TITLE: Rayne of Chaos 1/7
AUTHOR: Jaydn Michelle
DESCRIPTION: The events of the Dark Age, interwoven with the origins and destruction of Ethan's friendship with Giles.
RATING: M+. Chapters five and six respectively contain slash and torture. I am NOT pulling any punches, so consider yourself warned! This story is dark.
ARCHIVES: (shrug) This is the first fic I've posted - it doesn't have a home, if people want it, take it, but let me know beforehand please.

NOTE: Dialogue from the episode 'The Dark Age' is reproduced without permission, and was originally written by Dean Batali and Rob Des Hotel. Dialogue from the episode 'Lie to Me' is also reproduced without permission, and was written by Joss Whedon.
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Giles, Ethan, Buffy, Willow, Xander, Angel, Cordelia, Jenny Calendar, Quentin Travers, Randall Scott, Merrick and Eyghon are the property of people bigger than me. In other words, it's not mine, never will be mine, yada, yada, yada.
FEEDBACK: Always welcomed

NOTE 2: Words that are encased in an *asterisks* are an emphasis. Words encased in //denotes// a character's thoughts. Please don't mistake it for spoken dialogue.

NOTE 3: Special thanks to both Rari and Ruth, who were my American and British betas respectively (I'm an Aussie), for the support and *numerous* corrections - not to mention being sounding boards. Other than that, enjoy!

"Hello Ripper."

It was vastly amusing how those two words affected the noise decibels - four rowdy teenagers, one anxious computer scientist/sometime pagan, and the low growls of a zombie in a cage stuttering to silence. One might have heard a pin drop in the ensuing beauty of that peace. Unfortunately, as a son of Chaos, peace wasn't something Ethan could abide for long.

It was Phillip who broke the silence, launching himself at the book-cage, skin mottled green and eyes too blank by far. His new vocation as zombie at large had *not* improved his disposition. No longer knifing people in the back for a quick fix and twenty quid; no, Phillip had graduated to the hearty business of tearing his friends to shreds.

On consideration… not unlike Rupert Giles after all.

The man, whose attention had been fixed on the snarling hunk of flesh, turned to him and Ethan Rayne felt a flash of victory, as sweet and cloyingly sticky as blood.

"Ripper?" That was the valley girl, dark hair, perfect figure, clueless. "Why did that man just call Giles 'Ripper?'"

Why indeed.

He felt the faint beginnings of a smile. Watching as his old friend turned to him only *after* he had ensured that the slayer and her friends were fine, that the pagan wannabe was healthy, and that the foul odour permeating the room really did come from their one time friend and compatriot, Phillip Henry.

"Ethan." The voice was low, edged in darkness, and Ethan felt something stir in response. "I thought I told you to leave town."

"Ah, yes. You did - I didn't." And a smirk was all it took.

Ethan had once described Giles as the snivelling tweed-clad guardian of the Slayer and her kin; knowing full well there was nothing further from the truth. Knowing, with certainty, that that was the image Giles projected, and the image these children accepted without qualm. But then Ethan was a devotee of Chaos - and he knew all about hidden faces.

The children were beginning to have their own inklings - saw it in the set features of a man who slipped forward with uncanny grace. Rage and a hint of murder lending him an aura that was alien, oddly at home, familiar as a lover... or the schism in the dark.

//Chaos, I'm your most degenerate son//, and Ethan might have been afraid, might, if not for the ache and the sense of ready loss.

//'Why did that man call Giles 'Ripper?'//. "Oh," and the girl answered her own question.

__________________________

LONDON - 1968

It should have been raining.

Something to accompany the steady drone of the ministers' voice. But it wasn't - and he found that slightly puzzling.

The sky had darkened to a pearl grey, the sun wan and mostly hidden except for the sharp bursts of light that frequented with the moving cloud-line. His father was standing at a distance, hands folded before him, back stiff and unyielding in the lined suit. He didn't weep but stood mute, unheeding of the soft sounds that came from Carla Sang, mother of Catherine Giles, thirty-six, recently departed, beloved wife of Henry Giles.

Rupert shifted slightly, eyes flickering to the sky-line, wondering when that all present threat would finally break and the floods would come. Washing away the sermon, the grief, and a reality that seemed to abstract to be true. If he could just close his eyes, let the rain come, it would all go away, and he wouldn't wake in a sweat to the sound of his mother's cry. Wouldn't wake to the knowledge that she wouldn't be here to comfort him, or smooth the hair from his forehead, eyes too knowing by far and creased with a bemused merriment.

"Rupert?"

A hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, and he opened eyes that he never realised had closed. The sermon was over, the minister shuffling away, and his father was before him.

He looked frail. Curious that Giles had never noticed that before, as if a puff of wind could blow him over. There were lines around his eyes and mouth, and the grip on his shoulder tightened almost convulsively.

"Dad?"

"Home, son, time to go home."

He was being steered away, over grasslands and the forbidding structures of distant crypts. His father's touch firm - and that too, was unusual. Henry Giles so rarely touched his son, as if the action were unseemly.

Rupert twisted his head, a simple prerogative underscored by the need to *check*. Just to make sure that, yes, his mother was lying dead in the bottom of some hole. Not even her, just ashes, his father muttering that he had to be sure, that cremating was ultimately the safest. Rupert Giles had not understood that at the time - but then again, there were so many things about that night he had not understood.

All he saw as he stared over his shoulder was a woman, or to the eyes of a ten year old boy, she appeared to be a woman.

In fact, she was little more than seven years his senior, and he had not noticed her at the funeral until now. She stood beside his mother's grave, staring back at him with a look of grief, as if the weight of the world was borne upon her shoulders.

Vaguely, she seemed familiar.

"Dad?"

Henry followed his sons' gaze, turning to look back, and the grip on the boy's shoulder turned bruising. "Not now...not now."

Rupert Giles could never decide if those words had been uttered to him... or to the girl at the grave.

* * * * * * * * *

It was the murmur of voices that awoke him, or the remnants of a dream, the faint smell of cigar smoke and a heated discussion. The sheets were twisted into a knot around his lower body, the sudden constriction panicking him until he tore loose, stumbling from the bed. Toes flinched from the cold and the sweat on his body cooled with the drop in temperature. He stood semi-naked, wondering where his pyjama top was until he remembered, and then shied away from further thoughts, staring out the window until it seemed the shadows were leering back.

Hugging his arms to his bare chest, the boy slipped from the room, quiet as a wraith.

//Pyjamas, I need new pyjamas//, an erratic thought and maybe not altogether sane, but it was two o clock in the morning of an English winter, and he was cold. Frighteningly so. Shivering, he followed the faint buzz of a distant conversation, a sound like the hum of angry bees.

Bees, his mother was allergic to bees, and the pain in his throat became a knotted ball of anguish.

"...it's not that simple, Henry."

A laugh, surely too bitter to be his father, "It never is, is it?"

"The prophecies are written and it is clear the boy is connected. This is for his benefit as much as yours."

"Benefit? Where the hell is the benefit in taking my boy!?"

"Henry...I'm sorry. I'm sorry about Catherine, but next time it could just as easily be Rupert. They nearly killed the child this time, would have, if not for your Slayer. You can't be expected to protect the entire world against the forces of evil, spend your nights patrolling with the girl, and raise this child by yourself. For Christ's sake, there are people out there who know, Henry! They've read the prophecies. Like it or not, Rupert is bound to a girl not yet born. A Slayer who will one day have repercussions on not only how the Watchers conduct themselves - but on the forces of darkness. Think man, we don't *know* who she is, but we do know who her Watcher is destined to be. And so do *They*. What better way to disrupt the prophecies than to kill the man destined to guide her!"

"I *won't* turn him over. He's all I've got left of...of...Catherine," the voice broke, and Rupert could hear the sigh of leather as his father sat down.

The cold was worse, coiling like a serpent in the pit of his stomach. He knew those voices, had met his fathers' associates on a number of occasions, and stepped forward slowly, blinking owlishly in the light.

Henry spun, seeing his son standing semi-naked in the library, half asleep and sweat-stained, hair looking like a bedraggled crow. Henry felt a fist clench in his heart, wondering how much the boy had overheard.

"Dad?"

"Hello, Rupert."

Henry's eyes flashed as Masters' spoke, the senior Watcher smiled benignly at his son.

Rupert gave him a wide berth, steering clear away from him as he circled toward his father. Henry could see the faint shivers that coursed through his son's body, took one look at the dilated pupils and stood up, cursing.

Delayed shock.

Not twenty four hours ago his son had wrapped his pyjama top around his mother's throat in a vain attempt to staunch the flow of blood. A throat that was all but torn asunder. Twenty four hours ago Rupert had been fighting for his life - and Catherine Giles lost hers.

He could still recall the helpless rage, seeing Rupert hanging by the scruff of his neck, a vampire who's teeth gleamed red, stained by Catherine's blood, and Clarice, a small ball of fury that had slammed into both of them.

Henry had stood motionless as Clarice tore into the demon, and it was with shame that he recalled how he had frozen. For the first time in his life. Useless as a statue. Staring at Catherine's broken body as his ten year old wrapped his clothing around her neck with startling gentleness. The boy's torso smeared with her blood - tears tracking silent.

Twenty four hours.

Henry stood, shrugging out of his jumper and wrapped his son up quickly, watching him disappear under the extra folds of clothing. Holding him close in an effort to infuse the small body with warmth.

Steven Masters watched.

In appearance, Rupert Giles was his father in miniature. He had inherited Henry's looks and intelligence, but with Catherine's proclivity for languages, her Irish temper, and the startling green of her eyes.

He was a cute looking kid, and with his father patrolling every other night - he was vulnerable. Henry had to realise that, surely?

Henry looked up over his son's head, meeting Master's stare head on, and there was something wretched and small in that look - something like defeat. He nodded slowly, and just as slowly, Masters' nodded back.

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Don't... please..."

"You have a destiny, Rupert, you don't realise it now, but... this is for the best."

The boy had backed himself into a corner, literally, fists clenched, eyes blazing in the pale face. "Is it...is it because of mum? I... I didn't let him in, I swear. It's not... it's not my fault."

It wasn't the statement that tore at Henry's heart - but the uncertainty beneath it.

"This isn't a punishment, Rupert, and you were never to blame. But duty requires sacrifice, and... and you need to go with Masters, and I, I need to stay here, with Clarice."

"Clarice? The Slayer? You'll stay with her - but not me?" The tears had come, hot and unbidden, and Rupert swiped at them angrily.

It was three days since the funeral - and his father was leaving. He could feel a scream trying to claw itself loose, something dark, and his voice sounded small to his own ears. "I'm your son."

"You're a Watcher, Rupert, and you have a destiny that is pre-determined. It's for your own good."

"The sacrifice?... Is this the sacrifice?" His child was staring at him as if he were a stranger - or the monster under the bed. All of Catherine's mercurial humour and rage bottled into the body of a ten year old, and it was frightening, just how adult he sounded. "Is this your sacrifice, father? Or mine?"

"The fate of the world is dependent upon the actions of a Slayer, and a Slayer is dependent upon her Watcher. Whatever you may think, Rupert, I love you. But protecting Clarice is the best way I can ensure your survival, along with everyone else. Some duties supersede others."

The boy reeled as if struck and Henry froze, hearing the harshness in his own voice. Taking a deep breath he reached forward, until he saw his son flinch from his touch. //Oh god, oh god... this isn't right,// and he felt something tear inside, trying to find the right words.

"I hate you." A sigh on the wind - and the boy darted past.

Henry turned blindly, trying to snatch an arm or shoulder, but the child was gone.

______________________________

PRESENT DAY

It surprised Buffy, just how quick Giles moved, one hand catching at the back of Ethan's head and wrenching him up, out of that insolent pose with brutal economy. "You should have left when I told you."

"Giles!"

There was a protestation there - but it wasn't voiced from Ethan.

The tension between the two men fairly vibrated. Hate, a simple clarity that burned deep in the fierce stare of the Watcher, and Ethan could bask in the unstinting dedication of it all. Emotion, *any* emotion, directed at him - a gift of sorts, although he doubted anyone else would view it as such. When the Watcher's attention was fully and completely focused on *you* - not books, or demons, or Slayers, but *you* - there was power in that stare, no absent-mindedness, no distraction.

Ethan could remember a time when it had always been so, his to command, a time before Eyghon and the Slayer, when Giles had stood at his shoulder with all the formidable knowledge of the Watchers. There had been magic between them in those days - twisted now and shattered black, but present... always and ever present.

It sparked like a wild-fire and in the periphery of his vision, he saw the child-slayer step close. As if to get between them, or interfere, and it was enough to fuel Ethan's own rage. He jerked free from Ripper's grip, eyes flashing. "You've been having the dreams. I know. *I* have. We both know what is coming."

"What dreams? *What* is going on here?!" Buffy was beginning to feel like a five year old, reduced to stamping her foot if no information was forthcoming. Giles acting distracted was one thing - Giles completely ignoring her was another. To coin a phrase - it was wigging her out, big time - and the beatific smile that crossed Ethan's face wasn't helping any - malice with just a hint of teeth.

"Tell her, Ripper."

"Giles!"

In truth, there was no telling what would have happened. Giles' attention hadn't strayed from Ethan and Buffy found that really disconcerting. But her Watcher looked a wreck. Hair ruffled, with a five o clock shadow on his jaw line, a hint of scotch on his breath, eyes blazing.

There was no sign of the slightly odd librarian who floundered under pop references or stuttered whenever a pretty woman glanced his way. Instead, there was menace, and for a man who barely exuded such an emotion, it was surprisingly effective.

She'd seen Giles angry, frustrated, determined, had seen the look in his eye when he faced down a witch who had poisoned Buffy's soul. Had watched as he commanded the elements to release her from its web - commanding the elements like a mystic, or sorcerer - like a man capable of calling down the gods if need be. But she'd never seen him... dangerous.

It was all too obvious, though, that Ethan had.

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