Portents and Prophecies

There are prophecies, of course… there are always prophecies.” Giles mumbled the latter wearily. At Ethan’s enquiring glance he continued, speaking the words by rote, “With one breath, Acathla will create a vortex that will pull everything on Earth into that dimension, where any non-demon life will suffer horrible and eternal torment.”
 
“There is, of course, another prophecy pertaining to the stopping of the demon.” Giles sighed, running a hand despondently across his face, hiding the misery in his eyes from the merciless gaze of the one person who had always been able to see into his heart, to easily discern the things that he managed with little difficulty to hide from the rest of the world.
 
“Your Slayer?” Ethan asked gently.
 
A self-deprecating snort shook the watcher’s shoulders. “How do you do that?” he asked rhetorically. “Yes. My Slayer. It is, of course, a very long-winded and convoluted prophesy, requiring translations from three different and all-but-extinct demon languages; it pretty much boils down to this.  In order to prevent the rise of Acathla and destroy the demon completely, a slayer, carrying within her the seed of evil, is required. Evil which, in this particular case, comes in the form of a very dangerous and, rather fortunately for us, crippled Master vampire by the name of Spike—or William the Bloody, as he’s otherwise known.”
 
“Rupert, I hate to point out the obvious, but you are aware that vampires are infertile, aren’t you?”
 
“Yes, I am aware of that fact, thank you,” Giles replied. “However, according to this prophesy, a Master vampire is able to impregnate a claimed Slayer.”
 
Giles pushed the covers away weakly, attempting to climb out of bed only to be easily held in place by a strong, wiry arm when Ethan’s hand came to rest squarely on his chest, pushing him back. “And just where do you think you’re going?” the warlock asked.
 
“I was under the impression that I am no longer your prisoner,” Giles retorted.
 
“You’re not. You’re also not ready to be out of bed, and so I repeat: where do you think you’re going?”
 
“My Slayer… Buffy.  I need to… She’s alone with a vicious killer, one who specialises in the murder of Slayers.” Giles struggled against Ethan’s restraint once more before surrendering and collapsing back against the pillows. “I was on my way home to rescue her from this abomination when you… delayed me,” he snapped.
 
“I see. So, in other words, I prevented you from condemning the world to hell. I must say, I’m awfully sorry about that, old chap,” Ethan replied derisively.
 
“She’s a child.” Giles’ eyes drifted closed, the pain of his betrayal weighing heavily once more.
 
“She’s a Slayer,” Ethan responded bluntly. “Whatever happened to the renowned Watcher impartiality? Rupert, your father would be ashamed of you, allowing feelings to compromise your duty.” He reached out, his thumb gently stroking the other man’s cheek; Giles’ eyes flew open and locked with his. Softening his tone, Ethan continued, “If what you say is true then neither you nor your slayer had any choice in this, it is unfortunate, but also, apparently, necessary. I am sorry, Ripper, but I’m afraid that we have a lot more to worry about than right now than rescuing the not-so-helpless damsel. The portents I have been reading suggest that your demon is merely the beginning of something far greater. The catalyst, as it were.”