Deep Into That Darkness Peering

Chapter 1 (of 4): The Siren

[Piers x Reader, SFW]

Warnings: Alcohol Mention, Caves, Monsters, Existential Horror, Near-Death Experiences

What do you do when you discover that your best friend is an eldritch monstrosity that has inspired countless myths and ancient folklore, who could easily tear you limb from limb or consume your entire existence whole? You double down, obviously.

(An AU where everything is the same except Piers is the monster mash and you’re down to graveyard smash.)

[Told ya I was gonna do it. Don’t worry, we’ll soon get back to your regularly-scheduled requests and smuttery, I just had to get this ball rolling and out of my system.]

The first time you saw him, it was an accident.

You were tired. Your days seemed to become busier and busier, and recently, you slept very little, finding that with every waking morning, the bags under your eyes grew deeper and more pronounced. Your nerves were fraying, and your patience was wearing thin. Finally, at the precipice of burning out, something inside of you snapped. You decided to take a holiday, retreating to the seaside town of Spikemuth, where you would hopefully find solace among the neon-laden streets. Most people would raise their eyebrows at the prospect of spending a holiday in Spikemuth. After all, the town was somewhat run-down, notoriously underfunded and forgotten by the region’s more affluent citizens. However, beneath the massive structure overhanging the forgotten hamlet, was a treasure trove of beauty and inspiration, not only in its many historical structures, dilapidated as they were, but in the people that lived there. Spikemuth was a town that thrived on artistry, home to an impressive number of painters, sculptors, photographers, and, of course, musicians. This was the aspect of the coastal town that drew you under its spell. You fully planned to spend the majority of your time looking at art, attending concerts, drinking heavily, and crashing on your best friend’s couch. And luckily, said best friend was none other than Piers, the town’s local celebrity, and resident expert in all things Spikemuth.

One night, a few hours after passing out on Piers’ couch for the umpteenth time, you found yourself wide awake and painfully sober. After tossing and turning for another hour or two, you decided to give up on a full night’s sleep altogether, begrudgingly dragging yourself out from under your pile of blankets and retreating to the bathroom, where you proceeded to slide on a pair of well-worn sweatpants, and a hoodie with Piers’ band’s logo on the back (an outdated one, which the singer insisted on replacing for you at some point), topping it all off with a messy bun. Tip-toeing to the front door, you put on your sneakers, grabbed your phone and keys, and exited the flat, pulling on your hood when you realized just how cold it had gotten—and it would only get colder, where you were going. Walking along the main street, you breathed in the crisp seaside air, adjusting your eyes to the pulsating neon and trudging your way past a few bars and clubs where the town’s nightlife was still raging strong. You smiled as you noticed a few Sableye skitter around a corner into a nearby alley, clearly looking to cause some mischief to any overly-drunk party goers.

The town’s energy waned as you approached the east exit, the one leading to the sheer, black cliffs that descended to the rocky shoreline far below. You loved exploring them, especially at night, despite the potential dangers that lurked there. Luckily, you arrived when the tide was low, so there was no immediate risk of being swept out to sea or thrashed against the jagged rocks. You carefully made your way down one of the many damp, creaky wooden staircases to the main beach, the misty wind nipping at your skin, cold enough to bite, but not enough to cause a shiver. It invigorated your senses as you leaped down the remaining steps and onto the shore, almost stumbling in the process. The beaches of Spikemuth were not exactly the type you would want to picnic on—on top of being rather cold and windy, the floor was comprised entirely of uneven pebbles. However, it was still beautiful, in its own way, and in the past, you had spent countless hours watching the waves, collecting sea glass, and occasionally exploring the array of mysterious caves and tunnels that bore deep into the cliffside. They were only visible at low tide, and never failed to capture your imagination, particularly Mourner’s Cave, which was by far the largest of the bunch—you had yet to find its end, if it had one, in your own amateur spelunking. As with all the darkest, deepest, most unknown parts of nature, there were many folktales surrounding Mourner’s Cave. For centuries, locals regaled tourists with the harrowing tale of a siren, who would lure victims into the depths of the seaside cavern during low tide, in order to feast upon them. Of course, it was likely just a story parents would tell their children in order to keep them from straying too far beneath the cliffs, potentially getting lost, trapped, or worse.

Standing at the very edge of the water, just inches from where the waves ebbed and flowed across the craggy shore, you stuffed your hands into your pockets, relaxing your gaze, allowing yourself to fully space out. The sky was mostly clear from where you stood, a large, full moon illuminating the icy waters, its luster reflecting off the thousand tiny, shimmering pebbles beneath your feet. In the distance, you could see a heavy fog rolling in, and there were no boats, as far as you could tell, so the horizon line was completely obscured by an inky, infinite haze. You stared, allowing your mind to wander, breathing in the briny scent and relishing in the isolation, when you heard something. It was faint—so faint that you barely noticed it above the crashing waves and the wind whistling through the jagged grottoes. At first, it sounded like a low humming, which you assumed was just your loss of hearing from the eardrum-shattering concerts you’d been attending. As you wandered further down the beach, in the direction of Mourner’s Cave, the humming grew louder, and you reached up to plug your left ear, then your right, seeing if you could isolate the damage. It wasn’t until after bending over, turning either ear towards the ground, and shaking your head up and down like you were trying to empty a piggybank, that you realized it was neither hearing damage nor vertigo.

Your curiosity getting the best of you, you decided to follow the sound, fully expecting to come across some sort of wild Pokemon, or even nothing at all. The beach’s rocky structures had a tendency to “wail” in turbulent weather, creating an eerie, otherworldly effect and spooking hapless beachgoers who were unfamiliar with the area’s geology. Continuing your trek, you were led away from the tumbling waters and towards the sheer, ashen cliffside containing the entrance to Mourner’s Cave. As you drew closer, so did the sound, and you realized that it wasn’t humming at all, but singing—a strange, mournful, sort of singing, that made you stop in your tracks. It was unlike anything you had ever heard before—a swirling, ethereal sound with no discernible melody. It seemed human, uncannily so, but there was a sort of… wrongness about it, like it was almost synthetic—and there was a warbling to it, as if it was not one, but multiple voices, all stacked on top of each other, but clearly belonging to the same owner. You inched closer to the mouth of the cave, wanting to turn back, wanting to sprint back across the beach, up the wooden stairs, back to town, but your shoulders tensed, your stomach knotting in worry. What if this person, or Pokemon, or whatever it was, needed help? It almost sounded pained, or at the very least downright miserable, and something else—something that bothered you more—a sense of… familiarity. A unnerving, nostalgic sort of feeling that forced you to carry on, despite yourself.

Just as you decided to retreat, to call it a night, to run and hide under the covers and try to forget this ever happened, you passed through the mouth of Mourner’s Cave. Something in the air shifted, as if you broke an invisible barrier, and suddenly, there were no waves. There was no wind. Not even the sound of your footsteps, once shifting and trembling through the gravel, now plodding across solid, damp stone. There was only the singing. It filled your head, to the top your skull, pouring out of your ears—overshadowing any thoughts of fear, worry, or self-preservation, stripping you of any desire to leave, of returning to the world you once knew. Your eyes glazed over, shoulders relaxed, arms hanging at your sides as your legs moved of their own volition, though sluggish, as if moving against the tide. You no longer felt the cold, salty air against your flesh, instead feeling something heavy, oppressive, suffocating, weighing down on your shoulders. The air around you crackled with an unseen energy, prickling at your skin, making each hair on the back of your neck stand on end. The darkness ahead smelled like dry ice and ozone, but you didn’t care. You never cared. You could not remember caring about anything but the singing, of finding it, claiming it, lying in it, succumbing to it.

The moonlight had long since abandoned you, as you journeyed further and further into the depths, where it could not follow. The encroaching darkness only served to heighten the sound as it bounced around the cavern walls, infinitely echoing in a beautiful, dreadful cacophony. A streak of warmth slid down your cheeks, though your eyes were unblinking, as you mindlessly accepted the fact that you were going to die. You did not feel afraid, so much as indifferent, and somewhat peaceful, like the darkness was an old friend, and you were always meant to become a part of it.

The singing stopped.

Blinking rapidly, your eyes stinging, you reached up to rub them, surprised to find that that they, along with your cheeks, were wet. Were you crying? Wait, where were you, anyway? You whipped your head around, squinting against the darkness. Why was is so dark, all of a sudden? You turned on your heels far too quickly, panic welling up in your chest as you slipped on something. You yelped, falling forward, managing to catch yourself before splitting your face open on the clammy stone floor. Wait, stone? Were you in a cave? Ignoring the fresh scrapes on your palms, you fumbled with your pockets before finally retrieving your phone, turning on its flashlight. You blinked against the harsh, cold light now illuminating the yawning chamber, seeing that, in your panic, you managed to slip on a slimy, stubborn patch of algae. Standing up on shaky knees, you tried to ignore the trembling in your hands and the thumping in your chest once you realized you had no clue which way you came in. If you weren’t careful, you would end up wandering deeper into the cliffs, and wouldn’t be able to escape before the tide rolled in. You tried not to think about what would happen then, deciding to stick to the path opposite of where you were facing when you snapped out of your stupor. As you walked, you got an idea, and looked down to your phone, unlocking it and turning on the camera to record some footage. You figured that if you didn’t manage to make it out in time, you could at least leave behind some evidence of your final moments, as morbid as that was. That, and, as you walked, you thought about the stories you’d heard of people losing time, of being in one place and suddenly waking up in another, often citing alien abduction as the cause. Maybe if you were recording your predicament, there would be a chance that someone could find out what really happened here, in the deepest, darkest depths of Mourner’s Cave. Maybe they would make a late night TV special about you. The thought made you laugh, though it was more of a sad, frantic giggle, and you were thankful nobody was around to hear it—or so you thought.

Something shifted behind you, above you, dragging along the cave ceiling and knocking loose a few rogue stones, which tumbled down the rounded walls and skidded across the floor before bouncing off the back of your shoes. You spun around, bringing your flashlight with you, fully expecting to come face-to-face with a ravenous, wild Pokemon—inwardly cursing yourself for forgetting to bring any of your own. Instead, you were met with… darkness, but not the darkness you had come to expect from within a cave in the dead of night. No, that darkness was malleable, it had depth, it could be permeated. This darkness looked… solid... quite literally the definition of pitch black, like someone had cut out a section of deep space and draped it across the cavern wall like some impossible curtain. Frankly, you had no idea what you were looking at, and a confused, fearful noise bubbled up in your chest and slipped past your lips.

Suddenly, the darkness jolted towards you, surrounding you completely and snuffing out your only source of light. You yelled, dropping your phone and throwing out your arms in a feeble attempt to defend yourself. Your body made contact with nothing, however, as the air grew thick around you, caking the inside of your lungs. The oppressive static returned, jogging your memory and overwhelming every one of your senses, your nerves screaming as your fingers and toes twitched. You felt yourself seizing, a deep weight in your chest forcing you backwards, and after stumbling, swearing, and babbling incoherently, you tripped over yourself, your tailbone slamming hard against the stone floor. Before you could register the pain, you suddenly realized that you could now see your legs stretched out in front of you, as well as the rest of your body. Though faint, there was undoubtably some sort of light coming somewhere from above, and after looking up, you realized you much preferred the darkness.

Hanging above you were eyes—so many eyes—staring accusingly down at your pitiful form, each of them glowing an electric magenta that made your retinas burn and your forehead pound. Next, you noticed the teeth—an obscene amount of teeth—razor sharp and emitting the same unnatural hue, stark against the pitch backdrop. Behind the sickening aura, you saw the faint outline of something sharp and skeletal, forcing you to look away, and thanks to your new, terrifying light source, you could now discern that the solid darkness enveloping your senses was, in fact, hundreds of black, amorphous tendrils, covering every inch of the cave, floor to ceiling, effectively trapping you. You had no chance of escape, entirely helpless, completely at the mercy of whatever creature made up this hellish cage. You were going to die.

You wanted to scream, but felt as if your lungs were being squeezed inside your ribcage, so all you could do was sob—a pathetic, choked noise escaping your throat. You fell, your consciousness descending deep into an abyss from which you never expected to awake.

---

[Eldritch Piers' look in this story is HEAVILY inspired by @lulzyrobot's version of him, so go give them some love!]

Who knew

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆ ◆Fandom: The Hobbit ◇Pairing: Thorin x reader ◆Based on: Imagine pushing Thorin away from Azog only to be the one impaled. After Thorin kills Azog, he begs you to hold on and tells you he always loved you [imaginexhobbit] ◇Notes: mainly Thorin’s POV, a few Khuzdul words, angst, slight violence and gore, fluff ◆Words: 7.212 ◇Author’s notes: Yes, I did it again. I disappeared for a couple of months without notice. But this time is for a good cause, I swear, and I’ll explain everything. And yes, this story is thirteen Word pages long. Thirteen. But, again, it is for a good cause. Better, for a good person. One incredible girl that suffered my being on and off this site even if she didn’t deserve it one bit. Just as we were starting to get somewhat close, I left her hanging there and never tried to actually answer back. Until now, that is. Well... if guilt could be measured with water drops, I’d be a freaking ocean right now. Still, I have to thank this person so much. For supporting me and my stories, for always being so kind and enthusiastic, for remaining so positive and strong despite the ups and downs of life. My Aries accomplice. And she has this immeasurable love for a certain dwarf... I hope Thorin will be better than me at apologies, because I really suck at those.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart, @kingthorin-oakenshield [I do not own the gif] ◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆

◆ “If someone said three years from now you'd be long gone, I'd stand up and punch them out, 'cause they're all wrong”  ~ Who knew, Pink

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It's one ofthe most peaceful hours in the carved fortress of Erebor, although, to be fair, this wing in particular could be regarded as one of the quietest of the stronghold. With fewer people walking around compared to the throne room and definitely less ruckus than what usually pervades the dining hall, the royal quarters could be defined as a true oasis, especially in the lazy, warm hours that follow midday. Not only: thanks to the romantic soul of a long lost King under the Mountain, wide, arched windows etched into the very rock of the ridge, open themselves onto these very rooms, allowing the ruler and his family to admire the vast landscape under all of the different lights of the day. That's why Thorin particularly enjoys this part of Erebor, this private nook of the fortress where, every now and then, he can seek shelter to slip away from the turmoil of his duties, even if just for a little while. Today is no different: if someone walked silently into the small living room prior to the master bedroom, he could find him exactly there, sitting on his favorite chair, smoking his pipe, eyes lost in the distance of the outer scenery. A peaceful and quiet moment, marked only by the sweet whispering of the breeze outside and... the pattern of tiny feet on the floor. After a few seconds - that he needs to realize whether that sound was real or just in his head - Thorin blinks a few times, trying to shake his thoughts off his mind, and finally turns around, facing the direction where he thought he heard the noise come from. There's a small cabinet pushed against the wall, at the end of the room, and the dwarf can't hold back a smile when he notices the tiny figure standing on his tiptoes right in front of it: a boy, not older than six years, stretched against the furniture to try to peek at whatever is laying on top of it that's caught his attention. The cabinet, Thorin mentally acknowledges, is not too tall, but tall enough for the child not to succeed in his endeavor, no matter how persistent and determined he might be. Still, the small one doesn't surrender, reaching out with his tiny arms to grab the ledge of the furniture, trying then with little jumps and rarely stopping to catch his breath. Thorin's lips involuntarily stretch into another smile, his heart softened by the tenacity shown by the child, and it doesn't take long for him to set his pipe down on a nearby table and to get up, discreetly pacing towards the youngster. «What is it, little one?» he sweetly whispers once by his side, bending down a little to be able to look in his vivid blue eyes. The child, however, is so focused on his objective that he doesn't even bother glancing back. «Can I see that?». The king lifts his gaze, resting it on the smooth surface of the cabinet, but when he finally realizes what the child is pointing at, an echo of sorrow darkens his face. He hesitantly opens his mouth as if to say something, but before he can actually attempt to form a logic sentence, a high-pitched shrill fills the air, immediately followed by hasty footsteps. «Wait, I wanna see it tooooo!». The exceedingly enthusiastic voice belongs to a young girl, a couple of inches taller than the little boy and also probably one or two years older; she's marked, however, by his same icy-blue eyes. She hurriedly toddles inside the room, faster than a king who's late for his own coronation and, just as quickly, she takes her place beside the other child, throwing a hopeful glance at the grown dwarf. There's a hint of hesitation and uneasiness in Thorin's features, and a quick look back at the object on the cabinet only confirms the doubts haunting his thoughts. But just as he gazes back towards the two pairs of young eyes, sparkling with anticipation at his feet, a tender smile sneaks onto his face, because those two little faces have the power to melt his heart and shove aside every possible old sorrow he could have felt. That's why, with a careful but swift movement, he reaches out and finally grabs the so yearned item. It's a sword. A shiny, masterfully crafted sword, made of a metal that glimmers in the afternoon glow like dozens and dozens of stars. The blade is sharp, almost white in color, while the hilt is painted with pure gold and sculpted like the wings of an eagle. Both children let out a loud gasp at that sight, wide-eyed and slack-jawed as Thorin capably swings the weapon in the air and then holds it with both hands, lowering it in front of them. «Who's sword is this?». «Does it have a name?». «Where does it come from?». The questions arrive as quickly as a barrage of arrows, but once again the king is beaming in front of such curiosity and passion coming from the little ones. «This sword belonged to a great warrior, and was used in the greatest battle of our times» he patiently explains, shifting the sword in his hands to let his young audience admire every inch of it. «The Battle of the Five Armies?» the little boy asks with wonder. «Yes, my sweet» Thorin nods lovingly. «Its name is Khayam, a Khuzdul word that means victory, as the triumph this very sword and its owner lead us to in that battle». The girl's eyes shimmer with trepidation. «Can you tell us the story, Ada*?». «Please!» her brother quickly adds. Just as a few moments before, Thorin's mind is clouded by uncertainty: should he actually comply and recount those events? A tale forged by war, blinding hatred and burning love, the tale that gave everyone a new beginning but also put an end to many realities... and lives? But being the King under the Mountain doesn't give him the right to hide the truth from his own heirs, especially when he already started to reveal it just by picking up that sword and showing it to them. And since it will come a day, sooner or later, when they will find out what happened - maybe on their own - they might as well hear it from him, their father, and one of the very protagonists of the story. «All right» he finally murmurs. Without adding another word, he quietly turns around and heads back to his favorite chair, cracking a half-smile when the children exult with joy and frantically trot behind him. He sits down - letting out an amused sigh when the two youngsters plop down on the floor with legs crossed, right in front of him -, gives one last look at the precious sword, and then, with low, intense voice, begins to narrate. «This is the tale of a proud king, the tale of a lost race, but, most of all, the tale of a brave but kind-hearted warrior...». Some details he will omit, of course, some he will soften, even if he'll have to fight against the vivid memories now playing right in front of his eyes. Because the one that's about to be narrated is everything but a story for children... although these are his children, and they, more than anyone else, deserve to know what really happened back in those days.

The entirety of Erebor is as silent as a tomb. It is so sad to think that that comparison is very fitting, in more than one way. Since the first instant you set foot into the majestic fortress, the only sensations you could feel have been the sufferance and the nostalgia impregnating the very walls of every hall and corridor, an horrid echo of the events that lead to its abandonment many years ago. The dwarves are happy, on the other hand. Of course, they reclaimed their long lost home - but have they, really? -, a quest that no-one else ever tried to attempt, let alone actually bring to a successful conclusion. But they can feel it too, you know it. The history enshrined by this place is too big and heavy to be ignored, and every single one of your friends, deep down, became aware of it probably even before you did. All of them... except for one. Thorin has changed so much since you entered this cursed mountain. The whole company can see it, Bilbo in particular, but no-one has still dared to utter a word to their king about it. You thought about being the one to do it, several times. After all, you are one of those who suffer the most seeing Thorin like this, dressed in furs, crown on his head... but with eyes emptier than the void itself. Those same eyes that, at some point during the quest, made you fall in love with the once noble and brave king, those same eyes, that through fleeting glances and tender looks, gave you also the small hope that, somehow, he could actually return your feelings. Now that you think about it, those times feel so distant and surreal compared to your present reality, that you find yourself wondering if they actually have happened. Now, everything is so different... and it is with a broken heart that you admit to yourself that you're almost afraid of what Thorin has become: a shadow that guards its pile of gold, much like a ghost that haunts his grave. But you have to talk to him. You've had enough of gold, jewels and treasures. Enough with this obsessive search for the Arkenstone. Enough with the irrational fear of theft that, in a matter of hours, will lead the Company to war against both humans and elves. You can hear them bustling about in the armory. Your dearest friends, a bunch of unknown people that, in a matter of months, became your family in all but the name. And now they are there, preparing for war, risking their life for nothing but madness. «(Y/N)» a voice suddenly shakes you. Your were so distracted by your own thoughts that Thorin's calling seems as loud as a thunder, even though he barely uttered your name. Quickly, you recover from the small fright and turn around. «Come, there's something I want to show you» he adds, motioning for you to come over. You don't object. Maybe, this could be the so long awaited occasion to speak your mind, and as soon as you start following behind the dwarven king, your mind begins to elaborate some kind of way to open your speech. Still caught up in your thoughts, it is but a few moments later that you lift your eyes, just in time not to bump into Thorin: he has stopped, and is now standing in front of you in the middle of small room. And then, you see it, carefully held in his hands. It's a sword. A beautiful, gleaming sword that is clearly very different from the ones you saw in the armory: the metal of the blade shines of a white so pure and warm that it could have been forged with the very rays of the sun, while the golden hilt is shaped as two wide feathered wings, that instantly remind you of the eagles that saved you outside the goblin caves. «This sword was forged from the finest metal in all Middle Earth: mithril» Thorin proudly explains, slowly caressing the sharp edge with his finger. «Light as a feather, but stronger than diamond itself. There aren't many weapons made of silver steel, not anymore». You've never seen a weapon that's both so marvelous and well-crafted. But why in Middle Earth is Thorin showing it to... oh. «Thorin, I...». «I want you to have it, (Y/N)» he firmly interrupts you. «Your help and your friendship have been invaluable during the quest. This small treasure is the least I can give you». There's true gratitude in his eyes. For a single instant, you have the feeling to catch a glimpse of the person you fell in love with. But then, you look back down at what he's holding in his palms, and in that moment you know you can't accept it. In fact, if a few months ago you'd have taken that magnificent sword without hesitation, beaming with joy for such an incredible present, all you can see now is but a cold piece of metal, one of the thousands parts of Thorin's cursed treasure. Just as soon as you realize it, you instantly step back, almost disgusted by the simple object. Accepting this gift would make you feel like an accomplice to the king's sickness, and that is something you couldn't bear. «I'm not sure I can accept it, Thorin...» you hesitantly whisper. But the dwarf - who definitely hasn't picked up on your uneasiness - insists. «It's a gift». «No... I mean...» you try again, clearing your throat. «... I'm not sure I want it». Thorin remains silent for a moment. He looks at you with an empty stare, that you fail to read. Maybe I upset him? you wonder. Maybe, he has finally understood that something's wrong? «I thought, since you are a very skilled warrior, you would have valued a fine weapon» he then reasons, mostly to himself. «But maybe you would prefer something else. Maybe gold? Or jewels?». And that is the last straw. You sense a strong, burning feeling rising inside of you. It's a whirlwind made of all of the anger you've kept bridled, all of the sadness and sufferance that have been cracking your heart until this very moment. Seeing Thorin like this, completely blind and materialistic, is exactly what you need to free all those emotions and utterly override your fears. «No, Thorin. I don't need any of that. I don't need gold, nor jewels, nor precious metals...» you assure him, this time with clear voice and a bitter smile. «I... I'm flattered by your offer, I really am, but I didn't join the Company to gain something in return». You stop for a moment - even if you find it difficult to restrain your feelings now - to see if there's any reaction on his side. But when you don't see neither worry nor confusion clouding his features, you decide to continue. «Don't you understand? I accepted to come with you because all I saw was a brave and noble king, whose homeland had been taken away from him» you finally exclaim, each word resounding with a tip of desperation. «And I admired that king, I looked up at him. And so I decided to help him». You look right at him, forcing yourself not to break, not right now, even when tears start to shimmer in your eyes and your throat burns with all the breaths you are holding back. «Having that king back is the only reward I could ever ask for» you barely manage to mutter. Thorin's eyebrows knit together into a quizzical frown, and if somehow your tone worried him... he's very good at not showing it. «That king is here, before your own eyes, and more powerful than ever» he simply responds. You laugh mirthlessly. «No... All I can see is a lonely, glazed ghost, wandering these halls as the shadow of his past great self» you growl like a wounded animal. «You're lost, Thorin, can't you see it? Has that treasure really corrupted your will? Has it enslaved your soul?». «I am no slave!» he suddenly thunders. «And I obey my will, and no other!». You remain silent, with a shocked expression painted on your face. He never shouted at you like that. Never. Not when he was angry with you, not when he was worried about you. That tone he just used is darker, more dangerous, as if he could actually jump at your throat if you somehow decided to speak again. The Thorin you love would have never dared to speak like that. «But I don't expect you to understand» he suddenly goes on, with low, threatening voice. «How could an ordinary human girl understand what it means to preserve the legacy of an entire race? To protect something so precious and vital to your very existence, whose loss would be far worse than death itself?». Those last sentences pierce you like knives. One through the heart, that just yesterday used to beat so fast at the mere thought of your noble king. The other one, through your back, for never in your life you've felt so betrayed. You can practically see your world crumbling around you, for Thorin is lost, and nothing will ever be able to bring him back to his friends. To his kin. To you. But even if, for a moment, you feel like you can't breathe, as if your heart has stopped, you are quick to swallow that huge, bitter pill: that flaming whirlwind is still swirling furiously inside of you, and you intend to fuel it with all the pain you're experiencing. There will be a time for tears and screams... but later. You clench your fists, digging your nails into your palms, and fiercely stand your ground. «Oh, but I understand» you growl as if you are spitting poison. «I know what it means to love something, someone, so much that you'd be ready to fight, to die for them. I know how it feels to care so much about them, that the mere prospect of a life without them becomes the scariest thought that could cross your mind. Yes, I know exactly that feeling... Or, at least, I think I did». And as all your fears take shape all around you, with Thorin standing there, ahead of them, you only manage to give him one last look, in which, for a second, you let him see all that suffocating pain that right now is killing you from the inside. The pain that he caused. «I guess I was all wrong» you lowly yelp, turning around without a second thought and disappearing into the mazes of Erebor.

After what happened in that small, dark room of the mountain stronghold, the thought of leaving and forgetting about that madness crossed your mind many, many times. But each moment those feelings assailed you, you found yourself fighting against the urge of your legs to run away with all of your strength: you were no coward. You were no betrayer. You would have not fled, leaving your dear friends fighting alone against an entire army, even if every second you passed inside those carved halls cracked a little bit more your already broken heart. And there was also another feeling, buried deep down inside of you. It was a mere flicker, but it somehow tasted like... faith. Hope. You knew it was there, even if you always ignored it and shoved it back where it belonged, but it kept you there, anchored to that very rock you had started to despise. Still, you had to find some sort of compromise with yourself: you couldn't leave, but you couldn't even stay, and that's why you finally decided to remain in the shadows until the battle, shutting yourself inside a cocoon of solitude to limit the damages already done by Thorin's harsh treatment. You were just like a suffering animal: still licking its wounds, still too afraid to trust again. Needlessly to say that, at the beginning, the other dwarves couldn't help but get very worried about you; but after learning about your fight with Thorin and witnessing the dramatic scene that saw Bilbo almost thrown off a balcony, they felt everything but authorized to disturb your voluntarily isolation. They, too, couldn't find any words to apologize or remedy for their king's behavior. And so, until the real battle, you became nothing more than a guarding presence to your companions, who could feel you being around, but were never able to get too close to you. Then, one day, you finally came back. Lost in one of the many corridors of Erebor, it took you some time to realize that the muffled rumble you started to hear actually came from outside. Everything happened so fast that you could barely recall it: running at the entrance of the fortress, finding it cleared, hurrying outside and seeing your friends fighting together with their cousins against a newly arrived army of orcs. But what you clearly remember amidst that haze, is catching a glimpse of Thorin, sword at hand, rallying his people and fighting side by side with them in the first line. He's back you thought incredulous, just as your heart started to beat again, set alight by that small flicker of hope that was now burning as strong as a fire. He's back. That moment was all you granted yourself in matter of joy and celebration though, for you quickly ran back inside to grab a weapon and then joined the others in the heart of the clash. Time on the battlefield went quicker than everyone could expect. One moment, Thorin was fighting side by side with Dáin, and now he's here, alone, facing no less than Azog the Defiler. He struggles to recall the events that brought him here: chasing after the Pale Orc among ice and snow, loosing sight of both Fíli and Kíli, getting lost in the gelid fog... and here they are now. Just the two of them. Just as he always wanted. But attack after attack, parry after parry, the exhaustion caused by the constant fighting can cloud even a skilled warrior like the dwarven king. Especially after every strategy has failed, and the Pale Orc manages to come back even after Thorin throws him into the freezing water resting below the ice plate. The dwarf is gonna pay dearly that small mistake, for that was all it took for the situation to be turned upside down, in favor of the Defiler, who's now towering above Thorin, ready to disarm him. A loud scream. A dull noise. Again, in a matter of seconds, the scenario is completely changed. This time, however, you are the one towering above Thorin, while Azog is laying several meters back, hurled against a rock by your sudden push. «Apologies for the delay, but I had to save a couple of young princes too» you grin with glistering eyes. «Hope I didn't miss the dances». You missed this confidence of yours. The daring, fiery warrior who's not afraid expose herself and fight for what she believes in. For what she loves. After that damned fight in Erebor, this side of yourself just seemed to disappear and was nowhere to be found. At this time, you're finally able to understand why: Thorin is the one to fuel it. With his mere presence, he's able to light up your courage and strength like no-one else ever managed to do. And now he's back. But he's not the only lost one who got found: after he came to his senses, Thorin instantly remembered how he treated you. His words echoed in his head like a vile reminder of his immense guilt, just as your words resonated in his head and contrived to drag him out of his own madness. And when he recovered his true self and you were nowhere to be found... he arrived at the only possible conclusion: he had lost you. Still, here you are now, more beautiful and strong than ever, ready to fight by his side despite everything that happened. Thorin opens his mouth, as to say something, but then he notices it: the mithril sword, tightly held in your hand, glowing under the light as if it was the sun itself. «(Y/N)» he only manages to mutter. But a single word is all you need to hear: his expression and his eyes speak in his place, communicating everything he can't say. «Don't worry» you smile reassuringly. «You're not alone in this». A glance worth more than a thousand whispers, that can't, however, last for too long. You hear a grunt coming from your right, quickly followed by heavy, rapid footsteps. But you are ready, and Azog doesn't even have the chance to get close to where you're standing, for you promptly leap forward against him, clashing the mithril sword against his. The orc is furious: not only you prevented him to take his revenge against Oakenshield, you're now literally coming in between the two of them to defend the dwarf. With your weapons still crossed, Azog's scarred face is but a few inches from yours, and he takes the chance to roar at the top of his lungs, taking out all of his rage, letting you know that he'll have no problem in crushing you too if you dare to challenge him. But you barely blink at his fury, tightening the grip on your sword and starting to push him back, a focused yet fierce frown sculpted on your features. You have no intention to cave in, not without a fight. To the death, of course, because you won't stop until the Defiler's body will be as cold as the ice under your feet. The duel you've just engaged in will also give Thorin the time to gather his remaining strength and, hopefully, join you, to give you the chance to put the orc to rest, together. Indeed, just as you quickly dive to dodge a cutting blow from your enemy, you throw a rapid glance back to the dwarf, and with relief you see him on his feet. With renewed confidence, you go back to your fight, avoiding once again the sharp blade of the orc and counterattacking with a swift cut, that wounds his arm. You then step back, spinning to your left to avert his incoming charge and hit him again, leaving a red mark on the back of his shoulder. You might not be as strong as Azog, but you're definitely more rapid and nimble, gaining some kind of edge on your adversary. When he finally collapses down on one knee, right in front of you, you immediately raise your sword, ready to deal the final blow, when all of a sudden you hear them: footsteps, boots cracking the ice, a fast presence approaching you. And it's not Thorin. You only have the time to turn your head, when another orc - probably isolated from the main conflict below - rams you at full speed, throwing you several meters away from the Defiler. You hit the ground with a thud and a pained groan, fracturing the sheet of ice with your weight and losing the grip on your sword, that falls not too far from you. You faintly hear Thorin calling out to you, but then your attention is caught once again by the newly arrived enemy, who's now charging in your direction for a second time. Still too dazed to get up, you roll to your left just in time to avoid another collision and that's how the fight goes on for a couple of moments, with you trying to gain some time by dodging the incoming attacks. When you finally manage to reach for your weapon, however, the orc has got tired of your games and, this time, he practically leaps on you with all of his weight. You lift your sword and close your eyes, bracing yourself for a strong impact, but, surprisingly, the crash isn't as bad as you predicted. When you dare to look again, you see in fact your adversary suspended a few inches above your body, impaled on your mithril sword. Panting, you can't hold back a grin and, with a quick thrust of your back, you switch your positions, freeing yourself from the dead orc and finally getting on your feet to extract your weapon. Now that you've dealt with this little hitch, you reason, you can go back to the real fight... but when you turn around, what you see curdles the blood in your veins: Thorin laying on his back, Azog standing right above him, almost exactly the way you found them when you first arrive. Except, this time, the Defiler's blade is way closer to the dwarf's chest. Too close. «Thorin» you whisper with wide eyes. It's your instinct that takes sudden control of your body and, before you realize it, you find yourself running towards them faster than you've ever run. A lightning, gliding on the frozen surface of the river and coming between the dwarf and the orc just a second before the latter strikes. The blade feels cold through the flesh of your chest. It is as cold as the winter breath, but the signals it sends throughout your motionless body are burning hot, just like the blood that's started to spill out the deep wound. You can't scream, for there's no breath left in your lungs, and you can't see clearly what's happening around you, for your eyes have been clouded with some kind of veiled mist. But there's the sky right above you, and the bright sunrays somehow manage to penetrate that layer of fog, touching you with their warm fingers. Through your back, stretched out on the cool ice, you can feel the vibrations of the movements of the people in the vicinity, although they're too muffled for you to understand where they are or what they're doing. You have no idea of how much time you spend there, on the ground, in that dream-like state, but all of a sudden, a familiar figure appears by your side. «(Y/N)» Thorin whispers, voice cracking. «Oh, (Y/N)...». Knelt down beside you, he reaches out with trembling hands - as if he's afraid to touch you - to wrap your frame in his arms, pulling you close to his chest and leaning his forehead against the crown of your head. Awakened from your haze but still very weak, you bask in his warmth for a moment, and also manage to catch a glimpse of Azog's dead body a few meters away from you. It's over you conclude with relief. You then look up at the one you love and smile. «I missed you, Thorin». «Shhh, don't speak» he sweetly hushes you, stroking your cheek with his hand. «Hold on, (Y/N), the others will come soon. You'll be alright». As much as you'd like to believe that, you know it's not what's about to happen. «Thorin...». «Forgive me, (Y/N)» he interrupt you once again. «Forgive me, for I was so blind, so lost... and yet, you remained by my side. Your words pulled me out of the darkness... (Y/N), I'm so sorry...». He's crying. You can feel one of his tears gently caressing the side of your face... or is one of yours, already escaped from your misty eyes? «There's no need to apologize... you came back to me» you try to reassure him, weakly lifting a hand to touch his arm. «That's all that matters». «And I always will» he sobs. «I love you, (Y/N). I love you more than anything in this world, I've always had. If I could have just seen it...». But you knew it. You felt it. A feeling so strong that survived all kinds of enemies, madness and war itself. You've waited so long to hear those words out loud, though, and right now you'd give anything to be able to jump at his neck and hold him tight after his confession. It's a strong shiver to bring you back to your current condition, and next time you speak, it costs you a painful effort. «I love you too, Thorin» you manage to respond, struggling to keep a smile on and a steady voice. «And y-your love is ev-verythig I c-could have ever desired». But the dwarf is no fool, and he too is getting aware of the inevitable. Still, he tightens his hold on you, refusing to accept it, refusing to let you go. «It's gonna be fine» he tries to comfort you - and himself - placing a soft kiss on your head. «Just hold on a little longer». As you feel the cold strengthening its grip on your body, you force yourself to look up at Thorin, because you want to imprint every little detail of his face in your memory before you go. But then you see it: that pair of blue eyes, the ones you fell for... a summer sky, a never-ending ocean, a priceless sapphire. Those are the eyes of the man you love, just as you remembered them. «Your eyes...» you murmur with a serene smile, «... they're... limpid. Unclouded. They are so beautiful...». Thorin tries to mirror your expression, but then he feels your muscles relaxing in his arms, your body losing every little strength left. His features darkens with panic and fear, and he pulls you even closer to him, placing quick, tender kisses in your hair. «Please, (Y/N)... my love...» he weeps, voice broken. «Please, don't leave me». But you are happy now, at peace. He's safe, and everything is going to be all right. «Never» you assure with your last breath. «(Y/N)... (Y/N)?! No, no, no... no!».

«Ada? Was that... was that Ama*'s?». A young, innocent voice brings Thorin back to reality. He has to blink a few times to actually focus on his surroundings: for a moment, those memories brought him back there, in the once empty halls of the abandoned Erebor and in the cold and deadly mist of the mountains. But now it's all gone, and he is here, in his chambers, seated on his favorite chair with his children right in front of him. The mithril sword is still shimmering in his hands. «Yes» he answers looking down at it. «Yes, it was». «Was she the warrior from your story?» the boy pipes in, leaning forward with sparkles in his eyes. Thorin lifts his gaze and meets those of his two little ones, offering a nod as a silent reply to their last question. They are so curious, so enthusiastic about their mother's story and, once again, the king's heart simply melts upon seeing their expressions. The two siblings exchange a quick look to share their common amusement, but then their attention focus immediately back on their father. «She was very brave, then?». «And very strong too?». A low chuckle escapes Thorin's lips, although his minds involuntarily goes back to that last moment on the freezing ice. «The bravest and strongest warrior I've ever known» he manages to smile, even though his voice cracks a little with the end of his answer. The children share another swift glance, but this time their expressions are slightly worried. It is the little girl who gets up on her feet and gets close to her father, resting her hands on his knee to somehow try to comfort him. «Ada... are you crying?» she asks with honest concern. But Thorin is fast to wipe away the mist from his eyes and to reassuringly slide a hand on his daughter's back. «No, it's... it's fine, my sweet». Not too convinced, even the boy jolts straight up and reaches his father. «Are you sad?». Seeing his children worrying about him in such way, Thorin's heart warms up so much that the smile he pulls out shines with pure happiness and fondness. «How could I ever be sad when I have the most precious of all treasures here with me?» he beams, quickly leaving the sword to rest on the nearby table and picking up both children to hug them. «I love you so much» he whispers burying his face in their little frames. He holds them so close to him, aware now, more than ever, of how these two small bundles of joy brought so much more mirth in his life than he could have ever anticipated. «We love you too, Ada» the children croon in chorus, wrapping their tiny arms around Thorin's shoulders and squeezing him as much as they can. «Is this some kind of secret meeting I haven't been invited to?». It's a feminine voice that disperses the magic of that precious moment, although both father and children seem everything but annoyed by that interruption. «Ama!» the little ones scream together, turning around at the same time and jumping off the chair to dash towards you. «Is that sword really yours?». «Did you really use it to defeat the bad orc?». You can't help but burst out laughing at their enthusiasm, not counting the fact that they are slightly tugging on your clothes. «Uh-uh, it seems I'm late for story-time» you conclude, lifting your eyes in Thorin's direction and getting lost, for a moment, in those sparkling blue iris that are shimmering with love. «So, Ama?» the boy insists, bringing you back to reality. «Is the story true?». «It is» you assure him. «Although I'm pretty sure your father embellished it, here and there. Not counting the fact the we both defeated the bad orc. Together». «I knew it, I knew it!» he exclaims, jumping up and down. His sister doesn't lose time in joining him, though. «I too wanna be a great warrior like you and Ada!». «And I want a shiny sword!». «Slow down, you two» you chuckle, tenderly caressing their little heads. «You don't simply become a warrior from one day to another». «Your mother is right» Thorin adds, pacing up to you and getting on one knee, to be eye-level with the children. «You need to train, first, to become strong and fast, and-». «I am fast!» the boy interrupts him. «And I'm ever faster!». «Prove it. The first to arrive at grandpa Balin's study wins». The siblings grin to each other, and before either you or your husband manage to have a say in the matter, they get ready to go. «Deal!». And with that, they both start sprinting, outside the living room and into the corridor: they are so fast that you and Thorin have to hurry to the doorstep to actually manage to warn them. «All right, little thunderbolts! Just come back here when you're done, or you'll miss that famous trip to Dale with your uncles!» you exclaim. «Yes, Ama!» they both answer in unison, already halfway through the corridor. «And try not to bump into anyone on the way!» Thorin adds, raising his voice a little bit so that it could reach them. You let out a content sigh, crossing your arms on your chest and keeping your eyes fixed on your children until they disappear at the corner of the passage. But just as you're about to turn around to Thorin, you feel two strong arms picking you up bridal style. A surprised squeak escapes your lips, but it soon turns into a laugh. In a matter of seconds, Thorin has taken his place back on his chair, with you curled up on his lap. «So...» you purr, tracing the embroidery of his tunic with your fingers. «I see you told my favorite story without me». «Well, you were nowhere to be seen...» he justifies, taking your hand in his and placing a kiss on your palm. «Yeah, I'm sorry about that» you apologize with a sigh. «If I knew that being a queen would include so many diplomatic tasks, I'm not sure I would have married you straight away». «Is there anything I can do, then, to improve my beautiful queen's day?» he asks as he begins to shower your exposed collarbone with soft kisses. «I don't think so... not now, at least» you chuckle, snaking an arm behind his neck. «May I remind you that we have a family trip to Dale in a few minutes? And a pair of scampering little rascals coming back here even sooner?». The mere mention of the kids paints another loving smile on Thorin's face, but before he plants one last kiss on the corner of your mouth, he shifts a bit to get closer to your ear. «All right,» he whispers, «but I won't forget where we left this». «I surely hope you won't» you coax, quickly pecking his lips. With another content sigh, you then rest your head in the crook of his neck, letting the steady beat of his heart lull your thoughts... until one in particular catches your attention. «You know, I've always wondered...» you begin absent-mindedly, «... you always seem to tear up a bit when telling that story. How we killed Azog, I mean... Why is that?». You can practically feel Thorin's muscles tense a bit at your question, but as soon as you start stroking his cheek with your hand, he immediately relaxes again. «Because all the times I recount it, those images flow before my eyes as if I were still there, lying down on the freezing ice, watching you take the blow for me...» he mutters, an echo of sorrow haunting his voice. «... and I can't help but think about how close I was to losing you, that day». «But I'm here» you reassure him with your sweetest smile. «We both are. And you know why?». You straighten your back up, still resting on the king's lap, but lacing your hands behind his neck to guide his eyes to meet yours. «Because together there's nothing we can't face, nothing we can't win» you speak softly, slowly getting closer to Thorin's face so that now your foreheads are resting one against the other. You close your eyes for a moment, enjoying that vicinity, enjoying that warmth and contact that so many, during the years, have tried to break. Still, here you are now, king and queen, husband and wife, father and mother. If this is what you fought for back in those days, you'd do it a thousand times more, because it was all worth it. When you open your eyes again, however, you notice a slight hint of tears in Thorin's gaze, and that view makes your heart skip a beat. «My, my, Thorin Oakenshield has become a romantic» you innocently tease him, only to earn a small chuckle from your king. «I believe that's your doing, amrâlimê*» he observes, getting even closer to you, making your noses brush against one another. Again, you look at him straight in the eyes, but this time your expression is serious as it scans your husband's features. «I love you» you breathe. «You know that, right?». Thorin's smile speaks for itself. «I love you even more». He is the one to crush his lips against yours, but you are the one to lace your arms behind his neck to respond, moving closer to him. But just as you are about to deepen that kiss... both of you catch the distant - but quickly approaching - sound of loud laughs and triumphant exclamations, talking about how they'll too become warriors some day, just like their father and their mother. You pull apart with a knowing smirk stretched on your face. «... and, that, I believe it's your doing, my strong and fast warrior».

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇  "Ada" = dad "Ama" = mom "amrâlimê" = my love

Lament of the Asphodels - Chapter 29: The Thread of Moirai

Lament of the Asphodels

Title: The Thread of Moirai Author: Dracox Serdriel Artist: @liamjcnes Artwork: Post 1 | Post 2 Word count: 4,800 Rating: NC-17/Explicit (except on FF) Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, Graphic sexual content, Declaration/threats of sexual violence, Minor character death, Social stigmatization/abuse, Detailed descriptions of hopelessness/depression/inner turmoil, Descriptions of the effects of extreme phobias/social anxiety, including anthropophobia, thalassophobia/hydrophobia, and hylophobia/dendrophobia, Descriptions of shipwrecks and storms at sea

Read Lament of the Asphodels on FF, AO3, LJ, or start at the beginning on Tumblr. Written as part of @captainswanbigbang.

Chapter 29: The Thread of Moirai

The Stablehand paced outside the stall door, her mind churning and her heart reeling. She had lived as a secondhand helper in the town for what felt like forever, working as an assistant to the Blacksmith when horses need shoeing or as a Secondary Groom when need arose. She subsisted in the best of circumstances, relying on handouts from the nearest church to fill her belly or for a safe place to sleep. At one point many years ago, when the harvest turned particularly poor and even those on high-hilled manors felt the ire of the soil, she settled in a large village, for it had comestibles and shelter that extended to a world-weary stranger.

The people of the village, which was more rightly a town by its size and structure, were reluctant to accept her. Back then, she was one of those people who drifted from place to place for work, her title and thus her allegiances changing like the wind. Had it not been for the Pastor, a woman of rigid moral standards who refused to bend the rules to fit the mood of the village, the Stablehand would've been cast into the woods. The Pastor insisted that compassion and aid to the needy were tenants of her faith, so neither she nor her village could turn the Stablehand away. She had done no wrong, and therefore no wrong was due to her.

Unfortunately, no one else shared this view. Poverty like hers was a rarity, and those afflicted with it were blamed and ridiculed, as if they had chosen its punishing course for their own. All things being equal, blood ties ensured that every person within ten villages had some family that might take them in, but the Stablehand had been born an orphan, both her parents dead before she had a chance to draw breath. The orphanage that raised her found no family to take her in, and once she was old enough to work, she left, taking jobs where she could, hoping that fate would conspire to bring her to a proper partner, someone she could love and wed.

But that never happened. She remained alone in this world, until one day she saw a woman that reminded her that she had a name, though it had been so long since she'd heard it that she'd nearly forgotten. Her name was Tamara.

And that began the long, twisted road to where she stood now. For so long, she had assumed whatever powers that were had cast her into this horrid realm as punishment for her crimes, forcing her to live with the one thing she hated above all others: magic. Her pact with the Mayor - no, Cora - was just another part of her penance, but she had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that some reprieve was due to her after all she had suffered, that she would have the one thing she yearned for the many years of drudgery she had somehow survived alone.

Greg is here, in Northedge, she reminded herself.

The Mayor - no, Cora - had insisted that the man she sought remained stranded in the Midlands, where he was buried deep in obligation and a fog of false life, and she knew that spell only too well, as it had eaten years of her life and even now embedded doubt in her. Oh, Cora could retrieve him at considerable expense and in due time, but she required years of service to afford such a feat.

Tamara had served the witch four times what was due, but she kept conjuring reasons to put off collecting Greg from the Midlands. She had been assured that handling the pirate's informal incarceration would be her last payment, her last labors, and then Cora would free her of her duties and reward her for her steadfast fidelity. All she had to do was keep the pirate alive and in chains until Cora returned, whether it was a day from now or three months hence.

You can't trust her.

The niggling thought snuck up on her and struck every time she decided to stay her current course. Cora not only used magic, but she had a history of breaking her word, though Tamara was the only one who had survived her companionship long enough to know she had done it in this realm as much as the last. She had watched as Cora wed one wealthy man after the next, only for him to wither and die months after their marriage. One time she even poisoned her husband the day after their nuptials, and somehow the blame fell on the husband's son and heir, who became stripped of his titles and lands and sent to jail, that he might evermore be forgotten for his sins. No one ever questioned it, and no one seemed to remember the dozen or so husbands that wed the Mayor before their untimely demise.

She can't be trusted.

Captain Hook was a wretched pirate whose villainy had inspired fairy stories for generations, yet he shared one very important thing with Tamara: a hatred of magic. His centuries of enmity with the Dark One had only sharpened his abhorrence, which made him a far more natural ally than the likes of Cora, but it hardly equated to him being trustworthy.

Bang, bang, BANG!

She rolled her eyes. He must've gotten a leg free of the shackles. She threw the stall door open and found him battling the restraints, the snarl on his face and the malice in his eye countering any comedy she might've found in his helplessness, which was underscored by the oddly pathetic affect his bare feet had on his visage.

"Stop moving," she ordered.

He glowered at her as best he could, given the gag blocked much of his face, but his body stilled all the same.

"Let's say I believe you that Greg is near," she said. "And that I don't trust the May - I mean, Cora. Last I checked, you and me have more than a little unfinished business. A little bad blood over how things ended in Storybrooke. Wouldn't you agree?"

His expression changed, and she lifted her hand in warning. She shackled the leg that he'd pried free and pulled the restraints over his arms tight before she loosened one side of the gag just enough for it to slip down his chin. He spat it out as she put distance between them, not trusting the chains to protect her from his wrath.

"Perhaps," he said, his voice somewhat raw thanks to the gag. "But I'm willing to let bygones be bygones, owing to the circumstances."

"Those being?"

"Cora has Emma," he replied. "I'm doubting that Cora's plans will leave her in good health."

"That's your plan? You get your love, I get mine?" Tamara asked incredulously.

Killian adjusted himself, waiting to reply until he was sitting upright and could look her in the eye. He normally had no issue escaping chains or ropes, as many people had little experience restraining someone with one hand, but Tamara had proven herself more than up to the task.

"No," he replied. "It's entirely possible that Greg was slain with the Stormbringer."

"You expect me to help you after you tell me that?"

"Aye," he replied. "Because Cora, talented though she may be, cannot raise the dead, so what do you think she will do to ensure your silence on her past crimes?"

"She'll kill me," Tamara replied. "But all that tells me is that I might have to run. Not that I should take you with me."

"The people who disposed of the Stormbringer were all heroes," he said quickly, as if he expected her to abandon him this very second. "I doubt they would've condemned him to death without trial, especially because the law might not punish him so harshly."

"That's it? You expect me to ditch Cora because, chances are, Greg is rotting in a work camp?" she asked. "If you're lying to me, you're robbing me of my one chance to get him back."

"If I was lying to you, I would've told you a happier tale," he retorted. "About how he's some jolly Dockhand whistling sea chanties. Wouldn't I?"

Tamara nodded her head, yes, but her fury prevented her from anything more than perfunctory agreement.

"Do you know what Cora plans to do with Emma?" he asked, his voice cracking.

"No," she said. "But whatever it is, it must be big, because she left the stables. She hasn't done that in decades. People come to her. Always."

Killian fought the urge to lash out at Tamara, for he could see her pain and sorrow just under the skin, pulling her in every direction possible. He knew that particular battle all too well, which meant he could exploit it, turn it against her to his advantage.

Except, that wasn't the man he was supposed to be anymore. He wasn't the dreaded pirate Captain Hook, and if he transmuted back to that old version of himself in his darkest hour, he'd never be properly rid of it.

"I can prove it," he said. "You need look no further than the Northmost Harbor. One of the heroes attending the Strombringer was sure to stay behind, or if not, then the Lawmaster will certainly know."

"All I would have to do is leave you here unattended, hike a day through the woods, travel at least another by the roads, and then hope I can find someone to talk to," she said. "Then two more days for a return journey. All the while, I'll have no way to know if Cora had returned."

"This is a stable," Killian pointed out. "Surely a steed could cut the journey's length to a day."

"The steeds here could cut the journey to a quarter of that," she said. "But she took all four of them to draw the carriage."

"You've only four horses?" he asked. "What of the noises I've heard day and night?"

Tamara pursed her lips. Every steed here had some kind of magic, and the four that Cora took were no exception. They were quick as lightning and their great size intimidated all who dared look upon them. It was said that, in their past lives, the four had belonged to man up until they devoured his flesh. While Tamara liked horses, she always kept a safe distance from the four prized beasts in this stable, and as for the fifth, well, it was a freak of nature like no other, though it at least seemed more horse than monster.

"Time is a factor," Killian persisted.

"I think you'll find that the horse isn't exactly friendly," she said.

"Have you never tried to ride him?"

"He was brought here for studding," she said. Then she added, "He was brought against his will, with chains and whips. All the noise you've been hearing... he's been here a month and hasn't had a drop of water nor eaten an oat."

"How is he yet living?" Killian asked.

"Tell me, pirate," she said, changing the topic. "What do you think will happen to me if Greg is dead? Cora will want revenge, and I doubt your girlfriend will protect me."

"She would. She's a hero."

"I kidnapped her son," Tamara countered. "Even heroes have their limits."

"Aye, perhaps," he said. "There are others more powerful than Cora in this land."

"Like who?"

Without thinking, Killian blurted out the first name that came to mind, "Hippolyta."

"The Queen of the Amazons?" Tamara asked. "How can you know that?"

"She's the reason Emma and I came this far," he replied. "She took the Unending Flame from the lighthouse. We came to the mainland to look for her and take it back. She would have no place for me, but you are a woman and a warrior."

"But I am not an Amazon," Tamara said.

"Then the Lawmaster of the Northmost Harbor," he suggested. "She can protect you. Or find you a castle or fort of particular safety."

She made up her mind. She couldn't trust anyone in this life, but a one-handed pirate was a better option than the vengeful witch. She drew her machete and made a quick show of it to Killian, and though it was clear he remained unafraid of her, the tension in his face increased.

"If you make any move to harm me, escape, or betray me - "

"I won't," he interrupted. "You have my word."

She quickly retrieved his hook, socks, and boots, which she had tied outside the stall door, and dropped them at his feet. She untied the restraints and let them fall loosely to the floor, leaving him upright and tangled as she waited outside the stall. When he appeared, rumpled and gleefully donning his hook, she didn't hesitate to go straight to the only other occupied stall.

Killian followed her warily, for though she seemed amenable to their accord, he had no reason to suspect she would remain so agreeable, particularly if Greg had died with the Stormbringer. At the very least, he wasn't gaged and shoeless any longer.

"The steed you requested," she said, waving her hand.

The stall door was twice as large as his had been, but then again, his had been designed for a normal horse of a normal size. This stall, like the ones near it, was crafted for a beast so enormous it dwarfed, of all things, horses. After having lived with nothing more than the sound of the creature's outbursts, he hadn't guessed its size, and now that he had an idea of it, he wasn't certain he wanted to face it.

It's the only way to rescue Emma, he thought to himself.

That steeled his blood, and he nodded curtly to Tamara, who unbolted all three of the locks and threw the door open, taking care to duck out of any line of sight, leaving him alone in front of whatever monster awaited. He fought the desire to cower, though admittedly for his pride alone. There was no reason to suspect that it wouldn't trample over him on its value for freedom.

Time deceitfully passed in slow ebbs, for it felt like he stood vulnerable for eons. Yet nothing stirred, so he stepped close enough to see rightfully inside the enclosure while Tamara moved even farther from him.

What he saw took his breath away, for it was no beast at all but a pale and terrible stallion whose hue was somehow both a blinding white and a shining gold. The most splendid thing, however, was its glorious wings with a breadth no one could measure, filled with feathers so fine his eyes could barely discern them.

"Pegasus," he whispered.

Dread churned up in the back of his throat as he remembered the sail that once graced The Jewel of the Realm, the one which had the power to transcend realms and brought them to Neverland. Did not his own brother tell him that it had been woven from the last feathers of the legendary horse that could fly. What would the creature think if he knew how his remains were put to use? Surely the steed would have a low opinion of the man who not only abused those remnants only to burn them unceremoniously moments later.

Then Pegasus was upon him, his great nose nudging his shoulder and his eyes filled with curiosity. Though his size made him intimidating, he appeared to be more of a gentle giant than otherworldly beast.

"I bet you're hungry, Old Boy," he whispered, patting him on his nose.

Tamara was surprised that he hadn't been trampled immediately, and she was even more astonished when Killian talked of lore about Pegasus, specifically stories that spoke to the creature's eating habits. The stallion was never meant for a stable, and while he would eat from the hands of the deities atop Mount Olympus, he would never take anything served from the unworthy. In this realm, he only ever grazed the open grass and natural foods.

So they loosed him in the pasture that went straight to the tree line, and he ate his fill before watering himself at the river, returning with a healthy glow about him, a shimmer that could not be explained by the high afternoon sun.

Tamara attempted to saddle him, for he was roughly the size of the other steeds and she presumed one of their saddles would fit. Unfortunately, between his wings and wild nature, she only proved no saddle nor bridle could stay on Pegasus more than a few seconds.

"I suppose we'll be riding without a saddle," Killian said.

"You really think I'm getting on that thing without a bridle?" she asked.

"Have you ever flown a horse before?" he asked.

"Of course not!"

"Then perhaps he is the better judge of direction and speed," he suggested.

"So, what, we tell him where to go and hope for the best?" she asked.

"Aye, I suspect he understands us," he replied. "He did fly to Mount Olympus at the behest of his rider."

Pegasus allowed Killian to mount without difficulty, though Tamara took a bit more effort. Apparently she wasn't the only one unhappy with this arrangement.

"Easy, Old Boy," he said quietly to Pegasus. "She's only looking for an escape, just the same as you and me."

His words calmed the horse enough to secure Tamara behind him. She gripped tightly to Killian's chest, and he became acutely aware her arms were wrapped around his torso. Knowing she couldn't see him, he glowered at her closeness. It should be Emma behind him, not some old enemy-turned-friend who he begrudgingly accepted.

"We're off to the Northmost Harbor," he said.

The hair on Pegasus's back shifted, and Killian did his best to mirror the movements. His knees bent so his legs tailed along the side of Pegasus, and he leaned forward until his belly nearly touched the steed's back. The position was awkward for anyone, let alone an experienced rider. Tamara's presence didn't help matters. Still, no matter how uncomfortable, it kept their legs clear of the wing joint, and the hair acted as firmly as a fitted leather saddle.

He had hardly a moment to think on it, for as soon as they were in place, Pegasus exploded forward, galloping through the pasture with enormous strides. The wind stung his eyes so hard that they watered, and he instinctively shut them, as did Tamara. So they felt rather than saw the uplift from the ground. Thus, both were blissfully unaware of the four steeds cascading through the forest path into the pasture, returning with neither Coachman nor passengers.

Like any man, Killian had imagined what it would be liked to fly, and his experiences with The Jolly Roger in flight had augmented his whimsy, wherein pure, unadulterated freedom always held a foothold. Reality, however, contained nothing of his fantasy; no, it was unbidden, endless terror that froze in the veins. It countered the heat of Pegasus's body and the warmth of the unnaturally close sun.

It seemed as if no time at all transpired before they touched down softly on the beaches outside the harbor. Tamara dismounted immediately, but he hesitated. He knew that they would be parting ways, and he didn't want to rush their goodbye.

"Thanks for the ride, Old Boy," Killian said as he patted the stallion's neck.  "I won't forget it."

He knew that once he jumped off, the steed would surely embrace his newfound freedom, for Pegasus, too, had just escaped a prison. And Killian doubted he would ever see his like again, so he slid from his back with a twinge of regret. He stroked the stallion's neck one last time, and the finest of his hairs became stuck between his fingers as he pulled away. Then he stood aside and watched Pegasus rise into the sky.

As the Keeper of Stagrock Light, Killian could not risk any interaction with those at the harbor, lest his presence raise inquiries on lighthouse falling dark. As his youth had been whiled away around docks, it was easy enough for him to hide, but Tamara was displeased with the circumstances and did not conceal her suspicions that he was attempting to renege on their agreement. It made the hours considerably more tense.

Countless heroes had been released from the subjugation of the Stormbringer, and no less than five took posts in and around the Northmost Harbor. After three short hours, Tamara discovered two people who corroborated Killian's story of the Chamberlain, but as photographs were a rarity in this realm, she could not confirm his identity beyond a basic descriptive match. Rumor had it, however, that the Lawmaster retained custody of the Chamberlain, who awaited his trial with plans to pronounce himself guilty to forgo all the legal formalities.

That was how Killian found himself planning a jailbreak with Tamara, who was dead set on freeing Greg that very night. He resisted the idea, insisting that it hadn't been part of their arrangement, but she wouldn't relent until the Chamberlain's identity was confirmed without doubt. Lacking visitation rights, her only recourses were illicit in nature, and seeing her determination, Killian gave up the debate and plowed ahead with assistance.

While he hadn't been to the harbor in a very long time, he had known the area very well during his time as the Recluse, namely the tunnels and short cuts that he once traversed to avoid prying eyes. He was able to map out her journey to the prison, but the extraction proved more difficult. For a successful venture, they would have to divide and conquer, one of them extricating the Chamberlain and the other providing a pilfered vessel that could swiftly remove them from sight of the shoreline.

It had been his suggestion, though frankly it was one borne of selfishness, for every second he lingered at the docks was one second more he left Emma at in Cora's merciless hands. Though he knew not where such knowledge came from, something deep within him asserted that returning to the lighthouse was the next step in rescuing Emma. Securing a seaworthy craft that would enable their escape brought him closer to his own ends.

He doubted the likes of Tamara and Greg would prevail against Cora, which meant his best chance involved acquiring two boats so they could part company. Elsewise, he would have to abandon them on Cellar Island to avoid any acts of betrayal.

Thus, when the cover of darkness was complete, Tamara left with a variety of borrowed items, and Killian scrounged for vessels. Fortune was kind to him, for he found a single-man paddler as well as a short rowboat that suited his needs. Being a man of good form, he stole the transport for Tamara and Greg first and moved it to the rendezvous point, ensuring his end of the bargain was upheld. He tied a fisherman's hook to a post not far from the obscured boat to mark the way, and that would have to be enough. There was no reason for him to wait for the treacherous toads nor assist them any further, for surely one of them could row.

He could push off where he discovered the paddler and leave for the lighthouse. His mind resolved, he made his way back to the second vessel.

He nearly reached his destination, but as it transpired, he was not the only one moving about under the cover of darkness to obfuscate unlawful deeds. Before his last turn, someone with terrible strength set upon him, grappling him to the ground. Despite his will and his hook, his assailant overpowered him and robbed him of his breath, clamping down over his mouth and nose.

He struggled, and the weighted dread of all mortals settled over his soul as he gasped for air. He had wrongfully assumed that the terror would grant him a burst of strength, but without inhalation, all he felt was a pervasive weakness pass over him as he flailed uselessly. Soon he crumpled under the attacker's weight as blackness overtook him.

Killian woke to a searing headache, and his heart pounded hard as he recalled the events that led him here. From the silence around him, he was far from the harbor and the sea, but the stars above made it clear that there were many hours before dawn.

Had Greg and Tamara caught up to him? No, whoever attacked him was stronger than any human, and there had been only one assailant, of that much he was certain. His mind was still foggy, but the veracity of the attack ruled out most of the criminal elements that subsisted at the docks. And surely Cora would've relied on magic to do her bidding, not brute force.

Then who the bloody hell abducted him?

Fury joined the throbbing pain, for any delay on his part put Emma in mortal peril. He clambered to his feet, ready to race to shore, however far off it might be. It was a foolish notion, but it gave him the potency, the vigor he required.

"Going somewhere?" a woman asked.

The speaker was an imposing woman who appeared larger than life, much like the Stormbringer, but in her case, it was something of an optical illusion, as her proportions were entirely human upon second glance. Her hair burnt umber, neither orange nor brown, with the finest streaks of silver-gold that light up against her olive skin when the moonlight hit it at just the right angle. Her eyes seemed blue, but a deeper look proved they were silver and purple.

"Aye, I've important things to see to," he replied.

"It will have to wait."

"Upon whose demand?" he asked.

"Queen Hippolyta," she replied. "Surely even the likes of a lowly Keeper would know a queen when he sees one."

"Forgive me if I don't kneel," he said. "Given you ambushed me in the street."

"You have something I want."

"Interesting, because I have it on good authority that you have something I need," he said.

"The Unending Flame?" she asked.

"Aye."

"Had I known you had the treasure you possessed now, I need not have wasted my time with such a trinket."

She held up a cube of amber light.

"It's far from a trinket," Killian countered.

"I'll be more than happy to give this back to you, Keeper of Stagrock Light," Hippolyta said. "In exchange, I want the golden thread wrapped on your hook."

"Why would you want it?" he asked.

"I've been looking for it for a very, very long time," she said. "I could scarcely believe it when I felt its presence in this realm again."

"So you found me by sensing this thread?" he asked.

"No, I found you because you rode here on Pegasus," she said. "You have something of his nearby."

Killian remember the fine hairs that stuck to his hand as he patted the mythic horse goodbye. He had absentmindedly tucked them into his coat pocket, the fine strands weaving together into a splendid and unexpected knot.

"You abducted me for a thread?" he asked. "Why not just take it from me while I was unconscious?"

"I did try, but I couldn't pry it away," she said. "I believe it will only move should you choose to relinquish it."

"And you would happily give me the Unending Flame in exchange?" he asked. "And let me walk away?"

She handed over the amber cube, which was small enough to fit in his coat pocket. He could tell by the heat and the light that it was the flame from the lighthouse, but somehow magic contained it completely. He tucked it away as soon as he confirmed its nature, and Hippolyta made no more to protest.

"Does that mean that we have an accord?" Hippolyta asked, her hand outstretched.

Killian glanced at the golden thread. He worried that the Orb Emma held would no longer work if he surrendered this thread, but he doubted the Queen of the Amazons would take no for an answer. So he tugged at the strand, and this time, it shifted easily off the base of his hook. When he pulled it off entirely, it seemed like little more than golden thread, about four inches long.

Hippolyta reached out for it and gently took it, cradling it in her hands as if it were the most prized possession in all the world.

"Thank you, Killian Jones," Hippolyta said with a wicked smile on her face.

The thread glowed a blinding gold, and in the next instant, Hippolyta vanished, leaving Killian in the middle of nowhere at the dead of night with no means but his own feet to make it back to the shore.

"Emma," he whispered. "I will find you, love. I will always find you."

End-of-chapter notes: In Greek mythology, the Moirai were the embodiments of destiny, often referred to as the Fates. They controlled the thread of life of every mortal, from birth to death, and each Fate had her own unique appointment as part of destiny. Clotho, the Fate who spun the thread of life; Lachesis, the Fate who measured that thread to allot each person with time; and Atropos, the Fate who cut the thread and selected the manner of death.

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