Helplessness - Ch. 1

The package arrived looking quite innocent: a medium-large box, perhaps just big enough to contain five or six books of normal size. Giles freed the Swiss army knife from his trouser pocket and opened out the larger blade, anticipating the pleasure of discovery. What would Briggs have sent him this time? The Council Archivist was a fairly good friend, and always on the lookout for something that would either pique Giles's interest or help with the constant war fought here on the Hellmouth, far from the Council's quiet halls.

Giles smiled as he cut--carefully, so that there would be no danger of damage to the books inside--slicing through the tough, fibrous tape that bound the corrugated carton, folding back the flaps one at a time, every gesture patient, methodical. In his normal life, he was not a man given to rash or hasty actions. He collected a rubbish bin from against the far wall and, disposing of the packing materials that had cushioned the books from harm, lifted out the top volume

Giles smoothed the cover with his hand, relishing the feel of the lightly embossed leather under his fingertips. Although he wasn't actually a librarian by either inclination or training, Giles possessed a lifetime's love of books, dating back to the boyhood hours spent in the haven of his father's study. In many ways this love remained the clearest expression of his love for long-dead Henry Giles, whom even in the recklessness and disregard of his childish days, Giles idolized. His mother, Clara, had been like a warm day in January, full of sweetness and caresses, ultimately not to be relied upon, but his father, though often absent from the he family home, had been a rock, a shelter--a soft-spoken, wise, formal, kindly man whom Giles continued to miss, achingly at times, even after better than thirty years.

Shaking off these thoughts of his father, Giles smiled: the book in question was Hume's Paranormal Encyclopedia, Vol. I, one of the titles the horrid Mrs. Post had sneered at him for lacking in his collection. He resolved to write Briggs at least a brief personal note of thanks.

The second book was a compendium of demonology written in the fourteenth century by the mad monk Brother Anselm the Lesser, Flagellist and visionary. A bit of nice, light reading. Giles lifted it aside and stopped, frozen.

In a hollow between two narrow volumes lay a brown leather case the size and shape--about two inches by six--of the box in which Giles stored his fountain pen. He knew at once, in one of those moments of dreadful clarity with which he was now and then afflicted, what the case contained, what it meant, what act of betrayal he would be forced to perform. Inside lay two vials of poison, intended to steal Buffy's strength. He must guide her to a lonely place where as only herself, an innocent girl, she'd be forced to combat some deadly foe. He must endanger her and, above all, he must not inform her of the danger to come. Cruciamentum, the test was called.

With trembling hands, he lifted the box, wishing, for one instant, that he dared to crack it open, spill its contents onto the lino'd floor and crush the vials and syringe to power under his heel. He made the wish fervently, with all the hidden passion of his soul--though he knew he had no hope of such a thing being granted, and that the cameras that would record his actions were most likely already in place. He knew, as well, that any attempts to impair their operation would carry the same weight as outright refusal, and that both the act he was, with this case, being asked to perform, and refusal to perform that act could only lead to the same end: the loss of nearly all he loved, all that was left to him. His masters would watch every moment. They would judge. If they found him in any way wanting, it was certain he would be taken from his Slayer, and she from him.

Giles found the very thought of such a betrayal chilling, and yet suspected it would be a path he'd be forced to take, that he would indeed administer the compound and lead his Slayer to the testing ground. For all her lack of learned knowledge, Buffy was a clever girl, strong even without her strength. But still, to slip the needle into her arm, watch her power ebb, lock her in darkness with some evil thing...he could not bear the cruelty of the act, or that his masters would be so callous as to require it of him. That they would ask him to betray his beliefs, his honour, his own character--that, in the end, all he'd done meant nothing in their eyes. He meant less than nothing.

Buffy would hate him, that he knew, and even if she one day forgave him in her conscious mind, the knowledge of his treachery would linger forever, festering, in the darker parts of her memory. He could not see her hurt again. He could not cause her pain. He could not bear for her to suffer. Not his Buffy. Not his lovely girl.

And yet, if he did not, some other who did not love her would commit the act, and then he knew, for certain, she would die. Was it better for a stranger to betray, or for one who loved her more than his own soul?

The burden of choice crushed him, bowing his shoulders, pressing, inexorably at his heart with an actual, physical pain like a dull stake of large diameter being driven with exquisite slowness into his chest. He became dimly aware that he could not breathe, and that his entire body trembled as he bent over the table, supporting his weight on one hand, while the other, in a fist, pressed to his chest.

God, old man, he chided himself with silent savagery. Enough of this. Pull yourself together--what if one of them should see you?

Too late. Dimly, he felt a light hand touch his arm, then jerk away.

"Giles?"

Willow's voice. God, why Willow? More perceptive than her friends, she would certainly guess that something was amiss.

Giles forced himself to straighten, forced his fist to draw away from the penetrating pain, forced his tongue to say, with a voice even he recognized as a shallow mockery of his normal tone. "Yes, Willow, what is it?"

She looked frightened, terrified in fact, white showing all around the greenness of her eyes.

"What can I help you with?" he tried, sounding, perhaps, a bit more himself.

Willow closed her two hands firmly round his arm. "I think you should sit down, Giles."

"Why? Has something happened?" Amazing, once he started, how easy it became to sound normal. He sat as she suggested, looking up, with feigned innocence, into her troubled face.

"Oh, nothing's wrong--except I said your name about six hundred times and you didn't answer."

"So many times as that? I...I'm sorry, Willow. I was preoccupied." The pain persisted, but he was able to breath normally, and to hold his body upright and perfectly still. He would no longer give her cause for concern.

"You looked like you were having a heart attack."

He stretched out his arms. "N-no. No,perfectly fine."

"Can I get you a glass of water or anything?"

"Willow." He could even, Giles marveled, make himself smile at her. "I'm fine. Never better."

"And why don't I believe you?" Her teeth caught at her lower lip.

"Because I'm lying." He could laugh as well. "Ask Buffy about the thrashing she gave me yesterday--I'm afraid I strained a muscle in my shoulder, which I aggravated lifting this rather interesting box." Like a magician, Giles vanished the case into his trouser pocket, using another magician's trick, distraction, to deflect her worry. "Some interesting volumes, this time," he told her and began, as she leafed through the pages, to recount anecdotes from the odd life of Brother Anselm the Lesser.

After Willow's departure, Giles searched for the cameras, finding one in his office, two more in the stacks, another three in the main body of the library. Good quality devices, he surmised, with microphones that would be sensitive enough to pick up the merest whisper.

When Buffy came by that evening, already attired for training, she laughed at him, though not without sympathy. "Will said you were in agony from yesterday--sure you don't want to skip it tonight?"

"Much as you might enjoy that--" Giles shook his head, showing her his false smile; Buffy never noticed. "I think not. And here's what we ought to work on, I believe..."

He put the quarterstaff in her hands, offering the instructions that he knew she found beyond tiresome, and would disregard at any rate. Buffy looked at him askance when he dispensed, for once, with his protective padding, perhaps half-hoping she would pummel him into oblivion. In a coma, he could not commit treason.

Oddly, without that protective shell, Giles fought better than ever before, defending himself with enough skill that Buffy actually stopped laughing and was forced to pay attention.

"Hey," she said, striking hard and fast, obviously surprised when he met each move. "Who are you, you manly man, and what have you done with Rupert 'I don't like to hit girls even though it's my job' Giles?"

Giles struck behind one knee, throwing her off balance. Stumbling, Buffy acted instinctively. Her own staff twirled, slamming up between his legs with nearly all the force of her considerable strength. Crying out in anguish, he went down like a cut tree, every bit of his self-control called into being merely to prevent him from clutching at his agonized manhood, while Buffy stared at him as if she'd not expected her blow to have any effect at all.

Giles could do nothing, however, to prevent his body from curling into a ball, and could only raise an arm over his eyes to hide the entirely involuntary tears that coursed down his face.

In a haze, he felt Buffy's hand hesitantly touch his shoulder, and had he actually been able to speak, would have attempted to put her mind at ease. A white-hot wire of pain ran from his groin to the base of his throat, continually tightening itself as the heat flared higher and higher, sending subsidiary feelers down his legs, knotting itself into a complex ball in the pit of his stomach. The pain increased until he though he must scream, then suddenly ebbed, leaving a dreadful trembling illness in its wake.

Giles was nearly proud of himself: when Angelus inflicted similar injuries during his stay at the Crawford Street mansion, he'd been instantly sick. This time he was able to pull himself together enough to at least rise from the floor--shaking off the hand Buffy offered as support--and limp up the shallow stairs to the tiny lavatory hidden behind the stacks.

By the time he returned, Buffy had vanished from the main room, though Giles soon located her in his office, perched cross-legged on his desk. She said nothing but, as he fell shakily into the more comfortable chair, held out an icepack, such contrition in her face he would not have been able to help but laugh--except that it hurt too much to do so.

Giles fell silent, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. He took the icepack from her hand, but set it aside, unwilling to seek its relief in her presence.

"Would it help to say that I'm as sorry as it's possible for a person to be?" she asked.

"Quite all right," Giles answered, somewhat froggily. "My fault entirely. Ought to have taken...er...precautions."

She studied him. "Your voice is all right--" A bit of laughter began to sparkle in her eyes. "So I don't think I've threatened future generations of Gileses."

She meant the words humourously, but he could not help but gaze at her with such sadness he felt her draw away. Didn't she know? More than anything in his adult life he'd wanted children of his own, children he would raise himself with love and care, instead of seeing them only at weekends, as his father had done with him, or sending them to be raised by strangers, boarded at some harsh, distant school. That he'd been no more than a boy himself at the time of his son Sebastian's birth, incapable of such care, was one of the great regrets of his life.

Buffy misunderstood. She thought he meant to accuse her--and, perhaps, in some tiny, well-buried part of himself, he did. Jenny, his Jenny, was gone, and Giles doubted that he'd find the heart again to open himself so to another. Yet he smiled to reassure his Slayer, and managed a small, dry joke. "Yes, quite an able demonstration, on your part, of one effective method for incapacitating an opponent."

"I really am sorry. Really, truly." She gave his shoulder another pat, slipping down from her perch. "Want me to go away now so you can actually use that icepack?"

"That would be most appreciated," Giles replied, then added, as he always did, "Be careful."

"You too," she added, giving him a look he couldn't quite fathom, as if some sixth sense had told her more about what must be than she herself understood. "Is..." Buffy began, then shook her head, moving as if to depart.

"Goodnight," Giles told her softly.

She paused, running her hand up and down the doorjamb. Her nail varnish, that day a metallic green, twinkled in the low light. "You fought really well tonight," she said, not facing him. "But why did you want me to hurt you? What's up with that?"

Giles came within a breath of telling her, but something, perhaps the mere tenderness that had come into her voice, stopped him. The words would take her from him: a betrayal, ironically, would leave him in place to protect her, to protect them all.

"Goodnight, Buffy," he said again, more firmly the second time.