The dreams had started right after Halloween. At first, they had been fairly innocuous, merely flashes of color, faces, and feelings. Then, more detail as the months passed. When Angel lost his soul, the dreams became worse, now including horrible visions of a city laid to waste and being ransacked by demons. Then, Jenny was killed. The dreams took a terrible form then.
At first it was fairly simple. The woman, his wife, the mother of his two sons, came down with a cold. It was nothing bad, just a simple cold. Coughing, sneezing, a runny nose. Kerchiefs were used in a great number. Their youngest son had contracted it from somewhere, and given it to his wife. At five years old, a child wasn’t very conscious of passing sicknesses. Then, both came down with a fever. The boy bounced back. His wife didn’t. Within a week, she was being prepared for burial. And he blamed his youngest.
The funeral of the beautiful woman was a heart wrenching dream. But it was the images of the younger boy that had the Watcher bent over the toilet. Abuse and neglect, to say the very least. Outright attempt at filicide at the worst. The terrible burns. The stench of his own burning flesh. The knowledge that he was going to die and his entire country was going with him.
Now, Buffy was his salvation. She was his second chance at fatherhood. She was going to be raised right, not like Faramir, or even Boromir.
Rupert Giles swore that on everything he held dear.