"I've had better ideas in my life," Giles said out loud to the vastly empty clearing. "Regrettably, I've had few more foolish ones."
The birds were the only ones who heard him. He was out in the middle of nowhere, on a errand of madness. Returning to England to close his office at the British Museum, he had found the work moving slowly. His flat in Chelsea had been easy to close by comparison. He had boxed up the volumes that lived there and shipped them across the pond. But his office... that had been more his home than the flat. It was covered in dust and still not large enough to bring a cat in, let alone swing one, but no one had invaded it in his absence. There were no windows; there were no pictures on the wall. Every spare space was covered in books.
The difficulty was sorting out what belonged to him personally and what belonged to the Museum. Somehow, before, that had never been a problem. He'd always known it was his duty, his fate, to be a Watcher. But until he had been called to Sunnydale, it never really had infringed upon his life very much.
Now, all of a sudden, there was here and there, this and that, Watcher and librarian. His life was bifocused. He suddenly understood why Buffy had tried to deny her fate as Slayer. Two lives, two identities, and only one person to live it. It was exhausting, to say the least. Buffy, at least, knew which life she would rather have been living. She would have turned her back on her destiny, lived a normal, staid life if she could. But Giles... offered the choice, which would he choose?
The dismantling of his life in England had been a wearisome project, one that he tackled with a complete lack of enthusiasm. And one that made distractions of any sort welcome. When the director of the library had approached him to ask that he deliver a particular volume to a monastery in Ireland, Giles had accepted without thinking. Now, he was regretting his rash action.
It was well before sundown, half-three, just as the abbot had requested. Giles had followed the detailed directions out to the small henge out on the coast of County Clare, text in hand. Why a Christian priest would wish such a transaction in the middle of a pagan stone circle, Giles could not understand. The text itself was not extraordinary, a fourteenth century retelling of the legend of Saint Patrick's life. Giles could be grateful that the renowned saint had driven the snakes from Ireland. It made picking through the nearly waist-high grass surrounding the henge a little less hazardous.
He'd spent his plane trip to Dublin studying the Pergamon Codex, instead. It puzzled him endlessly. It was a font of knowledge, not complete, but most definitely not wrong. The prophecies in the Codex and the prophecy that Aurelious recorded dovetailed perfectly. And yet... there was no other way to translate, "Interfectrix non cogitabit eum" other than, "The Slayer shall not know him."
The Codex rested in a satchel slung over Giles' shoulder, along with three or four other volumes that needed his study, and a change of clothes. The *Life of Saint Patrick* that he was to return was clutched in one hand.
A half an hour passed, and there still was no sign of the gentleman he was to meet. The soft summer sun and gentle breeze swayed the grass and stirred the green scents of the earth. Curious, Giles wandered over to the well-worn stones that stood silent sentinel against the ages. There were faint markings on their surface, engravings once deeply cut and now shadows against the granite. Leaning closer, he braced one hand against the opposite stone and examined the marks carefully.
With a flash of coruscating light, he felt himself violently thrust into... nothingness.
* * *
It was dark when he woke up. Pitch-black without the faintest trace of light. Terror gripped for a moment before he remembered to open his eyes.
The sun was down, but it was not quite dark. Purple twilight lingered overhead, specked with only the most brilliant of stars and planets. Giles levered himself upright, his head spinning as dizzily has it had in his carefree youth when he and his fellows had sought to determine who could consume the most ale in one sitting. For the first time, he understood why henges were often referred to as dances. The blocks seemed incapable of remaining inanimate around him.
His hand fell on the satchel beside him and he gained his feet. Obviously, the abbot was not going to appear. He would make his way back to the rented car that he had left parked about a mile back on the road, drive into Shannon, and fly back to London in the morning.
He took two steps and landed back down in the short grass. Wisely, he decided to remain there for a few moments. A meteor glanced through the heavens above him, and it seemed that there was not another soul in the world.
Which meant that the approach of another person took him completely by surprise. "Are you well, sir? Sorry," she apologized when Giles turned sharply, eyes wide and startled. "I saw you sitting so still, and out here in the middle of nowhere, and feared you were ill."
Behind him in the dim light stood a young girl, not much older than Buffy. Long dark hair was tied at the nape of her neck into a loose ponytail, and she wore a plain blouse and a long loose skirt. "I fear... I am disoriented. I was waiting here for the abbot to come, but I have not seen him."
The girl cocked her head curiously. A feeling of familiarity overwhelmed Giles. Something whispered that he should know this girl. "Father Ambros would not leave a sheep to linger alone at night. Not here. You must have been misdirected. And he had services to conduct today. It was St. John's Day."
"Midsummer's Eve," Giles murmured, checking his head for a lump. Surely a blow to the skull would explain his dizziness and confusion, as well as the persistent notion that he knew this girl. There was no swelling, however. An energy discharge? If a bolt of lightening had struck nearby, it might have stunned him. But it had been a clear, sunny day. No clouds in sight.
The girl came forward to kneel beside him, helping to steady him. "Aye, 'tis the sun feast." She grinned suddenly, pale eyes gleaming in the low light. "Father Ambros has no quarrel with the Old Ones, but for the sake of his position, he can hardly acknowledge such things." With easy strength she helped him rise, and supported him when he wobbled. "I'll take you to him, won't I, and he can have Brother Rugh look you over. Rugh is a fine healer."
"My car is on the road. I walked here."
"I saw no cart on the road, sir, and I came that way. What's your name?" she asked, chatting away as they walked. "You're obviously British. Father Ambros has letters from England often, I assume you are one he contacts there? Or...," her voice trailed away. "Or did they send you to replace Henry?" she continued after making an obvious effort to steady her tone.
"I am Rupert Giles. As for Henry --" Giles stopped dead. Being upright and mobile had done wonders for his aching head, and the clear night air had swept away the rest of the cobwebs. The girl did not seem familiar because he had met her before. To the best of his knowledge, they had never come face to face.
But she was, undeniably, a Slayer, something that he sensed on a level that he could not even begin to explain.
He was incapable of speech for several long moments. Buffy was the Chosen One for her generation. There was only ever one Slayer at a time. The only way that this girl could be one was if Buffy had been killed.
In the silence, the girl let go of his arm. "You are a Watcher, aren't you?" she asked in a low, husky voice. "I knew when Henry was killed that they would have to send another. But I--are you well?" she asked urgently as Giles sank again to the ground.
"No, I do not think so," he said, dazed. "Tell me, was your Watcher named Henry Wadsworth?"
"Yes. Did you know him?" The girl settled on her knees on the ground in front of him.
"No, I didn't. For the very good reason that he died two hundred years before my birth. Dear God, I've traveled back in time."
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