When Giles stepped out of the chartered plane, the first thing he noticed was the scorching, all-consuming heat. Made the Hellmouth seem like a winter retreat. Mosquitoes swarmed around his head and he brushed them away with a put-upon sigh.

The plane ride had been atrocious - the peanuts were stale, the quarters were cramped, and the sun had shone aggressively through the un-shuttered window the entire 6 hours from Heathrow to this godforsaken hole somewhere in the wilds of Romania. Giles was starting to think that the direct flight to Bucharest would have been the better choice rather than taking the chartered flight to this dreary little town at the base of the Transylvanian Alps.

Giles left the airstrip, bag over his shoulder, glad that he had chosen to wear loose-fitting khakis and a button-down polyester shirt rather than his standard cotton or tweed. He could feel sweat beginning to trickle between his shoulder blades and was anxious to find his guide who would take him to the secluded brotherhood at Torpes Peak.

A lone man stood leaning against the flight office, floppy Indiana Jones-type hat blocking the glare of the sun, oversized dusty shorts and wife-beater rounding out the ensemble. Though Giles couldn't see the man's face well as it was hidden in shadows, the easy posture and lean body indicated that the man was young, probably late twenties. The stranger held a cardboard sign in hand that read only: "Giles". So the ex-Watcher stepped up to him and thrust his hand out in greeting.

"I take it you're the man Frederick sent?" he asked.

The man nodded, but ignored Giles' offer of greeting. Awkwardly, Giles dropped his arm and gripped his bag in both hands. With a bored glance at the plane, the man turned and headed down the village's main road. Actually, it was the only road, but Giles was trying not to think of that.

As they continued on and the man still offered no conversation, Giles found himself quickly becoming frustrated with the silence. This was a life-or-death situation, one that depended upon perfect execution. Not only was Spike's freedom and sanity on the line, but the lives of countless young women who would be looking to Buffy for protection - protection which she couldn't give while worrying about their vampire friend.

And when did I start thinking of Spike as our friend? Giles asked himself. Instead of contemplating the thought further, he turned his inquisition and residual frustration toward his mute companion.

"Since you obviously know my name, I think it's only fair that I know yours," he suggested, but his tone of voice revealed enough of the Ripper in him for the statement to be considered a demand.

He saw the man's mouth quirk up in amusement. "Name's Ryker," he replied, then tipped his hat in a friendly gesture.

Giles waited for more, but the man offered nothing else. With a sigh he shifted his bag securely across his shoulders and followed Ryker up a beaten path and into the rugged mountains.

"Can we rest a moment?" Giles pleaded as he fell farther and farther behind Ryker. He was discovering just how old he had gotten while living in England - it seemed there truly was no better exercise than saving the world from evil.

Ryker glanced back at the lagging Brit and lowered himself easily to sit on a felled tree. Giles sighed in relief and climbed the last few metres to join the younger man. He poured a healthy amount of water down his aching throat and took these few moments of respite to take a closer look at his quiet guide.

There was an earthy quality to Ryker, a sort of animal magnetism. His eyes seemed almost yellow in the glare of the setting sun, which reminded Giles of a vampire's demonic amber ones. There was also a sharpness to him that made it clear he was not a man one wanted to cross.

But there was something else that Giles couldn't quite put a finger on…

"So tell me, Ryker," Giles began carefully, "how did you and Frederick meet?"

The younger man squinted out into the forest, between the trees, among the moss, skilfully avoiding the question. But Giles waited patiently, sipping his water, tightening his body like a coiled viper, ready to strike at the first sign of deception.

Ryker finally turned to Giles and looked closely at him, as if to pull trust from somewhere deep inside.

"I've never met Frederick," Ryker admitted. "I was sent on behalf of someone else. Someone we'll meet at the top of the mountain."

Giles removed his glasses and wiped them furiously. "Frederick assured me that the utmost secrecy would be upheld -"

"Don't worry, Daniel is a righteous man. He's told no one who didn't need to be told." Ryker glanced at the sky. "We'd best be moving. The woods aren't safe after dark."

When they finally arrived at the brotherhood, it was nothing like Giles had expected. Children ran between his legs as they chased after loose chickens. Women chatted together, wove baskets, baked bread. A group of men were practicing Tai Chi and Jujitsu atop a small hill.

The monks passed among the people in relative silence, nodding their greetings and bowing in acceptance of well-wishes. Their robes touched the ground, demurely obscuring their feet, and they walked in formation, separated by colours if not by rank.

Ryker led Giles through the crowd, touching cheeks and hands, an action the symbolism of which was not lost on Giles. It was clear that Ryker was the leader of these people, spiritually or otherwise, and though it did not earn his trust, it did deserve a degree of respect.

"Daniel is in meditation today - otherwise he would have come with me to meet you." Ryker gestured towards an open gazebo. There sat a red-haired man, facing away, towards the mountains, candles set about him in a circle of purity. As they watched, the young man stood and turned to face them.

"Oz?"

"Well, that is a very…colourful tale," Giles remarked over tea with Daniel 'Oz' Osbourne later that afternoon, after the young werewolf had given him a tour of the monastery and filled him in on the last few years of his life since leaving Sunnydale. "Meeting Frederick in Prague, travelling here with him where he introduced you to the brethren, this secluded werewolf community; quite extraordinary!"

"Yeah," the quiet man replied, and glanced past Giles. A horde of children ran screaming past, one little girl clearly the focus of Oz's attention.

She was adorable, Giles would readily admit, with her unbrushed red hair in messy pigtails and oversized clothes dragging dirtily on the ground. Swiping her sleeve beneath her runny nose, she gave Oz a grin before darting off to chase the others.

"I take it she's yours," Giles remarked. Oz turned and shook his head.

"She's Lowena's," he replied with a nod in said woman's direction. Standing just a few feet from them and in a heated argument with Ryker, was Lowena. Tall, blonde, beautiful, she looked nothing like the child save for the button nose and deep blue eyes, which right now were spitting fire at the other man.

"The child does have a father," Giles pressed on, and Oz glanced between Lowena and Ryker.

"Ryker's her husband."

The Brit sipped at his tea again and glanced at the couple. Ryker looked nothing like the child, and he assumed that, even though the child's father clearly was not Ryker, that local custom and the couple's marital status automatically made her his daughter.

"He's her mate as well?" he asked, knowing that, for werewolves, the partners they chose in human form were not always the partners their wolf-forms sought.

But the young man didn't answer him, instead turning in his seat to continue watching the children play.

"I won't pretend to understand the full extent of the hierarchy or patriarchy or whatever it is that has chosen Ryker as the alpha male," he admitted, "but that child -"

"Giles, it doesn't matter if she's mine or not," Oz interrupted. "I love her regardless."

The two men finished the pot of tea before standing to join the monks in their evening meditations.

"You're a good man, Daniel," Giles said, using his given name, and placing a fatherly hand on the younger man's shoulder. "And I'm sure that, given the chance, you'd make a wonderful father."

"Spike's good now? Like, actually good?"

Giles gave a little laugh and cleaned his glasses. "As hard as that is to believe, he has earned a place on the side of light. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"Well," Giles admitted, replacing his glasses, "I still have some…reservations about having a vampire in Buffy's house." Oz raised his eyebrows in question. "Oh, it's not what you think, well, I don't think it is, you think…? No. Of course it's not."

"A vamp living in Buffy's house…and it's not what I think?"

"We lock him in the basement."

"Like that would stop her."

Giles was about to defend his Slayer's past, current, and future vampiric indiscretions when something painted on the wall caught his attention. He stepped forward, squinting to make out the drawings and the scrawled lettering.

"Is this - is this a prophecy?"

Oz stepped up next to him and gave the wall a once-over. "Ryker said it's something about a boy who the monks took in about ten years ago. They had a communal vision during one of their meditations, which they immortalized here." Oz brushed his fingers over the wall, where small robed figures were etched, stars below their feet and a scene above their heads. A boy, a girl, and a duck. The future depicted was bloody, fiery, and the woman carrying the flaming broadsword was clearly the Slayer, and the two demons who flanked here were obviously Spike and Angel.

"Dear lord," Giles muttered. "This is, this is -" He couldn't read the writing, composed in Romanian which he was completely inept at translating, but the pictures spoke to him instead.

"The kid's name, it was…Gabriel? Michael? Some biblical name."

"Ezekiel," Giles whispered, "his name's Ezekiel. But he said to call him Zeke."

"You know him?" Oz asked, any surprise he may have felt disguised by his easy-going nature.

"The night before I left, he arrived and aided Buffy in saving the lives of Dawn, a Potential Slayer, and the girl Zeke has sworn himself to protect."

Oz gestured at the wall again. "That girl?" Giles looked at the picture of the boy, the girl and the duck again.

"There's always more to these damn prophecies than meets the eye," he remarked to himself. "And this? What is this?" Giles fingered the strange shape above the boy's head.

"That's a halo. The monks call him the 'unwinged angel'."

Giles blanched. "Dear Lord," he repeated, and began digging through his bag for the prophecy.