Sandra Pascoe - The Summoning 01

Title: The Summoning (1/5)
Author: Sandra Pascoe
Pairing: None - there's a turn-up!
Rating: PG
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 < >. 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.

Author's Note: Had to fiddle with formatting so hopefully this comes out okay - < > indicate thoughts

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

"...found it. Did I do something wrong? Did my ignorance bring death upon my family? I will be the last to die. All is prepared. I have used the remains of my fortune to try and destroy this thing. The sharpest axe, the hottest flame, will not mark any of the segments. So I have sent out riders - each carrying a piece of this "thing". They will hide them well - it is all I can do. Now I must go to my bath - the servants have filled it with water - sprinkled rose petals upon the surface. The knife has been sharpened. I will now let the blood from my wrists and join my ancestors in the hope that they can forgive me."

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 11th 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 12th 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 12th 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 that's 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."

**********