THURSDAYS CHILD - PART TWO

Setting: Pre Season 1
Rating: Hmmm….A strong "FRM", I think.
Summary: After Ethan, Eyghon, and the death of Randall, young Rupert Giles is perched on the edge. Can he be saved, even if he doesn't want to be?
Disclaimer: Joss, Joss, Mutant Enemy, the usual suspects. Flame me if you wish, but don't sue!
Feedback: I need it! I want it! I gotta have it! I'll beg…I get SO depressed if I don't get fed! Pretty please? Kapantaleo@aol.com
Thank you: Antonia, for being my beta, even when you're sick! *Offers tea and chicken soup. * And Michamon, for being my test audience and feeding the ficcy beast. You ladies rock!




Martin Robson moved through the dark hallways of the warehouse carefully, avoiding refuse and debris strewn on the floor and ignoring the skittering of rats that fled from the light of the lantern Eddings carried before them, dimly lighting the way. Getting in had been surprisingly easy. Lady Ruth Wickfield was, among other things, apparently a magic-user to be contended with. She had taken out the guards with a sleep spell, then planted a small crossbow bolt directly in the center of Edding's hand. This had convinced the warlock of the severity of his predicament without any tedious, long-winded preamble. Still, Robson was keeping a pistol pressed to the base of the warlock's skull, just to be on the safe side as they made their way through the semi-darkness. Lady Wickfield brought up the rear, silent and carrying an air of deadly competence that calmed Robson's jangled nerves.

"In here." Eddings whispered, nodding at a door. Robson pressed him against the wall next to the doorway. A look exchanged between himself and Lady Wickfield, and she moved to take his place, holding her crossbow up under the warlock's chin with cold efficiency.

Robson moved to the door and put his eye to a crack in the moldy, cheap plywood.
Inside was a bare, tiny room, lit by an oil lantern on the floor. Next to the lantern he saw several packets of what he assumed were drugs, a hypodermic needle, a spoon and a book of matches. There was clothing scattered around the room, and just beyond the lantern was a pile of filthy rags that served as a bed. Two figures were on their knees on the pallet, up against the wall. One was Giles, his thin, wasted chest against the wall, his face contorted with pain as the figure behind him bucked into him brutally. The second figure was bigger, covered in angry, red burn scars, and in full game face. As Robson watched in horror, it licked one of several puncture wounds on its' victim's back, then plunged it's fangs in again, still thrusting savagely.

Shit.

Robson looked over his shoulder at the small, silver-haired figure beside him.

Oh, shit…

He pulled a stake from his pocket, and gestured at Lady Wickfield. The message was clear. 'Stay here.' She looked puzzled, but nodded.

For a rather portly, awkward young man, Robson could still be swift and silent when he needed to be. And he very much needed to be so now.

He was through the door and on top of the vampire before it sensed his presence. So intent on its' pleasure, it never heard him approaching. It sensed the warmth of the living and heard the new heartbeat only an instant before the stake plunged home, and he turned to dust.

Ripper fell over as the body pinning him to the wall and hammering into to him disappeared. He floundered in the bed of rags for a moment, shocked, frightened, and trying to get his muddled brain to understand what was going on.

Robson went down on one knee, so that the lantern light illuminated his features.
"Giles? Giles! Easy, old chap. I'm here to get you out."

"What the fuck?" He blinked owlishly in the dim light. "Robson?"

"That's right old man. Are you all right?"

Robson was taken completely by surprise as Ripper scrambled to his knees and scuttled over to the drugs and needle next to the lantern. With shaking hands he grabbed the packets up, a ghastly look of delight on his face. "It's here…Oh, thank God…" he muttered, grabbing the spoon and fumbling to open the packet.

In the hallway just beyond the door, Ruth Wickfield stood, frozen in place. The door had swung open when Robson had charged through. She had seen all. She released Eddings. "Go." she said, without looking at him. He hesitated, unsure if she would shoot him in the back if he fled. "There's a squad of operatives ten minutes behind us," she said, her eyes never leaving the wretched creature that her grandson had become. "In fifteen minutes, this building will be an inferno. Get out now." And then she forgot him and moved into the shadows of the room.

Robson reached across and closed his hand over Rippers'. "Leave it, Giles. You don't need it."

Ripper shook the hand off. "Sod off!" He was trying to hold the spoon over a lighted match, and shaking so badly he couldn't quite manage it.

"You've had enough of that shit, Giles." Robson said, reaching for the spoon. Ripper reacted sluggishly, taking an awkward swing at his friend. Robson leaned back and the blow sailed harmlessly past his face. Ripper went with it and tumbled over again. "Fuck!" he shouted as he dropped the spoon and its' load. He scrambled to his knees and tried to scrape the heroin off the filthy floor and back onto the spoon, muttering curses in languages human and non-human all the while. His breathing rasped, and he choked, going into a violent spasm of coughing that wracked him so badly he spilled the little he had managed to scrape up.

"Rupert." Ruth Wickfield said evenly.

He didn't appear to have heard her.

"Rupert, stop this at once!"

He looked up, bloodshot eyes searching the darkness. "Whass that?"

She stepped into the dim circle of light.

"Nan?" He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. It couldn't be…

"Put that poison down, Rupert. This stops now."

"Nan…" he whispered. Suddenly, he seemed to become aware of his condition. He scrambled backward until his back was up against the wall and huddled there, knees drawn up to his chest. He wrapped his arms around them, trying to make himself as small as possible, and shaking violently. "Here? You're here?" His eyes fell on Robson. "You.. You brought her *here *? Can't….This can't be real…"

"It's real. Rupert." She picked up a filthy pair of jeans off the floor and tossed them onto the pallet next to him. "Please, cover yourself. We're getting out of here."

He fumbled about for a time, trying to get his pants on. Between blood loss, sickness, and violent coughing spasms, he couldn't quite manage it. Robson tried to help him, and Ripper pushed him away. He finally got them on, and partially zipped, then started pawing through the rags again, searching. Ruth fought down a wave of despair as his groping hand closed over the packet of drugs.

"Rupert, leave it. This has to stop. It's killing you."

Ripper gave a semi-hysterical snort of laughter, coughed more, and spat phlegm into a corner. "So wot? World'll be a damn sight better place without me in it."

"Wallowing in self pity is quite unbecoming."

"What the fuck do you know about it? Nothing!" He'd found his almost-empty whiskey bottle, and took a drink. "Come to tell me to come home, Nan? Is that it? Come home and all will be right? The world is full of puppy dogs and kitty cats, and we'll all go skipping through the sodding flowers holding hands." He coughed a few times and took another swig from the bottle. "Who the fuck cares?"

"I care."

He snorted. "More fool, you."

She knelt next to him. "I love you, Rupert."

"No you don't. Not me. Not now. I'm not your sweet little Roo now, Nan."

"No. You're not. You've made quite a mess of yourself. But, you're still my grandson, and I do love you."

Was it the drugs? The alcohol? The blood loss? Fever? His eyes were glassy, and his words were slowing and slurring…

"No one bloody lovsh me. Ethan shaid he did, but he jusht wanted my magicks…My power. To shum…summon Eyghon." He looked up at her, and her breath caught in her throat as she saw the desolation in his eyes. 'I should have seen…Should have known. Randall…I had to kill him, Nan. To stop the demon. His blood…it was everywhere. The screams…" He looked down at the packets of drugs in his hands.

"You should go now, Nan. You shouldn't have come."

"Come back to Briarheath with me, Rupert. I can help you. Together we can make you strong again. The light is in you still. I can feel it."

"I'm nothing now, Nan. No one. Father…he wouldn't even talk to me. He…slammed the door in my face…"

"I'll try to talk to him, Rupert. But we must see to you first."

He shook his head. "No. Go, Nan. Please. I…" He went into another spasm of coughing that left him weak and sweat-soaked.

"The Council is looking for you, Giles." Robson said from where he stood by the door. "They've called in operatives, and they're not far behind us. Please, please listen to Lady Wickfield."

He looked at the drugs in his hands. "Won't catch me. Please, Robson…Take her and go."

"You're certain about this?"

"Yes Nan. I…This is all that I am now."

"I think you're wrong." She climbed stiffly to her feet, and started for the door. She stopped and turned back to him.

"I love you, Rupert," she said again. Then she pulled the tranquilizer gun out and shot him square in the chest. He looked up at her, stunned, then fell over.

Robson stood with his mouth hanging open as Lady Wickfield quickly moved to her grandson's side again and checked his pulse.

"Don't just stand there, Martin. Wrap him up in your coat and pick him up. We need to get out of here before the Council arrives and is more of a nuisance than they normally are."

Robson wrapped Giles in his long woolen coat, hoisted him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and headed out the door.

Lady Ruth Wickfield stood for a moment looking around the tiny, filthy room. She bent down delicately, picked up the lantern, then hurled it against the wall. She stayed only long enough to be sure the blaze was growing, and hurried after Robson and his motionless burden.

When the Council operatives arrived ten minutes later, they found the warehouse engulfed in flames.

************************************************************************************************

A week later Richard Giles stood in the second floor library at Briarheath, the ancestral home of his late wife's family. The two burly Council operatives who had accompanied him remained outside with the car. There were, after all, certain formalities that needed to be observed.

He turned as the old mahogany doors slid open, and Lady Ruth swept into the room.
He hadn't seen his mother-in-law for several years, and he was shocked by the change in her. The normally robust little woman looked drawn and weary. Still, probably had to be expected at her age…

"Richard." The tone was carefully neutral.

"Ruth."

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I think you know. I've come for Rupert."

"I don't…"

He raised a hand. "Spare me, Ruth. I know you have him here. Burning down that warehouse was a neat trick, really. But the comings and goings of Dr. Francis have been noted, and we've traced him here." He gave her a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Rather sloppy of you, to use one of your known Council contacts like that."

"Perhaps. I wanted someone with experience treating magick users. It's not like I could look one up in the yellow pages."

"You shouldn't have done, in any case. Rupert's gone rogue. He needs to be in Council custody."

"He's not a rogue. He's not a Watcher yet, Richard. He was still at the Academy. He's sworn no oaths."

"He's a magick user, and one of considerable power. One that's consorted with dark magick, using the skills we've taught him. He's answerable to the Council."

"I know they pretend otherwise, but the Council doesn't control all the magick in the world, and I thank the powers for that."

"Oh, yes. How foolish of me. How could I have forgotten the ancient power of magicks that the Wickfields claim as their own?"

"There's truth in that claim. Power. Magick runs strong in our bloodlines, as it does in this land. You used to believe in that. Angela did."

"Magick can't be trusted. This cock-up that Rupert's caused is certainly proof enough of that!"

"It wasn't entirely his fault, you know."

"Leave it to you to defend him."

"Someone has to."

Richard sighed in exasperation. "I'm not going to waste time in pointless arguments with you, Ruth. I'm taking him to the Council for a tribunal. At the very least, I'm going to ensure that his magicks are bound. Now please, get him out here."

"That's not going to happen."

"I will have my operatives search the house if I must, Ruth. It will be better for all of us if you get him to come quietly."

Ruth moved slowly over to the ancient desk that was near the fireplace. "What exactly is he supposed to be guilty of, that you are prepared to deal so harshly with him?"

"Oh, come now, Ruth. You must know…"

"I'm not concerned with what * I * know, Richard. It's what *you * know, or think you know, that is of issue here."

"Very well. Rupert's been running with a cult of black magick users in the Whitechapel area for almost eight months, since he left the Academy. He raised a demon, and it killed a young man named Randall about three months ago. We've been looking for him since then."

"Interesting. Where did you get this information?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss..."

"How much research into this "black magick cult" have you done?"

"Council sources…"

"I'm not asking what the Council knows, Richard. I'm asking about you. I know the tale that Winston Sutcliffe passed on from his son, Thomas. Interesting how it placed all the blame on Rupert, and Thomas is already back at Oxford, isn't it? How much of what you've been told have you investigated or confirmed?"

"Why should I question what…"

"Why? Why?" She glared at him. "Because he's your *son *, Richard! I would think you would want to know…"

"I know all I need to know about Rupert."

"Do you? And how is that? You barely acknowledge his existence."

"Can you blame me? He's a disgrace!"

"Oh, yes, Richard. I can blame you. I certainly can do." She opened a folder on her desk, and began to toss neatly bound reports at him.

"Complete biography for one Ethan Rayne. It seems that he's been more than a dabbler in black arts since he was fifteen years old. He's well on his way to becoming a master chaos warlock." She flipped open the report. "He's been seducing young, dissatisfied students for several years. Some are bored, privileged youngsters who want to flirt with danger. Some are magick users who have power…Power that he wants." Another report. "All known statistics on the demon Eyghon, the Sleepwalker. With proper wards in place, it should be impossible for Eyghon to manifest in corporeal form, unless someone deliberately alters the protective magicks, and gives the subject to the demon." A third packet hit the desk. "Statements from Philip Henry and Deirdre Paige. Rupert did extensive research into Eyghon before they raised him. His wards were flawless. He had protection layered on top of protection."

"Obviously, it wasn't good enough."

"Not if they were betrayed."

"Just what are you implying, Ruth? That Rupert was innocent?"

"No. Not innocent. He certainly involved himself in dark and dangerous magicks. Magicks that went terribly, tragically wrong. But he's hardly the first to do so, even among Academy trainees. The darkness is very alluring to those with the power. You must know your enemy to fight it."

"He's weak. He's always been weak. And now his weakness has proven to be deadly dangerous."

"He's not weak. He's alone. Dreadfully alone. That isolation made him vulnerable, and this Rayne boy exploited that." She tapped the report. "It's all here."

"You blame me."

"Yes, Richard. I do. He did everything he could to get your approval. He was desperate for attention from you. Any sort of attention. He started getting into trouble when he couldn't get recognition from you any other way."

"Nonsense! He's a wastrel, Ruth. Discipline was the only hope for him."

"And look how well it worked."

Richard Giles' face went stony. He picked up the reports off the desk. "I will take these for the Council to review. Now, are you going to take me to him, or do I have my men start searching?"

Lady Ruth's eyes were just as cold. "This way."

She led him to the wing of the mansion where the bedrooms were located, and indicated a door.

"He's in there."

Richard opened the door and walked through.

The smell of a sickroom hit him first. The stuffy smell of a room closed up and kept too warm for the comfort of healthy people, but essential to those who are ill. The smell of phlegm and blood and vomit and a body that needed a good bath.

His son was propped up in a big, soft bed. He was dressed in a white bed-gown that was old, worn, and soft, and had blankets pulled up to his chest. His face was a pasty white, with thin, sunken cheeks and dark circled eyes. Sweat darkened his hair and plastered it to his head, and even in the doorway Richard could hear the labored sound of his breathing. He moved restlessly beneath the covers and muttered in his feverish sleep. He was thin almost to the point of emaciation. A doctor was next to the bed on one side, adjusting the drip on an IV. Martin Robson slept in a chair next to the bed.

"Good Lord…."

"Yes. He is good, to have spared him so far." Ruth said, then continued as Richard stared at the wreck of his son. "He's addicted to heroin and alcohol. The withdrawal nearly did for him. He's malnourished and has pneumonia." The glare she leveled at Richard was pure venom.

"You've come very close to having your wish fulfilled."

"My wish? What….?"

"Of not having a son."

Richard's head snapped around. "What? How..?"

"He's rambled long in his delirium. My God, Richard! He came to you for help. After all the problems and the distance between you, when he was desperate, when the darkness was taking him under, he reached out to * you*. You do remember that, don't you? That was when you slammed the door in his face."

"He…He wasn't like this."

"No. He might still have had some hope then. He was frightened enough…He'd seen the darkness, the true darkness, and he was terrified. He still believed he had a chance of redemption, then. You ended that for him when you rejected him." She gestured. "This is the result of three months of trying to kill himself. It takes time for drugs and alcohol to do that, you know. "

"So, Richard. Are you going to slap the cuffs on him? Shall we call your operatives to cart him away now?"

"I…Ruth…I don't know what…" He looked down, clearly troubled. "He was involved in something very serious. I can't just absolve him of his guilt."

"No. You can't. Even as you can't ever absolve yourself for turning your back on him. Absolution, for both of you, is not in the hands of anyone here. But redemption, or the chance of it….That's still within reach."

Richard looked at the reports in his hands. "You…There's much to consider here. I will read these." He looked back into the room. "I will consider. And I will be back."

He left without another word.

In his sickbed, Rupert began to mutter, then cry out in his sleep. "Stop…Eyghon! No! Not Davey…me! Take me… Randall…"

"Dad…I'm sorry…"

Ruth sighed, and returned to his side.