Thanks to:
Jayde & Lisette: Jayde, good thinking, you read my mind. Lisette, thanks for the plug. (I've been checking out your story, love it, although I have to admit that we don't get Pretender where I live but I've got a pretty good idea what it's about). And to both; WHOOPSIES! Thanks for the catch. Hope that didn't confuse either of you and have you picturing a willowy British new age singer instead of a reformed vengeance demon. Thanks again!
Meanwhile…
There exists in the world, at this very moment, a room. It is a very dark room with no windows to the outside world which leads the outside world to believe that it does not exist. The lights are almost always turned off; illumination is only used when needed, which is very rare for few in this world are granted access to it. There is an elaborate ventilation system set up in this room, the air is cooled and cleansed before entering and after escaping the confines of the room it is recycled through another rigorous purification system and pumped back in.
To an outsider the room is very bare but filled with interesting if somewhat puzzling items. An outsider with no knowledge of the items may treat it like a gift shop; a few unique trinkets here and there, but overall a rather bland thing to experience.
But to those granted access to this small room, it is a place of excitement and awe, power and magic. Those who are able to enter through the thick steel safe-like doors are highly trained in the latter area. They know every single object in the room, its use and its origin. They are the librarians, the janitors and most importantly, the gatekeepers.
There also exists in this world, at this very moment, the outsiders; ignorant and oblivious to the room. But among these outsiders are those that do know of the room in question. For various reasons, all valid in their own right, access is denied to these individuals. But there is a hunger that dwells deeply in the hearts of those denied; so great that it cannot be ignored, especially by those assigned to guard the room and all its possessions. Yet for all the gatekeepers' abilities, for all their safeguarding and protection spells, the hearts of the wicked cannot be held at bay for very long.
Evil always finds a way.
Rupert Giles certainly wasn't opposed to flying – provided, of course, that it didn't last longer than a few hours, which is exactly how long it does not take to reach England. Flying over the immense blue of the Atlantic ocean started the familiar giddy feeling in the pit of Rupert's stomach that he always felt when he neared his home. Unfortunately, the giddy feeling never lasted long for it was immediately replaced with the anticipated anxiety associated with dread. 'Heathrow'. He thought the name in his head, gritting his teeth against the inevitably approaching headache that had become synonymous with the airport to him. Stepping into the chaotic world that was Heathrow Airport took an impenetrable patience and steely concentration, and that was just to find the baggage claim.
Giles waited patiently between rude and jostling flyers anxious to get on their way. As luck would have it his luggage came last, but ever the optimist, Giles was happy that it came at all. Wading through the scores of travelling Brits and lost tourists took a considerable amount of time and nerves of steel. Finally reaching the automated doors, Giles made a lunge for the exit. A light misty drizzle had settled over the city, bringing with it the sharp odour of ozone. To Giles it smelt like heaven. For all Sunnydale's 'charm' and perfect day after perfect day, nothing felt quite as refreshing as a typically imperfect day in his country of birth.
Taking in all the familiar smells of his youth, he was impervious to the honking car parked directly in front of him, until the driver exited the car and announced his name loudly in his ear.
"Mr. Rupert Giles."
Startled out of his reverie, Giles blinked and finally acknowledged the driver stiffly standing next to him. The young man picked up his bags, stuffing them into the trunk of the awaiting black vehicle.
Reminding himself solemnly that this was official business and not a trip down memory lane, Giles sat down on the black leather seats in the back of the car. He sighed, resigning himself to the fact that his job did not allow for rest or resolutions, not when something or someone was always trying to convert the earth into a hellish-world-without-ice-cream-or-puppies nightmare. As much as he found purpose in his chosen career, (after all, saving the entire population of earth was a pretty noble job and all) he sometimes wondered if retirement and a pension plan would ever come into play. Giles leant his head against the window and closed his eyes.
He did not recall sleeping, but when the car lurched to a stop, Giles opened his eyes and found himself in a place he did not recognize. The young driver turned his head to the side, just enough so that Giles could see his left eye, but he did not say anything. He slightly nodded his head to the townhouse across the street and Giles took his meaning.
He was left to gather his own luggage from the trunk and carried them up to the doorstep of the house. Placing them down by his feet, he reached forward to push the doorbell, but before his fingertips could grace the button, the door opened.
"William?" Giles frowned at the middle-aged man standing in front of him. The man looked pale, worn out. William Woodson, Council Member and long time friend of Rupert Giles, was usually a study in child-like exuberance. The man would literally squeal if he found something of interest, as mundane as it might seem to the rest of the world.
"What's happened?"
Rupert's tea had barely been touched. Instead, he sat cross-legged in a high-backed armchair, stroking his chin unconsciously as he listened to William's story. The library they sat in was surrounded by thick volumes on every paranormal activity ever recorded, complete with skull bookends and overflowing candles. The study was warmed by a small fire crackling in a red-brick fireplace. At this instance however, Giles could not feel the heat emanating from the golden embers. William was divulging information with him that he should not be, but if the gatekeeper was correct in his assumption, then Sunnydale could be in great danger. Yet again.
"Are you sure they were American?" Giles asked.
William nodded as he rubbed his hands together over and over. "Positive. They had an accent. I heard them speaking before I lost consciousness." He lowered his eyes to the ground in memory. "They killed Annette. Sucked her dry."
Giles lowered his eyes in grief. He did not know Annette for very long; she was a younger member recruited not long before he left for the United States. But to be taken by a vampire… Giles shuddered at the thought of the poor woman's terror before her last breath. "What did they take?"
William's eyes widened slightly as he slowly raised his head to meet Giles. "Come with me."
Giles knew about the room; every Council Member did. Most referred to it as the vault; on account of its protective custody in the hands of the gatekeepers. There were many who yearned to see its contents, to touch and study the items in the room. But it was for that very reason that only a trusted few, those specifically picked for their extensive magic abilities, were able to watch over the rare treasures within the vault.
They entered the small windowless room, which was instantly flooded with bright fluorescent lights, and Giles took in the shelves lining three walls and boxes filling every spot on those shelves. What couldn't be fit on the shelves were piled neatly on the floor in front of the shelves. Trepidation coursed through Rupert's heart as he stepped through the steel-framed doorway.
This vault held the single largest collection of magical artifacts collected throughout the world and throughout time. They were brought here to protect man from their potency, their potential exploits. Many of the items were used for dark processions; they spoke to Giles of their evil tales.
"Here." William said softly as he stooped to take a pile of small boxes off the top of a significantly larger one. The top of the white box had at one point been taped shut, but had obviously been ripped open not long ago.
Giles knelt down beside William and peered inside the box. There was a large stone chest inside, shaped like a tomb. It gleamed white as though made from an ivory marble, but Giles knew that the rock it was shaped from could not be found in this world. The top of the chest had symbols carved deeply in it, a Runic writing of some kind. Giles ran his fingers over the etchings, seemingly hypnotized by their words.
"Do you know what it says?" William asked softly.
Giles stared at the writings, absorbed and intrigued. "I thought it was a myth." He gasped.
William was shaking his head from side to side. "Sometimes I wish it were. There was not a Member among us that could control it. Many fell prey to its whispers of power and glory. Most never recovered."
Giles sighed as he stood, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes as he made for the door. "And now it's in Sunnydale."
"What do you think they'll do with it?"
Giles grimaced. "They didn't touch anything else. They knew what they were looking for and didn't waste time finding it. A Seeing Stone. Only someone with substantial powers can yield it. I suspect they'll try to use it; for what purpose is anyone's guess."
In an instant, Giles decided to cut his trip to England drastically short. He was leaving for California, tonight. As Giles strode down the hall he stopped and grumbled a word that made William grin.
"Heathrow."
Thranduil, King of the northern realm of Mirkwood, had been unable to eat for the past two days. He refused every tray of food, every goblet of wine. He would take nothing but water. He rarely slept or spoke, instead he paced in front of his throne with a stormy glare, he paced in front of his fireplace with a brow creased in worry, or he sat lost in thought, detached from the concerned glances and murmuring of his court, as he did now.
Calenuil grasped the ornately designed backing of Thranduil's throne, arching over the arm of the chair to whisper lowly in the King's ear.
"My lord." He prompted. Thranduil stared stonily ahead, oblivious to Calenuil at his side. "Thranduil." Calenuil touched him softly on the arm, urging his King's attention.
Thranduil slowly faced him with a mixture of anger, worry and annoyance flickering across his features simultaneously. He sighed and rubbed his weary eyes. "What is it Calenuil?"
"Lord Elrond will notified within the week. A dispatch has been sent to the Order of the Istari. The scouting parties have reported no new findings. What is your bidding?"
"My bidding?" Thranduil repeated. He studied Calenuil with deadened eyes. Never before had the King been at a lost for words and just when his brother believed that Thranduil would return to his numbed state, the King rose from the throne and with piercing emerald eyes, locked Calenuil with their stare.
"My bidding is that my son will be found, at all costs if necessary. That is my bidding."
The entire court halted in their business to watch the King stride purposefully from the throne room, leaving a troubled Calenuil.
