NOTE: I will be giving the warning of major character death, though the death does not actually stick. I am also warning for blood and gore and graphic descriptions of drowning. Please read with caution if you are bothered by any of the above.
I have not marked this as a "crossover" because none of the characters from ABC's "Forever" show up in it; however it is an AU based on that show - and though having some knowledge of Forever might add to the reading experience, it is not necessary. For those who are unfamiliar with the show and would like a little background, however, the basic idea is this:
Dr. Henry Morgan was born 200 years ago. He died at sea, but his death did not last. He came back, and since then, he has not aged. Every time he dies now, he vanishes, then he wakes up in some nearby body of water completely naked. He has been seeking for many years for a way to break his curse, so that he might die and actually stay dead.
And that's the essence of it :)
Fíli opened his eyes, but he could not see. He was surrounded by darkness, wrapped in icy cold...
He was floating.
But he had just been in Bard's home. He remembered orcs bursting in, he remembered Oin throwing things at them. Bain was defending his sisters as they hid beneath the table. Bofur... where had Bofur been? That was right... he had left, he had gone out seeking kingsfoil.
An orc had reached under the table where the girls were hiding. Bain didn't see it, and so Fíli had tried to get to them. Then Kíli cried out. He was on the bed, but he was trying to get up, he was trying to fight. Fíli had been distracted, indecisive, wanting to get to his brother's side but still being unwilling to leave the girls to the hands of the enemy. He never got the chance to decide between them.
Something had hit him, his skin was cut, he fell...
...No...
He'd been pushed out of the window and landed on his back on the pier below. Something sharp had sliced through his spine and burst out of his belly. He had been stilled, paralyzed; he felt no pain. Yelling came from Bard's home; he heard Sigrid, he heard Tilda, he heard Kíli... his head had grown light as he listened.
All he could move then was his eyes, and he'd glanced down his body. There was a bloody pike pole sticking up. Too close... it was too close. It had gone through him. Why had it been on the dock? Why had it been pointing upwards? What fool had left it there?
An orc stepped into sight and brought its sword up. It swung down. He heard a crack inside his skull, but it did not hurt.
Then he found himself running fast through his life and grasping at the memories that rushed past...
...He watched his brother learning to walk as a baby... he tasted the milk at Beorn's house... he felt his first sword being held tightly in his hand... he heard his mother crying when they learned that his father would not be coming home...
...And then he had opened his eyes here in this dark and cold place.
He could still hear voices, could still hear yelling; but the sounds were distant, muffled, hollow. The harder his heart pounded, the more difficult it was for him to hear anything else; and the voices faded, vanishing behind the rushing of blood in his ears.
Where was he? Why was he so cold? Why was everything dark? Why were his lungs burning?
...Drowning...
But why was he not already dead? The pike pole had split his spine, then the sword must have shattered his skull.
Was he dead? Was this what was to come? Was this the passage to the Halls of Waiting?
No. If he had died, he wouldn't feel the pain of his searing lungs, he wouldn't be afraid of drowning. If he had died, then he would not be trying to save himself.
He had to save himself; he had to get out of the water before it could fill his lungs. He kicked his legs, pushed against the water with his hands. His head broke the surface, but he came out too fast and his brow hit something hard. There was a flash of light; then his mind went suddenly hazy, and he slipped under again.
There had been no chance for him to take a breath.
He thrust his hands into the air above the water and his fingers brushed against something rough. Wood. He clawed at it, trying to keep himself from going under, trying to pull himself out. Splinters dug themselves into his fingertips and under his nails as he fought for a handhold.
His fingers slipped away and he drifted down. His head throbbed, his chest burned. Why did his chest burn? It was so cold down here, it should not be burning.
...Don't breathe...
He had been foolish - foolish to go so near the window, foolish to be distracted, foolish to fall. He had to get back to Bard's house. He had to help the others fight the orcs. He had to make his way back to the surface.
He had to breathe.
If he took a breath, maybe... maybe air would fill his lungs. Maybe.
His chest heaved, water filled his mouth and he felt it at the top of his throat. His lungs seized and his back arched, and he tried to scream out; but he swallowed instead. And again he tried to scream, and again he swallowed. His belly was full; he felt heavy, solid. His fingers clenched, then relaxed, frozen open. He could not move, even to blink; and still he drifted further down into darkness.
He felt as if he was being wrapped up in a blanket and warmed by a fire...
...He listened to the voices of his Company singing in Bilbo's home... he saw the orcish arrow hit his brother's leg... he smelled the foul odor of the troll hoard... he tasted the sweet mead that he and Kíli had stolen from Thorin's cellars...
...Fíli jerked and thrashed, pulled back into sudden lucidity. The warmth was gone, the pain in his head was gone, and his lungs were again filled with air, though water was still all around him.
...Alive?...
His thoughts were fresh, and the course he should take was clear. The lakebed was beneath him, and he twisted around, setting his feet to the sand; then he pushed hard. The water rushed past as he ascended, and he thrust his hands straight up so to keep his head from hitting again.
His hands burst into the winter air; they hit something hard and he felt a crack in his arm as his hand bent back, though it hurt him little. His face cleared the surface and he took a deep breath; and another. All energy left him then, and he laid back on the water and let himself float and breathe as he held his injured arm to his chest.
His bare chest.
The clothes he had been wearing were gone. He hadn't noticed that earlier, though he supposed he'd had a good reason not to notice. But where were his clothes? Had the orcs tossed him into the lake after first stripping him bare? And where were the orcs now? Where was he now?
He reached up with his uninjured, shaking hand, dragging his fingers across the wood.
...A pier?... A dock?...
Laketown was above him. He heard voices - people were talking somewhere nearby. The cold stole his voice when he tried to speak up, to call out; and so he pulled himself along, once more digging his nails into the wood. He was cold; growing numb. Before long, he would not be able to lift his arm, to tread water; then he would sink again.
Then he would drown... again?
He hadn't drowned. It must have been a dream, a fear. He must have felt himself in the water and thought that he was drowning. That he was dying.
Ages seemed to pass before he made it out from under the pier, then he saw above him the clear and bright stars of a late-autumn sky; but though he was out from under the town, his strength was gone. He floated, closing his eyes. Someone would find him soon enough. They would send out the call, they would pull him out of the lake. So what if the guards then threw him into prison? At least he would be warm and dry and alive; and he could warn the guards about the orcs, send help to Bard's home.
The cold air blew over him, pushing him along. In his drifting thoughts, he wondered why his head was not hurting from where he had hit it on the pier. He supposed that was because he was so cold - he supposed it was because he was growing numb. No, he had been dreaming about drowning, so he must have dreamed about hitting his head, as well.
His heart felt strange inside his chest, but he could not tell if it was beating faster than it should, or if it was slowing. It was hard to breathe, it was hard to think; his lungs contracted and his pulse thrummed in his ears. Not so far away, people were still talking. What were they saying?
Rough rocks and sand brushed against his back, and he came at last to rest on the edge of the lake.
It took all his waning strength to pull himself to his knees; then he struggled to his feet and started stumbling along the shore. He could not look up, could not turn his face to where he was going. He shifted off to the side, righted himself and moved on. The voices faded into the distance.
He had to raise his head, he had to look up to see where he was; but his neck was stiff and his head was starting to lighten again. But he had to look, and he saw nothing but the lakeside before him. He wrapped his arms around his bare body and his injured hand flopped to the side. He forced himself to look down, though his eyes were dimming.
The bone of his wrist was sticking out of his flesh. Blood flowed from it, over his skin, and pooled on the ground at his feet. He turned his head painfully. Behind him, a thick trail of red followed; and far away were the flickering lights of Lake Town. He turned; he slipped and stumbled. He fell onto his chest, and there he stayed.
He was too cold now to shiver, too weak to move. He was tired. Darkness pressed in on the edges of his vision, but he did not this time close his eyes. The night closed in, the cold lifted...
...He smelled biscuits baking in his family kitchen... he heard his uncle telling him he belonged with the Company... he felt the bristled leg of a Forest spider in his grip... he tasted blood on his tongue from when he'd gotten into a fist-fight with Kíli when they were younger...
...He jerked awake, but he did not draw in a breath. Not this time. This time he knew not to. This time, he knew where he was.
Sand was below him, and when he opened his eyes, he could see wavering starlight through the shallow water above. Pushing himself off the lakebed, he floated easily to the surface, and only then did he let himself breathe. The air was still cold, but he was not as chilled as he had been. He swam to the shore, and there he crawled out, wincing as the gravel dug into his hands and knees. But his arm was whole, his limbs had strength, and his heart beat steady within his chest.
He closed his eyes and doubled over, clutching at his bare stomach as the frigid air nipped at him. Voices drifted near again, closer now than before. At once, his body relaxed and he fell over onto his back, and he felt as if he was sinking into the ground.
Someone yelled out and feet ran towards him.
"Fíli!"
...Bofur?...
There was someone else, as well. Soft hands touched his chest and neck, a small ear was pressed to his mouth.
"He's breathing!"
...Sigrid? What are you doing here? It's not safe...
Larger hands grabbed him by the shoulders and shook gently.
"Fíli?" asked Bofur. He shook him again. "Fíli, can you hear me?"
Fíli grunted. ...I can hear you... He drew in a deep breath. ...I'm alive... alive again...
He started laughing, silent and low. His chest heaved and his shoulders shook, and he reached up, clutching blindly at the people above him. His fingers entangled in the girl's hair. A hand patted his cheek and he opened his eyes, then shut them again before they could come clear. He let his hands fall to his chest.
"What is wrong with him?" asked Sigrid.
"...I'm alive..." said Fíli just barely aloud, laughing still.
"Yes," said Bofur. "Yes, you're alive..."
"But when we saw the blood, we thought the worst," added Sigrid.
Fíli stopped laughing.
...Blood? Where? On the dock? On the sand?...
"...I was dead..." he mumbled. They didn't hear him; or else, they didn't understand what he had said. He spoke again, louder. "...Where is Kíli?..."
"He's fine," said Bofur. "The Elf is tending to him."
...Elf?... What Elf?...
Something was wrapped around him. A cloak? A woolen cloak. It did not warm him, and his fingers were again growing numb. He shook his head. He must be mad, he must be delirious. He could not have died; he could not have woken three times, whole and healed, beneath the black waters of Long Lake.
"Where are his clothes?" asked Sigrid.
"We'll worry about that later," Bofur told her. "Let's get him back to your home before he dies of the cold."
...Dying of cold... he thought. ...I wonder what that feels like... I wonder... I wonder...