The landscape of his mind had been black. The environment Rupert found himself in was bright and full.

The pocket dimension was small. Lights like stars and twinkling swirls like the dust of unformed galaxies formed a mural on the walls, which were several kilometers away. The interior of the dimension, where he now stood, had taken on an imitation of Rupert’s own world, except several key details had been altered or lost in the copy. Purple grass that glowed like a white surface under a black light bent underneath the tread of his shoes. Twisted forms he assumed were meant to be trees reached for a sky that was not there. The trees were molded into human-like images that he found eerie; one tree almost seemed to be a gnarled, wooden hand, begging the not-sky for supplication, while another tree might have been the upper half of a woman, screaming in grief.

That was the extent of the landscape. The electric purple grass stretched from one end of the inferior dimension to the other, and every once in a while, the flat plain was broken up by a tree-like form.

Shivers traveled down his spine. Every instinct within him screamed to leave, to return to the world of rationale and paranormal happenstance. He felt invisible eyes upon him, in every direction, even from the grass beneath him.

Rupert had been raised in a family of sorcerers and champions for the side of the light. He had never taught himself to question the impossible. He had, however, been drilled in the rules of the world that were unalterable to any permanent extent by magic. He wondered what he was breathing. How could the mock-ups of grass and trees here produce oxygen?

He tried his best not to think too long about it. If he stayed here for much longer, he was certain he would go mad.

So intent was he on holding the memory of Watcher Headquarters in his mind that it took him a moment to register what was right in front of his eyes. There was the building itself, at the center of this improbable environment. It rose above head and almost seemed to touch the not-sky. Perhaps it did. There was no sign that the building had once been reduced to smithereens. Every stone and every windowpane had been returned to their proper place.

Steeling himself and taking a deep breath of the not-air, Rupert set a foot on the lowest stair. It was solid underneath his feet. He ascended the steps. The portal at the top opened with a twist of the doorknob, and he stepped inside.

It was too quiet. It shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did. His footsteps echoed across the marble tiles in the wide entrance hall. The interior of headquarters had been fairly modernized. Though old masonry, columns and ceilings had remained in many of the rooms, the walls were plain and flat except for the occasional painting.

The electric cables outside connected to nothing at all, but the lights went on when he turned the knobs beneath the secretary’s counter. The air was cool, leading him to assume the air conditioning was fully functional, as well. A telephone rested on the counter, next to a typewriter. Many of Rupert’s colleagues had shared his dislike of computers. It was just as well. Computers were too complex to function properly around high concentrations of magic. They had a tendency to explode, especially near the number of powerful artifacts the Watchers kept in the vaults down below and in the cataloguing and restoration chambers above.

Corridors to the left and right led into either wing of the building. A marble staircase to the left of the secretary’s counter ascended to the first floor. Weaponry, which he remembered was an assortment of decorative and battle-ready pieces, were arranged on the wall next to the staircase.

In order to phase the building and himself back to proper reality, he needed to be at the exact center of the building. He headed to the stairs.

There should have been guards, posted at the main entrance and before the branching corridors. A secretary should have been sitting behind that counter, inquiring as to his reason for visiting Headquarters. None of them had desired to die. It seemed rather unfair for them to blown to bits, transported to a pocket dimension where they were healed and kept in limbo for four weeks, only to be lost, irrevocably, after that period of time. It baffled him; why keep the building intact, but only hold on to its occupants for a short period of time? What, exactly, happened when they were removed form this pocket dimension? It wasn’t much of a protection spell, if it didn’t ensure the safety of the very people who needed and used the building.

But, then, the Council had never taken a vested interest in keeping individuals alive. Slayers had oftentimes been considered expendable; why not treat Watchers with the same disregard?

The answers likely lay in the Library on the first through fourth floors. One of the Council’s volumes was bound to contain all pertinent information on the Council’s protective spells.

The carpet on the staircase muffled the tread of his shoes. If it hadn’t, he likely wouldn’t have heard the bolt locking.

He looked behind him and back at the door. Something drifted by in his peripheral vision, though he couldn’t tell what.

His response was immediate. Even as his brain whirled from surprise and puzzlement, he flattened himself against the wall. He should have been the only animate being in this miniature reality. Obviously, he’d been mistaken.

He stopped and listened, but heard no other signs. He had a stake in his jacket, but he didn’t know if it would do him any good. He took a sword out of its wall bracket and studied the blade. It was blunt, meaning it was strictly decorative. Hastily, he replaced it and grabbed a nearby axe. This one was sharp.

He descended the steps slowly and peered in all directions. There was nothing there. This did little to reassure him. He tried to undo the bolt, but it was thoroughly stuck. The doorknob wouldn’t turn, either. In fact, the door wouldn’t budge at all in any direction. It was as if something was keeping it in place. He had no idea what that something was. "Wonderful."

He could think of only one course of action, to continue upstairs and get to where he needed to be to perform the second part of the retrieval ritual. Although, if he phased the building back to Earth, and whatever was inside the building came along for the ride, that would likely not bode well.

He sighed. He’d really been hoping for something clean and simple. Well, perhaps not simple, but something straightforward. How hard could it really be, to retrieve a hundreds-of-years-old building from a pocket dimension?

He was still scowling as he turned and began a cautious walk down the left wing of the building, heading in the direction where he’d seen the figment disappear.

Though he remained at alert, listening and watching out for anything odd, he felt a pang as he moved along the corridor. To either side of him were doors, all closed, which led to either offices or conference rooms. The Library was on the floors above. His lips pressed into a thin line as he scanned the names on the doors. He didn’t recognize all of the names; he’d spent as little time as possible at Headquarters in the past seven years, even while he was in England last year. Some members had retired and had been replaced by younger staff.

The corridor intersected with other corridors several times. He glanced down each intersection but saw nothing out of the ordinary…except the view out the window at the far end of each side corridor. Each new glimpse of that purple landscape caused his grip to tighten on the axe’s shaft.

The main corridor ended at a T-Junction. In the middle of the junction was a door. The ledger had been painted in gold, Q. Travers, H. C. W., or Quentin Travers, Head of the Council of Watchers.

Quentin. The other man’s death had done little to stop the anger Rupert felt every time he thought about him. He felt an odd mixture of satisfaction and horror, as well as the anger; he wasn’t sorry that Quentin was dead, but no-one had deserved to be erased from existence in an alternate dimension.

Unlike every other door he’d come across, the door to this office was cracked open. It was dark within.

He pushed the door open. It swung open with a crack. Light from the hallway spilled into the room. He saw a hint of an old, floral rug, a tall and full bookcase he knew had been crafted in the seventeenth century and an ebony desk positioned before the wall.

The darkness behind the desk obscured the crossbow decorating the wall. Only it wasn’t darkness.

The creature, whatever it might have been, flowed over the desk and rushed straight at him. Some details of the creature’s form became clearer as he entered the light, but they were a blur as Rupert threw himself to the side.

He thought he saw something that looked awfully like tweed.

He pivoted and turned to face the thing as it flew into the corridor.

He froze. "Quentin," Rupert said, at the same time the ghost of Quentin Travers said, "Rupert?"

What was left of the Head of the Council floated off the ground, as was standard with ghosts. Unlike a normal apparition, however, Quentin wasn’t white and translucent. He was in colour. His checks were a normal colour for someone alive. Since he’d taken the position as Head in 1998, he’d proceeded to lose half of his hair. He wore a gray tweed suit and a brown vest, appearing the picture of propriety even in death.

One moment, he appeared solid; the next, he was somewhat translucent, and then he was solid again. The constant shift between the two was a little disorienting.

Rupert lowered the axe. "Trust if one of the Council survived, it would be you."

Quentin made an amused sound. "I wouldn’t call this survival."

Rupert shook his head. "Good God, man, what happened?"

"My own stubbornness, I’m afraid. One moment, the building was being blown up; the next, we found ourselves here. And we waited." Quentin’s anger and disappointment bore into him, making him wince. "For four long weeks. Peters and Farian both lost their minds and attempted to injure other members of staff. They spent their last weeks of existence in the dungeons. I don’t suppose you knew them, so it likely doesn’t matter to you."

So, it was possible to go mad here. It didn’t comfort him. "It does matter. I am sorry."

Rupert fought down a surge of irritation. It would do him no good.

"We tried to return to Earth ourselves, but of course, that is not how the retrieval spell works." Quentin looked away. "Why ever not is what I would have wanted to know."

"You don’t want to know anymore?"

"I’m dead, or as near to it as I’m going to be. It wouldn’t make any difference now." Perhaps out of habit, because he surely didn’t need it now, Quentin took a breath. "After the four weeks were up, everyone around me simply began to disappear. The dimension would not accommodate us any longer, another condition of the spell that I would have changed if I’d been able to do so. Before it was too late, I cast a protection spell on myself." He sighed. "As you can see, it didn’t work quite as I had intended."

It was the longest explanation the man had ever given Rupert.

"So," he continued, after a moment of silence. "Here you are, come too late. I assume you still want to retrieve the building, for the resources held here to be used at your disposal."

There was something about his tone, though calm and business-like on the surface, that caused Rupert to tighten his grip on the axe shaft. "As the new Head of the Council, it is my right and my obligation."

Quentin laughed. "New Head of the Council? Surely you are not that naive."

Rupert tensed. "I’m sorry?"

"I’m not dead. Not completely." He shrugged. "Part of me is, I will admit, but not all of me. Until that occurs, I am still Head. And I will not relinquish control of this building to you."

Rupert shifted his stance. "For what reason?" His eyes slid down the corridor, looking for any other apparitions. "The Council is not completely gone. We still have need of the research materials here, the weapons, the financial records."

"I do not care why you need it." Quentin’s lips curled back into a snarl quite unlike any expression the Watcher had used in life. "The Council is gone. Those of our number who were not at Headquarters at the time it was sent into this hellish place failed to help us! They are traitors, all of them-including you, Rupert Giles!"

Upon this pronouncement, a swirl of thoughts went through Rupert’s mind.

First, came anger, which quickly became rage. The ghost of Quentin Travers had dared to call him-him!-a traitor. After everything that had happened…everything he’d been through…

He fought with difficulty to suppress those feelings before he lost all control. And once he’d calmed down, another thought came to him.

He’s completely right. The guilt rose again in his throat, and he squashed it back down with the rage.

He’s starkers. What was left of Quentin Travers had lost its mind.

There could be no reasoning with a madman.

If he wanted to get out of this place with his own sanity intact, or as intact as it had been before he’d come to this place, he had to get upstairs.

Rupert darted past Quentin’s sputtering half-alive ghost and took off at a run down the corridor.

Halfway to the entrance hall, pain flared up in his knee. He lost his balance and nearly ended up falling to the floor out of surprise at the sudden flaring up of his arthritis. It had never felt so painful as it did now, but then, he hadn’t down any serious running in months; perhaps not since Sunnydale’s destruction.

He cursed his body’s timing as he righting himself and kept going. The pain faded into the background as adrenaline pumped through his body.

A scream that was very human and full of rage echoed down the corridor in his wake. "Shit!" Rupert cursed again as he skidded into the entrance hall, turned rapidly and pounded up the stairs.

Hands wrapped around his ankles and pulled. Rupert cried out as he fell against the steps. He twisted onto his side and then his back and swung the axe.

Quentin hovered in the air above him. Rupert could see the ceiling through his translucent form.

The axe passed straight through the apparition. The blade lodged in the railing and wouldn’t tug loose.

"Now, that is just not fair," Rupert said.

Quentin’s expression of absolute fury never wavered.

In desperation, Rupert’s leg lashed out. It connected, and the not-ghost soared backward through the air. Rupert’s mouth dropped open.

With a snarl, Quentin slowed and flew straight back.

"Bugger." Rupert scrambled to a standing position and hurried as fast as he could up the stairs. He didn’t look back, but he could hear Quentin’s mad mutterings becoming louder and louder.

The corridor at the top of the stairs branched to the left and right. Rupert climbed up the last stair and threw himself to the left. Tweed-covered arms followed by legs soared past him. He watched, fascinated, as Quentin flowed through a wall.

Rupert hurried down the corridor, skidded around a ninety-degree corner and entered the Library.

Instead of branching corridors with windows, a clere story several stories overhead provided hazy lighting in the space above the electrical chandeliers.

The heavy sound of his footsteps echoed up to the cross-hatched ceiling. Balconies above him provided glimpses of shelves on the second, third and fourth floors. He passed between more shelves on the first floor. The Library was the quietest it had ever been, for even a dozen studious Watchers could make noise. The feeling of solitude reminded him of the Sunnydale High Library during one of the many periods of the day when he’d found himself alone with his books. He would have loved to be alone now.

His eyes skipped over the labels on each bookcase. He really hoped that Head Librarian Crampton hadn’t decided to reorganize the Council’s extensive collection and that the section he needed was on this floor.

He breathed a sigh of relief, a difficult thing to do when one is panting, when he found the section he was after. He left the central corridor and darted into the aisle. "Now what?" he murmured. Thousands of titles lay before him in this aisle alone. He scanned the spines closest to him as he tried to remember the particulars of this part of the Council’s decimal system. He wasn’t as familiar with this part, but then, Sunnydale had only occasionally had to deal with apparitions of any sort.

"00043.27…" He let out a sigh of exasperation as his memory failed to yield the next decimal point. He stared at the .27 subcategory of section 00043. It started partway down the aisle at the top of the bookcase, some eight feet tall, ran to the bottom and continued on to the next partition. He blinked as he came to a realisation. The entire subcategory was about apparitions.

8 at the third decimal point of any subcategory always held volumes containing defensive and offensive advice. Much of it was rubbish; he just needed to determine what was useable and what wasn’t. "How to Combat Mental Projections of One’s Opponents…The Ancient and Honourable Art of Projecting…"

"Rupert." Quentin’s voice was low and distant, but it echoed in the chamber. "Do you know why you are so disappointing?"

"I’ve read the reports from your teachers at the Academy. They all say much the same thing, that you were a promising young man with the Council’s best interests at heart."

He snatched up the book and hastily flipped through the pages.

"Head Watcher Litterman’s mistake was removing you from your position here as librarian and assistant trainer. We should never have given you direct supervision of a Slayer."

"From what we’d been able to ascertain using the Third Entity, which as you know is no longer in our possession, and other resources, we thought she was a simple valley girl, engrossed in erroneous matters such as clothes and boys. Litterman assumed you would not have any trouble controlling her."

Quentin’s hovering figure appeared at the end of the aisle. "As tragic as his loss was to the Council, it is perhaps fortunate his health failed when it did. He never learned of your failure."

"Finished?" Rupert asked. Quentin’s figure faded into and out of solidity. Rupert continued to flip through the book.

Quentin’s eyes fell on the book. With a snarl, he flew.

Rupert’s eyes barely registered the title and he hadn’t even glanced at the words before he began to speak them. "I Banish Thee, Creature of Air and Earth; I Banish Thee, Remnant of a Being Since Gone; I Banish Thee, from This-"

Quentin knocked him to the ground. The page of the book disappeared from his field of vision and the cross-hatched ceiling replaced it. Quentin’s face appeared, blocking his view of the ceiling. Any semblance of sanity was gone in the deceased Watcher’s eyes, along with any desire to make grand speeches.

The deceased Watcher’s solidified hands wrapped around Rupert’s neck. He could still breathe sufficiently, and while he still could, he held the book back up so he could see it, over Quentin’s left shoulder, and continued the incantation.

"-Place, Until the World Around Thee Doth Crumble and-"

Quentin let out a growl and pressed his fingers even tighter around his windpipe. Rupert desperately took in the biggest breath he could manage and kept going. Purple spots appeared in his vision, threatening to obscure the page of the book.

"-Thine Existence hath been Extinguished!"

Quentin’s growl became a scream of pain. The fingers disappeared from around his neck, and Rupert’s head thudded against the marble floor. He took in a breath and then another as the screaming continued. Glass broke, and Quentin’s cry halted. Silence fell in the library.

Rupert leaned against the shelves to either side of him as he stood. His skull rang painfully and caused him to mutter a number of obscenities.

Glass littered the corridor. One of the windows in the clere story had shattered. Wherever Quentin was, it may have been within a radius of ____ kilometers from this place, but it wouldn’t be in the building.

He hadn’t expected the spell to be that helpful. Considering his luck, it wouldn’t last until "the world around doth crumble" but would last for only a handful of seconds, then Quentin would be back.

He tucked the book into the waistband of his trousers and took off at a jog to the library entrance. He ascended the stairs up to the second floor, which was roughly halfway up the building and would have to do.

The second floor was decorated much the same as the first. An old, creaking wooden floor with a richly embroidered rug ended at walls covering in carved wooden paneling. Turning the corner to the left would bring him to the next floor of the library; turning the corner to the right would bring him into the right wing, where, of all things, recreation and exercise rooms awaited the arrival of out-of-shape Watchers.

Directly in front of him, instead of a sharp ninety-degree corner where the corridors of the two wings met, there was a door. Rupert stepped to the side before reaching over and turning the handle. He didn’t need any more surprises.

The leisure room/parlour on the other side was diamond shaped, with the door in the fifth wall. Windows in the two walls directly opposite would have afforded views of the Thames and the far bank; instead, they reminded Rupert just what lay outside. He weaved around high-backed chairs, footstools and little tables and came to a stop before one of the windows. He stared out at the violet meadows, but he couldn’t see Quentin.

He turned back to face the room. It was ironic that the center of the building was the very room where Council members went to have a smoke on their breaks. There were brandy and sherry bottles and, curiously, one bottle of coke on the tables. One bottle had shattered on the carpet in front of a chair. Rupert tried not to wonder who had been holding it. Perhaps it was a good thing, indeed, that Mark Litterman had never lived long enough to be killed this way.

It took a few moments to drag the heavy chairs away from the center of the room. He ached from various bruises, and another minute passed as he lowered himself to the floor and arranged his protesting legs in a lotus position.

He closed his eyes, surrendering his vision to darkness, and focused inward. Now that he was concentrating, he could feel the power he’d borrowed from Xander. It was still there, and still strong, but it wasn’t as strong as before.

He frowned and opened his eyes. He’d used a significant portion of the borrowed Potential Entity power when he’d phased here. What he had now would not be enough to phase both him and the building back to Earth.

He’d failed.

He propped his elbows on his knees and dropped his head in his hands. The madness would probably set in any moment now. He wondered if the spell would erase him from existence if he stayed there for four weeks. He’d find out.

There had to be something he could use. He needed a certain kind of magical power. When he’d worked here daily, he’d divided his time between the library and the training facilities. He’d set foot into the vaults no more than twice, and it hadn’t been to help catalog the magical objects and weapons that were a part of the Council’s collection. He’d have to familiarize himself with the cataloguing system Johnson and Petrov had used, then he’d have to sort through the collection to see if there was anything useful.

That would take far more time than he was willing to spend here. The only alternative was… "Quentin."

He was a being caught between life and death, between two planes of existence, if his explanation had any semblance of truth. Rupert’s encounter with him seemed to support that claim. Quentin had avoided harm from the axe, a physical thing, probably due to the part of him that no longer had physical form; but Rupert’s boot had impacted and done Quentin harm, due to the part of Quentin that still had physicality. It was a mystery.

The energies Quentin would need to maintain that balance between life and death might just be the right kind.

There was only one problem with that. That energy was keeping Quentin intact. If Rupert took that energy, it was possible that Quentin would not survive it.

*****

Xander hadn’t been listening to the local radio stations or watching the news, but they all gave the same baffled report. Storm clouds had gathered over the Thames for a day. No one could say for certain what direction they had come from. France had some rain, but its weather had yet to reach the UK. The clouds had seemed to appear from nowhere and now were clustering over London. Its citizens and its tourists waited for the downpour that hadn’t come.

Willow folded her arms and studied the weather patterns. Xander placed his hands in his pockets and stared up with her. They stood within the rectangular pit. The enchanted candle hadn’t been moved from its spot and stood erect at their feet.

It was just past noon, and many commuters were out on the sidewalks on either side of the pit, heading to the local cuisine. Xander’s stomach growled. He ignored it in favour of studying the passersby. Not one of them looked a the pit. They didn’t even seem to see it. Willow had confirmed that a masking spell was responsible, meant to conceal the Watchers’ Council from public scrutiny and still in place with the building gone. Xander wondered, idly, what would happen if he suddenly jumped out in front of one of them. He knew how people in Sunnydale and Cleveland would behave. In the form, they’d scream and run. In the latter, they’d scream and run, or they’d spray mace in his only good eye, or they’d beat him senseless. He wondered how the good people of London Town would react. Not that he would ever try to find out just for laughs.

He turned his attention back to the sky. If anything, they looked darker. "I’m thinkin’ the darkest cloud up there is right on top of us," he said. "I’m also thinkin’ it’s gonna be a really big storm, like fill-the-giant-hole-in-the-ground-with-a-neverending-torrent-of-rain kind of storm."

She didn’t look away. "I’m thinkin’ you’re right."

"What should we be expecting here? All this for the Council building?"

Willow shrugged. "I’m not too familiar with the specifics of the spell that sent the building into the pocket dimension, but the Retrieval portion of a lot of powerful Transportation Spells tend to cause a reaction in the elements of the reality in which the Retrieved object will manifest."

Xander blinked. "Wills. You know to dumb down to Non-Wicca-speak for all us Regular Joes."

Still not looking down, she reached over and shoved him. "You’re no Regular Joe, Mister, so don’t let me hear you talking like that." After a moment, she continued, "The clouds are drawn here by the Council Building’s imminent return. As soon as it appears in this dimension again, it’ll rain. A lot. It might rain regular old water. It could be something more mystic-y, like a Rain of Fruit Roll-Ups, or a Rain of Frogs." She made a worried face. "I hope it’s not frogs."

Xander smiled. "In that case, let’s rally for the Fruit Roll-Ups." He checked his watch and sighed. "It’s been two days since we did the spell. Giles should have been back by now."

Willow frowned and looked down at the candle. "Yeah. He should have."

*****

He was tired and hungry. The thought of having to face a crazed poltergeist a second time didn’t thrill him. Rupert found a few things that hadn’t gone bad in the ground floor pantry, next to a kitchen with dishes still in the sink. He prepared his meal quickly and steered clear of that part of the kitchen.

Anywhere he went, he was reminded of just how quiet it was. He did his best to ignore it as he sat in the dining room. Of course, the only other thing on his mind was Quentin. By the time he’d finished his meal, he’d made up his mind.

He had done horrible things in his time. He’d suffocated a man to ensure a goddess’ death. He’d fed power to demons, who had used their newfound strength to perform evil acts elsewhere.

In the case of the former, it had been necessary to ensure the continuation of reality. In the case of the latter, it had been due to his stupidity, anger and desire for power.

He stood on the steps outside the entrance and stared at the edge of the universe, a few hundred kilometers away. He could just make out a small, gray figure against the background of stars. Defensive, Enslavement and Binding Spells to be Used Only Against Incorporeal Forms was open in Rupert’s hands.

"I Summon Thee Who hath been Banished. Thou Shalt Return to This Place from Whence Thou hath been Cast Out, but Thou Shalt Not Return Freely. Three Times Thine Caster Shall Speak: Thou Shalt Be Bound. Thou Shalt Be Bound. Thou Shalt Be Bound."

The gray dot on the horizon was still a gray dot, but as he watched, it grew larger until he could distinguish arms and legs.

Quentin halted above the steps. He was screaming.

Rupert winced but forced himself not to look away. He’d brought this about. He would see it to its end.

His glare was as icy as an apparition could manage. "Damn you to Fourth Hell of Izelbaum!"

He didn’t seem to be manic, just angry. Rupert hesitated, then began. "I need to borrow magical energy in order to complete the retrieval ritual and phase myself and this building back to Earth."

"As the appointed Head of the Council, elected by voting members of the Watcher’s Council, it is my duty and my obligation to provide for whatever needs we may have by any means at my disposal. I have come here to retrieve the rightful property of the Council. (repetitious?). Now that I have bound you to this location, I expect your full cooperation. If you do not cooperate, then you will be made undone."

That was how bounding spells worked. If a bound spirit or being absolutely refused to follow commands, it would become steadily weaker with each ignored command until it died. Because Quentin was already half-dead, refusing even one order would likely be his undoing.

Quentin’s face turned a deep shade of red. His shoulders shook.

It had been impossible to ruffle the man in life. Rupert hoped he wasn’t slipping into another manic episode. Though, when he thought of it, it would make some things easier. It was easier to harm something that was trying to cause you harm in return.

"I know the sort of energy required to perform the ritual, Rupert," Quentin said through gritted teeth. "It is the very energy keeping me in this state."

"Do you really wish to continue like this forever?" Rupert tilted his head and lowered his voice. "There’s nothing here for you anymore."

"That is not for you to say!"

Quentin stretched out his arms and swooped down. Rupert raised an arm and dodged to the side.

Quentin screamed. He landed, hard, against the steps and slumped across them, clutching his head.

"You’re only make things worse for yourself, Quentin! I have bound you; you know full well you can’t harm me or attempt to harm me without hurting yourself instead."

Quentin stood and faced him. His half-alive feet seemed to touch the steps. "Damn you…Master." He spit out the word.

Rupert did not flinch. He held Quentin’s gaze. "If you’re quite finished. Follow me."

He turned and strolled to the open door. He did not check if Quentin was floating along behind him.

An inner calm had settled within him. The old rage of his youth did not control him anymore. The indifference and determination he had learned to summon since that period of his life was at the fore.

He tried his utmost not to acknowledge this part of his psyche, but the piece he’d allowed to surface was ample proof he was already quite mad without the assistance of this place.

Buffy and the others did not know how deeply his personal madness ran. He wondered what they would think if they ever learned of what had and would happen here. They would not hear of it from him. It would do them no good. It would not be the worst secret he would take to the life after.

He led the way up the stairs and into the parlour and bade Quentin hover in the center.

He positioned himself on the ground before the half-alive spirit and set a candle he’d found in the magic supply room on the floor between them. He lit the wick. "The position you hold, between life and death, is unnatural," said Rupert. "When the Council building is removed from this reality, the reality will collapse, and nothing within it will survive. You must move on, either now or later."

"Do not try to bury what you are about to do in righteous excuses," Quentin snapped. "If the Council building remains here, so will I. I will not assuage your guilt for doing something so selfish."

Rupert looked up sharply. "As if you were free of the same behavior. You have no need of this facility any longer, and yet you assume a claim over it out of a pitiful attempt at revenge." His voice hardened. "Watch the candle."

Their gazes had locked. Quentin grimaced but didn’t look down.

He glared. "Quentin Travers, I command you!"

Quentin began to shake. "If it means my death either way…" He sneered. "…I will not."

"You will obey-" Rupert stopped. His mouth dropped open.

Quentin’s features, clothes, and skin transformed into a solid black form and back into Quentin.

It was happening; the madness was setting in. But, no, Quentin screamed before the transformation occurred a second time. His voice faded with his form. When the black human-shaped blob became Quentin again, he wasn’t screaming anymore. Instead, he gurgled, as if drowning. Drool trickled down his chin.

Horrified, Rupert surged to his feet. He knocked the candle over and hastily stomped out the flame that spread to the floor. Smoke rose from the blackened floor, but not enough to obscure his view as Quentin convulsed. "Quentin! Stop!"

The price of disobeying a master in a binding relationship was death. Either Quentin was ignoring the order, therefore expediting his destruction, or he’d reached the point where he’d lost control.

His eyes rolled back into his head. A moment later, the whites of his eyes turned black. Dark gray smoke drifted from the his nose and mouth, drifted out in swirls that fell to the floor then quickly covered the space around his feet. The smoke spread to cover the rest of the floor in the room, like vapors from dry ice.

Rupert fell back. He felt sick as he watched. This was something no living thing, man or creature, should ever have witnessed.

Quentin’s features took on a pasty gray tone that spread to his clothes and shoes. More convulsions racked his body. He made no noise.

He exploded. Black and gray particles flew in all directions, backed by a shock wave of energy, the same energy that had kept his form together.

The wave knocked Rupert onto his back. His head hit the ground, and everything faded out.

*****

"It’s coming," said Willow.

"Oh, yeah." The itching along every area of Xander’s skin had returned, with friends that had brought feathers and other torture implements. He squirmed and grasped the talisman around his neck in one hand. Relief flowed down his fisted hand to his arm and then the rest of his body.

The clouds overhead were as dark as night, darker than any regular storm clouds. Xander would have thought the clouds had vanished and a blanket of stars had fallen, except for two things. One, there were no stars. Two, on the horizon in any direction was a streak of blue, evidence that daylight could be found in other parts of the world.

Headlights of cars turned on hastily. Tires squealed and metal, plastic and flesh tore apart as other cars crashed. In the Thames, a restaurant boat blew its whistle as a tour boat veered off course. Pedestrians froze on blackened sidewalks unlit by timed streetlights. Midnight had fallen over the wide city of London.

Over the tops of the buildings and into the mostly empty street came the shouts of confusion and screams of people for blocks around. There must have been many of them to be heard where Xander and Willow stood, on the sidewalk beside the pit.

They winced and turned away as bright daylight, suddenly and inexplicably, shined down upon them. More shouts and more sounds of crashes reached their ears as the darkness vanished, along with the clouds. Blue skies stretched overhead.

Through the gaps in the buildings, Xander watched a few more cars ram into each other and the railing on the closest bridge.

Xander patted his arms and chest. He felt odd, and it took him a minute to realize he felt normal. The sensations he’d experienced in the past few days around the empty pit had disappeared. Weary, he pulled the talisman’s leather thong off his neck. Nothing changed. He felt no itching, no sudden bouts of unconsciousness, and no other unpleasantness.

"Something went wrong," said Willow, worried.

The pit was still empty. Watcher HQ hadn’t reappeared.

"Where is it?" Xander looked behind him, but the rest of the street hadn’t altered. "Did it go somewhere else?"

*****

With a shout, Rupert regained consciousness and sat up. He looked around, and for one crazed moment he didn’t know where he was.

The smoke was gone. Any trace of Quentin Travers was gone. The upturned candle next to a darker, torched section of floor remained. That was all.

Had he lost his senses? Had he imagined the whole thing? He shook his head. No. It had been all too real.

Unease settled in his stomach. He stood and called, "Quentin?" He received no answer.

He’d failed. He slumped forward and caught his balance on a chair. He could feel the leftover energy he’d borrowed from Xander still inside him. It was enough to get him back. It wasn’t enough to move the Council building.

After everything he’d done to get here, after all that happened once he’d arrived, after what he’d been willing to do…he’d still failed. It was impossible. After all the times he’d pulled through, that they’d pulled through, this shouldn’t have happened.

He stared around, taking in the high backed chairs, side tables and liquor cabinet. He thought about the weapons, whole shelves, walls and cages of them, in the east wing of the building. He thought longingly, mournfully, about the largest collection of mystical tomes in the world. He thought about the bank locations, account numbers and accounting books in the offices in the west wing, locked in safes he didn’t have the time or the skill to open. They were lost forever now. This little venture of his had gained them absolutely nothing.

Hubris was a word he’d believed hadn’t applied to him to any way that counted. Oh, how wrong he was.

"Damnit!" He kicked the chair. Rage, unlike anything he’d felt in a very long time, overcame him. He ceased thinking. He acted.

He took out his frustration and his shame on the furniture around him. He didn’t stop until his shoulders and hands ached from overuse. He rarely lost his temper. Even then, he never resulted to violent behavior except for only a handful of times in his life. They were more secrets he would take with him when he left this life.

As he assessed the destruction, he remembered why he avoided slipping into that special kind of rage. Two chairs had lost their legs and one table lay in pieces. He found he could remember only snapshots.

No, this place, no matter how much longer he would be there because of Quentin’s sacrifice, wouldn’t drive him insane. He didn’t need to be driven.

With a heavy heart, not relishing the news he’d give the only friends he had that were still alive, he left the sitting room the way it was. He’d go on one last walk through the building. Then he’d go. There was nothing else he could do.

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