TITLE: Rayne of Chaos 2/7
AUTHOR: Jaydn Michelle
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

"We used to be friends, Ripper, you and I."
- Ethan Rayne
(A New Man).

_________________________________

...The world is a stage...

Or possibly it was a library in the middle of a nowhere suburb - on top of the hellmouth, no less, just to liven things up. In the end it all came down to semantics, Ethan supposed, but the players, now that could make a world of difference.

The tension in the room was humming - a tattoo of old blood and ancient power that made the fine hairs on his body stand on end.

"...Giles!..."

Whatever Ripper might have said or done became a moot point when Phillip attacked. The scream of metal rendered and Jenny's cry mingling as one. But Ethan *knew* - Eyghon had resided too long and that, ladies and gentlemen, was his cue to leave.

He back-pedaled quickly, watching as both Ripper and the child launched themselves forward, albeit for different motives. Ripper used the momentum to slide like a baseball runner, reaching Jenny's side even as Buffy joined in battle. The girl moved instinctively to get between the demon and her Watcher. As for Giles, he never once spared a single glance toward Eyghon. A blind demonstration of trust that rankled Ethan tremendously.

But for all that, he noticed, the girl packed a serious punch. It wasn't hard, amidst the mayhem and chaos, to slip from the library unheeded.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Buffy slammed through the swing doors, body humming with the adrenlin rush and a burning desire to shake her recalcitrant Watcher by the collar.

The slime that had been a walking zombie moments before lingered near the cage-door, looking icky and green. Giles, she noticed, had moved Miss Calendar away and the computer scientist was now resting against him by the library counter. It gave her pause for a moment until she checked the others. Xander and Willow were both fine, wide-eyed but not hurt. Cordelia, well...she was pretty much Cordelia.

"I lost Ethan."

Giles stiffened but made no overt sign of acknowledgment. It was Jenny who turned to face her, the faintest of frowns on the exotic features.

Miss Calendar was stunning and without doubt the most popular teacher on campus. It had amused Buffy, the unorthodox relationship between the two, and had shocked half the faculty staff into silence. But she couldn't begrudge Giles this, or find it within herself to resent a woman who had seen past the tweed to something deeper.

"Giles, what's going on?"

Shoulders sagged, his voice quiet: "It's complicated Buffy and quite frankly, it's private."

//Private? Did he just say *private*?// "I don't *care* for private! I care for you lost-weekending it in your apartment!"

"I wasn't..." There was force as he spun, a hybrid of anger and worry that was a damn sight better than the despondency she had witnessed before. He took a breath, eyes narrowed. "I was just trying to find a solution."

And the wall between them slammed shut.

Buffy could have kicked him for doing that. "Giles, share! What is the mark of Eyghon?"

"Hey!" He stepped forward in an instant, fury simmering, and she stumbled back under the mercurial change. "This is not your battle and as your Watcher I'm telling you *unequivocally* to stay out of it!"

_______________________

LONDON 1970

"He's a little shit!"

Jeff Anderson might have smiled, but as Headmaster the act was unbecoming - regardless of how much he might agree with the sentiment. "Care to elaborate?"

Craig sat down, rubbing his forehead as if the very topic gave him a migraine. "He's brilliant. The boy has a first-rate mind and a near photographic memory. But he's disobedient, wilful... and down-right insolent."

Anderson glanced once at the file before him and shrugged. "He's a top mark student, Craig. Most teachers *like* that in their pupils. What do you want me to do?"

"Cane him for gods sake - wipe that bloody smirk off his face!"

"On what grounds?" He couldn't help the smile this time, staring at the newest member of his staff with mock solicitude.

"For... for... making fun of the teacher!"

Anderson leant back, hands folded across his stomach. "As I understand it, he corrected your pronunciation." There was a crazed expression to Craig's countenance - a look common to many of Giles' teachers.

"Y…yes."

"*Correctly*?"

Teeth were bared. "Yes."

"Look Craig, the boy speaks Latin like it's his native tongue - don't take it to heart. Catherine Giles was a leading expert on ancient languages - he was bound to have picked up a thing or two."

"And what about the other stuff? The tardiness... the insolence?"

Anderson shrugged. "He's your student. Teach him."

Craig blinked, then stood up. "Thank you sir, for all your *valued* support."

Insolence, Anderson reflected, seemed to be catching.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The object of their discussion was sitting on the school wall, cobbled stone and masonry that stood at six feet - the smell of dampness and age intermingled with time. In an odd way, it seemed older than the actual school it encompassed. He sat with his shirt untucked, the knot in his tie pulled low. Rupert Giles kept to himself and the kids respected that. He didn't have friends, not the time nor the inclination for them. His day regimented from the moment he awoke until the instant his head hit the pillow.

Seven o clock wake up, nine o clock school, classes until four, then picked up by Jefferson and taken back to the Watcher estate. Combat training from five 'til seven followed by tea. Eight o clock onwards was dedicated to study - history, demonology, prophesy, Watcher lore, languages, and the heritage of the Slayer. Lights out at eleven.

For a boy of twelve it was fair to say that he had been sucked into hell - the third ring of Dante's fire to be exact, seven hundred days and counting. There wasn't a moment when some small part of him didn't wish fervently that Clarice would just hurry up and die. He wanted his father back.

He scowled as the first drops of moisture hit, the clouds bruise black on what should have been a perfect summer day. They roiled past in a fury - the electric scent of ozone and storm mingling as one.

//Where the hell was Jefferson?//

A group of kids wandered by, hands in pockets, dressed in school colours. They spoke in the grating nasal tones that Giles associated with money - their uniforms identifying them as members of the preparatory school that was located two blocks away. They didn't notice the youth sitting cross-legged on the wall above them, too busy hurrying against the threat of rain and high winds.

They walked past at this exact hour every day.

Two years ago they had travelled in a group of twelve - and now they were seven. There was a part of Giles that wondered if they could even remember the names of their fallen comrades. Or if they could recall that they had existed at all.

Giles noticed - and there was a part of him that hated that too.

A flash like a photographer's bulb - and he turned slowly to face it - nothing there but an empty street, the rustling of dry leaves and the odd stray dog.

Frowning, the lines in his body tensed as he looked away, catching a second flash and this time he ignored it. It bobbed at the periphery of his vision like a will o' the wisp, before darting away, zigzagging in a crazed flight.

The light arced upwards, firing like a rocket before exploding into a shimmer of rain.

A boy stood in the park opposite the street; not much older than Giles and dressed in the uniform of the preparatory school. His face was made up of hard edges, dark hair longer than standard, head tilted to the sky.

There was a smile playing at the corners of his lips - a resonance of power that Giles could sense even at a distance. Neither overly large nor slight, he had the build of a runner - the lean hunger common to predatory wolves, and the smile on his face turned brilliant as lightning flashed.

With a *crack* the skies opened above - a torrent of rain obscuring the child from view.

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

Masters paused at the doorway, divided. Henry Giles' son was lying on top of the bed-covers, hair damp from the afternoon downpours. "Rupert?"

The boy twisted, eyes widening when he saw who his guest was. The two hadn't spoken since the day Masters had dragged the child from his home - and he could see the undercurrent of suspicion in the green eyes.

"Yes, sir?"

"Bad news I'm afraid." There was no point in delaying, sometimes hard and direct was best. "Clarice Jordan died at 9:45 this morning... as did her Watcher."

A breath... it was all Giles could focus on, those first words, spoken so calmly.

He could remember the old arguments - all the things designed to hurt. What he would say to his father upon their first meeting. Careful nights of planning and strategy - learning to twist the knife. //You did this - you had a family and then left! I won't do that, I'll never do that!// - and underneath it was the flip-side, the emotion behind the hurt. The comfort his father brought, security, and an emotion that neither one had given voice to.

...bad news I'm afraid...

Above, the heavens flashed in an arc of white - the heady growl of thunder dividing the world into two.

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

LONDON 1974

The spell had gone a little haywire. Not that he minded, unpredictability was good...no chance of boredom at least, until he spied Christopher, and then Ethan Rayne decided he might have been overly hasty in his assumption.

The captain of the cricket team and school Prefect was backed up by three mates - all looking decidedly... testy. "THAT'S HIM!"

Ethan fled.

He wasn't as large as them - but on the up side he didn't carry their bulk and he certainly had the motivation.

The four boys tore after him, their feet pounding as they ate up the distance, Ethan darting ahead like a startled rabbit.

//Spells... spells... could he cast spells while running away? No, not very manly...stuff manliness//, and he put on a fresh burst of speed, dodging pedestrians and darting down a side-alley. He could still hear his pursuers, although it sounded like the group had split.

Air burning in his lungs, he veered left and came to an abrupt halt - dead end.

//Fuck!//

He spun, finding himself nose to nose with Chris and raised his hands placatingly. Ethan never saw the fist but he felt it, a sledge-hammer of a blow that knocked him for ten.

The second punch caught him in the stomach and doubled him over.

He couldn't draw breath, not after running the fifty mile dash and his vision blurred when the knee connected with his chin, knocking him flat. The coppery tang of blood flooded his mouth.

Dimly, he saw the foot draw back and curled protectively, losing count after the third kick until mercifully it finished. He heard the impact of flesh against flesh, and then he was staring at Chris, lying prone and knocked unconscious beside him.

A third voice spoke: "You okay?"

Ethan groaned, decided it wasn't nearly theatrical enough, and did it again, squinting upwards. Rayne had no affinity for names, but he did have a solid recall for faces, and there was something vaguely familiar about the stranger standing over him. "Am I meant to be?"

The boy shrugged, "Entirely up to you."

"Then let me lie here and think about it."

It came to him slowly - a spell conducted almost two years ago - his first successful casting that had altered London's weather patterns rather spectacularly. Admittedly it was small stuff, a series of storms at first, but he was rather proud of the miniature tornado that had swept down Bond Street before disintegrating. This lad before him was the same boy who had overseen him in the park, sitting on the school wall like a gargoyle.

There was amusement in the stranger's voice: "Sure, go ahead. I doubt the other three will be coming back any time soon."

"Done. I'm done. Help me up."

"The healing powers of terror?"

"Whatever works." Ethan staggered, ankle protesting from the awkward fall and hissed, face tight with pain. He felt the other's arm at his elbow, steadying him, and took a moment to study his companion carefully.

They were roughly of the same height and age - and that's where the comparison ended.

Ethan came from money, and present condition notwithstanding, it showed.

The youth before him looked like someone's idea of a street urchin. A pair of well worn jeans that were faded almost white, frayed at the knees and hem, a flannel shirt tied to his waist and a white T that had seen better days.

There was a rough and ready look to him - a confidence derived from the blood on his fists.

Ethan frowned. "Thanks, for the, uh... assistance." He poked Chris with his toe, just to make sure.

"The virtues of boredom."

That was a falsity - spoken a little *too* casually - and Ethan straightened under the subtle lie. Like hell, the stranger had seen him casting spells and knew *exactly* what he was. All Rayne needed to figure out was what his would be rescuer wanted in return.

Which was surprisingly difficult when the boy left without another word. Wincing, and not a little confused, Ethan hobbled after him. "My name's Rayne. Ethan Rayne."

"Giles."

"Just Giles?"

A flash of mirth, there and gone like quicksilver. "I figured you had a concussion. Don't want to over-tax you."

Rayne's reply was droll. "Very thoughtful."

"THAT'S HIM!"

Those two words, Ethan decided, were going to give him a complex.

The shout came from the other end of the street as they emerged from the alley. Christopher's gang of three - at a distance, but moving fast.

Ethan tested his ankle and winced, glancing at his companion. The arrested expression on Giles' face was almost thoughtful, and it suddenly occurred to Ethan that the boy could leave, walk away and pretend that they had never spoken. Ethan might have done the same if their positions were reversed.

"Can you run?"

Rayne shook his head, watching the on-coming thugs with a sick certainty - they were going to beat him to a pulp.

Giles frowned and pulled a flick-knife from his pocket, the heavy metal sitting comfortable in his palm.

Ethan's look was incredulous. "You're going to take them on with a knife?"

But no such thing occurred. Instead, Giles spun, drawing his arm back and hurling the unfurled knife like a missile. It shattered through the window of the nearest parked car - the glass falling in a river of broken shards.

Without pause Giles reached into the hole and unlocked the door, sliding into the driver's seat. Fingers trailed over the passenger side until he located the knife, flicking the blade open to pry apart the panel. A mass of tangled wires fell forward, Giles hesitating for an instant before setting to work. It wasn't before long when the engine coughed... once... twice... then roared to life.

"Coming?"

Ethan glanced once at the on-coming gang, took in the faces of the nearby, startled pedestrians, and went.

____________________________________

...The exact origins of the Slayer have never been
ascertained - but it is only fair to concede that existence
is populated by extremes.
Black and white, fire and water, demons and the Slayer.
Humanity defines itself by pointing to the polar
opposite and declaring: 'That I am not!' A symbiotic
relationship between good and evil is co-dependent, one
cannot be defined without the other; and definition is the
hall-mark of existence.
I think - therefore I am.

- Watcher Hans Terrin.
'The Prophesies of Nordic,' circa 1901.

___________________________________________

"Henry Giles' boy."

Masters looked up with a frown, setting aside his pen. "What about him?"

"He's been casting," Jonathan Ives sat down heavily.

"You found him?"

"It took a while - he has a talent for it, you know."

Casting? Masters nodded... "Yes, he would."

"Um, why would he?"

Masters' stared at Ives' protege with ill concealed distaste. He was a young man of about twenty, by the name of Travis... or Travers... something like that. Ives had decided to groom him for the upper echelons for reasons that Masters couldn't quite grasp. He answered the question almost distractedly. "Most pre-destined Watchers have some latent ability in the dark arts. It's one of their most worrisome traits."

"Traits?"

"Natural Watchers."

Quentin Travers blinked. //That was meant to explain it?// He caught Ives' expression out of the corner of his eye and decided, quite correctly, to postpone further questions.

Ives coughed, drawing attention to himself. "You might want to nip this in the bud, sir. The only thing as dangerous as a Slayer turned vampire is a Watcher gone rogue. We don't want another Marcus Dupont on our hands."

Masters stood, bones protesting as he dragged the chair backwards, "Who's teaching him?"

"An upper class sort, a boy by the name of Ethan Rayne, gifted. Too much money and too much time on his hands. Rayne has the potential to be a warlock - though not the discipline."

"Is Rupert here?"

Ives shifted, looking uncomfortable, "No, not yet... we'll bring him back."

The look Masters shot him could have stripped paint, "Gave you the slip?"

Ives nodded and conceded softly: "He has a talent for that too."

______________________________

PRESENT DAY

Buffy stared at the door, fists clenched.

It hurt - and it shouldn't. Giles wasn't her father, not even her friend really, he was...*other*, like Angel was other - neither fitted.

But he should have trusted her, God damn it, and it shouldn't *hurt* this much. Because Giles' response had told her one thing, that he *didn't* trust her - not with this - whatever this was. But if there was a demon out there that wanted killing, she *needed* her Watcher with her.

The Slayer spun, voice clipped as a drill sergeants. "We have work to do. Willow, I want you to find out anything and everything about the mark of Eyghon."

"I'll try the net. But the mark of Eyghon... that sounds like a Giles and his books sort of a deal."

"Then we hit the books. Xander, how do you feel about digging through some of Giles' personal files and seeing what you can find?"

The boy straightened, dark eyes watchful. "I feel pretty good about it. Does that make me a sociopath?"

He sauntered past, mind already set on the task and she was left staring into the face of Cordelia. The cheerleader smiled brightly.

"What?"

"What about me? I care for Giles too."

"Oh... go help Xander..."

* * * * * * * * *

Ethan could hear them - voices like the murmur of a distant shoreline. The girl Slayer rallying the troops and let his head rest against the brick wall momentarily. The book he had thrown out the window *seconds* before the Slayer had discovered him was clutched tightly under one arm.

He wasn't sure why he had stayed though - maybe it was too see who had won, or if Phillip had corroded like the others. Maybe...

His breath expelled on a cloud of misty air when he heard the car door slam shut - Ripper escorting the woman home - and pushed away from the wall, footsteps echoing hollowly on the pavement.

Ethan Rayne walked with his back straight and fists clenched.

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