggle, to push it back, but it was like trying to turn back the ocean with a ladle. Nothing was sacred … nothing was private. This Thing was steamrollering through his mind, searching, seeking, hell-bent on finding something …but what, thought Alistair, what did it want? He was aware of blood pouring from his nose and ears and was horrified to see the same happening to Emma. His vision suddenly blurred and a stabbing pain went through his head as the intensity of the search through his thoughts and memories grew and grew. He sensed a quiet desperation from this Thing, there was purpose and method to its actions, but it obviously wasn’t finding what it wanted. As it grew more desperate, as the pain in his head worsened, Alistair closed his eyes … his body wracked with silent screams. I’m dying, thought Alistair, I can’t hold on. He felt himself slipping away … the pain suddenly lessening and a feeling of almost contentment settling on him. A brief surge of sorrow and regret came from the thing in his mind and, just as Alistair’s tenuous hold on life failed, two words echoed in his head:

"I’m sorry."

The light from the sphere faded and it sat on the table, appearing lifeless once more. Two bodies lay on the floor … each blood-covered face screwed up in a rictus of terror. A brief pulse emanated from the sphere as it examined the memories it had extracted. That’s it … it flared with hope … that’s what I’m looking for. I seek The One: The One who was … The One who is … The One who will be.

The forgotten man of academia, that’s what I am, thought Rupert Giles as he drove steadily along the small country lanes. No - that’s what I WAS. The reaction to his return to England had surprised him and, whilst he expected no fanfares or brass bands, he had found it rather gratifying to realise that he was still remembered. It had only taken a couple of weeks for friends and acquaintances to start getting in touch…putting out feelers…seeing if he was the same man that he was before he left. He had met with a few of them, finding himself disappointed to see that he could no longer relate to them - that they no longer had anything in common. Giles was out of touch with a lot of the gossip and goings-on in the academic and historical worlds and he found it more than a bit difficult to explain where he had been for the last six years…let alone what he had been doing. So he drifted away from them, his friends making little attempt to stop this stranger that he had become. He sank into a kind of despair, alone and out of touch, parted from those he loved, drinking more and more. Soon, there were no knocks on the door … no telephone calls … no letters except bills. He had been well and truly forgotten … or so he thought. Then, six weeks after his return to England, an urgent hammering of his doorknocker had woken him from his drunken slumber. He opened the door and focussed, somewhat blearily, on the figure standing before him.

"Hello Rupert."

"Q … Quentin?" Giles was later convinced that the sight of Quentin Travers standing on his doorstep had sobered him up instantly.

"Well," remarked Quentin evenly, "if Mohammed won’t come to the mountain…"

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Wrong, Rupert. You owe the Council an explanation." Travers pushed past Giles, walked into the lounge and sat down on the sofa, looking expectantly at Giles. "Rupert … why are you here?"

Giles folded his arms and glared down at Travers. "I owe the Council nothing."

"Well, that’s not entirely correct, is it?" Travers raised an eyebrow. "The Council has a right to know…"

"The Council has no right at all!" Giles snapped, "and neither do you."

"Well I won’t dispute the latter," Travers smiled slightly. "I know, Rupert, that you consider me an enemy and, maybe, at one time I was. But I forgot something important … something which you helped me to remember."

Giles looked doubtfully down at Travers, the question clear in his eyes.

Travers sighed. "The Council is in existence to support and assist the Slayer … not to control her. Not to use her as a mere weapon." He looked up at Giles. "For centuries the Council used the Slayer - without thought, without conscience. Of course, whilst the Council’s attitude changed after Sir John Aubyn took over in the 11^th Century, in recent times we’ve reverted back to that original definition. And that’s wrong … it’s very wrong."

"And what brought about this rapid change of heart?" Giles scoffed, dropping heavily into an armchair.

"Recently I had occasion to search through some of the old Watcher Diaries. Something I hadn’t done for years." Travers paused and then a smile flickered across his face. "The feel of the pages … the smell … it brought back memories … a lot of memories … and most of them were not good. Anyway … it was what was IN the diaries that was so interesting. Rupert, do you realise that each and every one of those Watchers - and bear in mind that some dated from around the 12^th Century - all sounded like you talking about Buffy? Each fiercely loyal and protective … especially towards their Slayer. The big difference though was that the Council worked as a highly efficient support network, backing up the Watcher and Slayer, not trying to control them."

"Oh come on, Quentin. You knew that already … we all bloody did!"

"There’s a difference between knowing something … and believing that it’s the right way to be. For years, I believed that the Slayer was merely a weapon at the Council’s disposal. She was not a person … she was an object. I firmly believed that, Rupert, I had no doubts, no questions … I was convinced that I was right."

"And you’re telling me after all you’ve done … a glance through some diaries has changed you?"

"It was more than a glance," frowned Travers, "and it was only partly that. One of the other things that convinced me I was wrong was you. You were always rather passionate about your beliefs and Buffy’s remarkable achievements only cemented that fact. The parallels between you and those old Watchers were rather obvious … and for the first time I started to doubt myself."

"I see," Giles rubbed his eyes tiredly and Travers looked at him sympathetically.

"What’s going on, Rupert?"

Giles sighed as he felt all the fight suddenly drain out of him.

"I had to leave her…for her own good." The floodgates had been released then. Giles found himself opening up to Travers, telling him about the hurt, neglect and loneliness of the past few years. He told him how concerned he was about them all - Willow and Buffy in particular - and how, after everything that had happened, he simply could not have stayed. Travers expression never changed and when Giles had finished, he merely sighed.

"Rupert … I trust your judgement on this." Travers smiled ruefully. "Maybe I should have trusted it before."

Giles looked up in disbelief, no longer seeing an adversary but an old, tired man.

"I’ve made mistakes but then … I suppose we all have. I’m trying to make up for it. Yes, maybe I should have listened to you … but," his expression hardened and, with a flash of the Travers Giles knew so well, he continued, "you should have tried harder to convince me."

Travers looked around the room and sighed, getting to his feet.

"You are worth more than this. Find a purpose again … don’t let ‘them’ beat you."

Giles smiled, bringing himself out of his reverie as he negotiated his way around Bath. That was the turning point, he thought, that was when I put myself out there again … and not long after there had been the phone call from the Museum of Ancient Antiquities. They had needed some documents translating and heard he might be available. He had thrown himself into the work, earning compliments from the Curator who had offered him a full time consultancy position. Giles pulled into the car park, frowning at the police cars and ambulance at the Museum entrance. Not another break in, he thought, grabbing his briefcase and getting out of the car. He locked the car and walked slowly to the Museum, studying the buzz of activity near the entrance. More serious than a simple burglary, mused Giles as he noticed a couple of journalists taking notes.

"I’m sorry, sir. You can’t go any further."

Giles looked up to see a rather burly police constable blocking his path.

"But…" Giles didn’t want to let it go without a token protest. "I work here."

"Then you’ll have to use the back entrance, sir."

"What’s happened?"

The Constable shook his head. "I’m not at liberty to say, sir. Now, please move along."

Giles nodded and walked towards the back entrance, realising he would get no information from the taciturn Constable. Circumventing the police cars, Giles smiled as he noticed a familiar figure leaning casually against a wall and watching the buzz of activity.

"Morning Henry," Giles stopped alongside the tall figure, following his gaze back towards the Museum entrance. "Any idea what’s happened."

"Oh … morning Rupert," Henry Rochester grinned cheerfully, looking, thought Giles, for all the world like a recalcitrant schoolboy on a day trip. "Wonderful isn’t it? About time the old place was shaken up a bit."

Giles couldn’t help smiling in return. Henry Rochester had an infectious grin and his cheerful nature made him a well-liked Assistant Curator. He was a tall man with a shock of unruly grey hair that refused to submit to any kind of modern styling technique. His glasses were habitually perched on the end of his nose, his short-sighted eyes peering over the top of them giving him a permanently confused and befuddled expression. Despite being a somewhat organised person, his absent-mindedness had become the stuff of legends and various items that Henry was working on had a habit of turning up in the strangest places. Giles smiled as he remembered going to make a cup of tea and finding an original 12^th Century engraving in the fridge.

"It’s murder, old boy," Henry’s eyes gleamed excitedly, "at least that’s what those journo chappies say."

Murder … Giles felt his heart lurch in his chest, his mind automatically running through a variety of prophecies and demonic curses. Do I attract this? Am I some kind of walking Hellmouth? He sighed, mentally scolding himself. Stop it right now - there ARE things in this world that are not caused by supernatural or paranormal means … it’s probably just your run-of-the-mill murder. Humanity causes quite enough pain on it’s own without looking to the occult for an answer.

"Any idea who?" Giles asked and Henry shrugged.

"Well I’ve done a quick head count," he replied, "and we’re all present and accounted for…which I admit is something of a relief."

Giles nodded, his attention caught by the various comings and goings at the front entrance. It all looks very efficient, he thought, and surprisingly, very normal. Normal, he mused, maybe the wrong word, but it’s not vampires, werewolves or demons. This is people … ordinary, run of the mill people. Going about their lives, doing their jobs, unencumbered by the more … unusual … aspects of the world. As it should be, thought Giles, as it SHOULD be.

"Come on, Rupert," Henry’s voice cut into his thoughts. "Our Lord and Master wishes to address his humble minions."

Nicholas Goldsmith, Curator of the Museum, sighed with relief as the two detectives left his office. How do they manage to make you feel guilty … even when you’ve done nothing wrong? Part of their training, I guess, he thought as he stood and gathered together some papers. The shrill ringing of the telephone cut into his thoughts and he cursed under his breath.

"I told that damned woman I wanted no calls…" he picked up the phone. "Mrs Jones, did I not tell you that…"

"I’m sorry, sir," the young, agitated voice interrupted, "but Mr Travers was VERY insistent."

Nicholas groaned inwardly. Great, he thought, that’s all I need.

"Very well, Mrs Jones," Nicholas kept his voice even. "Put him through."

There was a brief pause, followed by an audible click and Nicholas took a deep breath.

"Good morning, Mr Travers," he said, continuing quickly, "I really do not have the time to talk at the moment."

"I’m sure you don’t," replied Travers, sounding almost amused. "The discovery of two bodies in the Museum must be keeping you remarkably busy."

"How did you…?" Nicholas paused and sighed. "On second thoughts, I don’t want to know."

"Well, that’s not important," continued Travers. "Now, I want you to listen carefully. I want you to co-operate fully with Rupert should he decide to look into these murders himself."

"But why…?"

"Just do as he asks. Give him whatever he wants." There was a pause from the other end of the phone and then a softly muttered, "this could be just what he needs."

"Fine," replied Nicholas, "whatever you want. Now, I really DO have to go."

Nicholas felt a surge of relief as Travers muttered a "goodbye" and hung up. He put the phone down and frowned. Why on Earth would Rupert want to investigate murders? I must have another look at his file later, he thought, but first things first: staff meeting.

"Was that entirely necessary?" The slightly irritated tone of voice caused Quentin Travers to glance up sharply at the old, emaciated looking gentleman sitting opposite him.

"Yes it was," he replied evenly. "You know what Alistair Butler was searching for … there’s always the possibility he found it."

"Yes, yes," said the older man, waving a hand. "I do not dispute that it would be best for us all if the artefact were to be firmly under the Council’s auspices. However, I DO dispute your choice of using Rupert Giles for this."

"Why? He’s the perfect man for the job."

"That’s rubbish, Quentin, and you know it. There are people here far more qualified than he is. People who would be loyal … whom we could trust. Rupert Giles is a loose cannon … he always has been."

"People loyal to YOU, Gerald," remarked Travers. "People YOU could trust."

"I see," Gerald Montague smiled. "So you decided to use Rupert merely to stop me? Or did you decide to fight back and use him to boost your waning popularity here?"

"Popularity means nothing," Travers shrugged. "The important thing is who sits in this chair … and it will be a cold day in hell before you find yourself here, Gerald."

Detective Sergeant Roberts skimmed quickly through the personnel files of the Museum employees. Nothing, he thought, why is there never anything out of the ordinary with these people? He sighed, put down one file and picked up another.

"Rupert Giles," he read and opened the folder. "Let’s see how boring you are."

He studied the file for a few moments before smiling slightly and sitting back.

"Well, well," he muttered. He glanced around, beckoning to a young man who was precariously balancing a tray of coffee in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other. The young man sighed, managing to put the tray and plate down without incident before wandering over to Roberts.

"Yes, Guv?"

"Here," Roberts handed him the file. "Get hold of the Sunnydale Police Department in California … I want everything they’ve got on this man."

"You know," remarked Henry Rochester as he and Giles made their way towards their respective offices, "that man is obscenely efficient."

"Isn’t that why the Board appointed him?" Giles grinned and Henry chuckled.

"My dear chap, the Board appointed him because he is a quite remarkable bean counter. He really has no interest in the work we do here and he wouldn’t know a Pilum from a Gladius. However, I will concede that despite the incredible increase in paperwork, this place is finally paying its way."

"He’s certainly a very good negotiator," replied Giles with a wry smile and Henry clapped a hand on Giles’ shoulder.

"Got you for a song, did he?" He grinned as Giles nodded. "Yes … he did the same with poor Alistair."

"Did you know him well?" Giles glanced at Henry, who shrugged.

"I don’t think anyone really knew Alistair … not completely. Obsessive type … too consumed with his search for that flibbertigibbet to pay any attention to the real world."

"Flibbertigibbet?"

"Some mythological thing that is supposed to promise immortality. It’s never been proven to exist but Alistair’s grandfather and father both wasted their lives searching for any trace of it … and consequently, Alistair did the same."

"So, he was employed here?"

"Well," Henry frowned, "yes and no. I believe the deal was that we paid him a certain amount and subsequently we had first choice on his finds. You see, he would concentrate on archaeology for a while…until he had enough to sell to raise funds for his obsession. As part of the deal, he used the museum as his base of operations so to speak."

"And the young lady?"

"Oh smitten, my dear chap, positively smitten. Not that Alistair noticed, of course. The man could be incredibly obtuse at times."

Giles stopped as he reached his office door.

"Well, I’ll see you later, Henry."

"Have fun, Rupert," smiled Henry as he walked off down the corridor. Giles watched his retreating back for a moment before calling after him.

"Henry? What was the name of that thing Alistair Butler was searching for?"

Henry turned, a frown on his face.

"Oh lord," he replied, "buggered if I know. Never paid much attention to his ramblings. I might be able to find a reference to it though. I’ll have a look later."

Travers waited until the door closed behind Gerald Montague before sitting back and throwing his pen onto the desk. That man makes my flesh crawl, he thought with a slight shudder, and if he ever gets control here then it will mean the destruction of us all. A soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in," Travers sat up and waited expectantly. The door opened and a thickset, middle aged man with greying hair entered. Travers smiled.

"Hello Bernard."

"Well done, Quentin," chuckled Bernard Hodgkinson, "I’ve just seen Gerald storming down the corridor with a face like thunder. What did you say to him?"

"Oh," shrugged Travers, "we just had a discussion about Rupert Giles."

Bernard grinned and sat down. "That would explain it then."

Travers nodded, gazing down at the desk and Bernard frowned.

"What’s wrong? Don’t say you’re having doubts?"

"Yes," replied Travers, "I am." He looked up at Bernard. "What if we’ve translated it wrong? What if we’re simply reading too much into it?"

"We’re not," said Bernard. "In the circumstances, it’s the only interpretation we COULD make."

Bernard took a piece of paper out of his pocket and spread it out on the desk.

"Evil will come from within," he read, "and should it reach the highest level the old ways will prevail and the tower will fall. The phoenix will rise from the ashes and the battle between old and new will be joined. Only one shall survive the merging."

"Yes, thank you for that, Bernard," remarked Travers with a slight smile. "I DO know the prophecy by heart."

"Well then let’s go over it again," said Bernard. "The first section is obvious: ‘Evil will come from within and should it reach the highest level the old ways will prevail and the tower will fall’. The evil within is Gerald … and we all know he wants to return to the old ways - that of seeing the Slayer as a weapon, a tool. ‘The tower will fall’ is a direct reference to the destruction of the Council that will no doubt follow."

Travers sighed and nodded. "You know ... that is VERY annoying."

"What is?" Frowned Bernard.

"That all these so-called prophets write in such cryptic terms. Why can’t they say what they mean? It would make life so much easier."

"But not half as much fun," grinned Bernard and Travers smiled slightly.

"Alright … carry on."

"Right," continued Bernard, "the second section. ‘The phoenix will rise from the ashes and the battle between old and new will be joined.’ The phoenix is Rupert Giles … rising from the ashes of his old life. He’s always been a firm advocate of the ‘new’ way - that of working with the Slayer, of supporting her, helping her - so it makes sense that he and Gerald will ‘face off’ so to speak." Bernard glanced up at Travers. "The final part: ‘only one shall survive the merging.’ That must be a reference to Vulcan’s Bane."

"Yes and the problem is that we’re not sure whether that should read ‘merging’ … it could also be a number of other possibilities. Couple that with the fact that we don’t know what Vulcan’s Bane actually does … and we could be sending Rupert to his death or worse."

"Can you think of another way?"

"No, I can’t," replied Travers irritably. "We’ve set the wheels in motion and now there’s nothing we can do. I take it you’ve put a stop to the Police investigation and given Rupert a bit of a push in the right direction?"

"Oh yes," smiled Bernard, "that’s all under control."