I'm back ladies and gents! It's been awhile after getting hit by a car, physical rehab, work, and life majorly got in the way. FYI I am very rusty, still hurt, and have very little free time, but they say writing is the best therapy one can buy, so here I am! I hope to update this once a week and have this finished by April, so bear with me and let's go on this journey together! Disclaimer: this story is historical fiction and is not written for profit, but for entertainment purposes only. Any original characters are my own and please ask me if you would like to use them. This story takes place after P2JTNW, so constructive criticism is welcomed, especially since I am very rusty, but no historical inaccuracy rants. I am an Early American historian and trust me, I know the reality! Also, I am looking for Betas, so please PM me if you are interested. Enjoy!

This fanfic is dedicated to my mother, of whom I will meet on the other side. Love ya ma.

After nearly 20 years John Smith journeys back to the New World and to a new life. Looking for redemption and solace, he tries to reconcile his past while facing a new adversary unlike any he's ever seen-something incarnate and bent on trying to destroy him and those he's trying to protect.

The Dark that Died

By

Babyb26

Chapter 1-The Awakening

Chapter Inspired Music- Bones by Ms/Mr (pronounced Miz Mister) from album Secondhand Rapture.

1633 Werowocomoco Village, Virginia

The winter night was as cold as bone and dark as ebony. The only light this night came from a pale moon, which hung low in the sky and illuminated its way through the smoke holes of the village's longhouses. In the silent night, only the cries of babies and lovers pierced through the thin walls, and the air was mingled with the scents of sacred herbs and bear fat. The silence of the night was shattered with one long piercing cry, which spoke of great pain. When men's shouts and foot falls reached the desolate longhouse, there was no reply of needed aid or welcome, only a visceral sound that the dead or dying made. Only the bravest of these men dared reach for the woven reed door and it moved, with ease, with a copper red hand. The long cry stopped abruptly, as the men dared enter into the longhouse. One lone hide covering prevented the men's admittance into the next room, which was lit in a blaze of orange-white light. Beneath the long hanging covering, red rivets flowed toward the native men. Although trained to face the mightiest of their countrymen and the dirty pale wolves that had invaded their shores, what the native men found in the dead of night-in that foreboding longhouse- was incarnate.

1633 St. Margaret's Abbey- Westminster-London, England

"I am giving you this task not because I aimlessly choose too, but because you are now ready and happen to have the most experience in this place it seems."

The chiding elder voice echoed through the marble and gilded walls of the sanctuary. As usual, this answer made no sense nor was it what John Smith truly wanted to hear.

"It's been…but why?" his words of protest came out wary and slightly anguished, which was the usual for him presently.

The younger man's questions were cut off before he could truly begin his inquest and he had the inclination that this would become a trend in his life.

"I know you haven't been outside these walls much in fifteen years, but our bishop says you're ready and I agree."

A skeptical look pulled across John Smith's face; he was still too worldly in his opinion. However, a demure smile danced across the old Anglican priest's face.

"I know that look!"

The old man knew what cards to play on him and deep down the Smith knew that he was called, he just didn't know why. He didn't know the path his new life would take next, as it had been in his old one, however this time-this time- he knew better. He be damned if he failed, he owed her at least that much.

"Son I tell you are ready to face the daemons of your past." The old man placed a comforting hand to his shoulder.

There wasn't much for John Smith to say but, "tis be His will."

Turing from his friend and mentor, he prepared to cross the vast expanse of the nave, but he halted when he heard his name called.

"John Smith… The Father is with you."

Turing back toward his fore fronted task, he pushed through the ancient wooden doors into the sunlight of the day, headed to a world he vowed never to return.

The outside world had grown since John Smith's last venture out of the gated and crumbling brick walls of the four hundred year old abbey, one of the few old Henry let be. As he made his way to the quay, he sensed the changes of the world and of himself. The Magdalenes, with rouged faces and half covered peaks, still smiled and called out to him as he passed. However, his forty-six, come January forty-seven year old body did not move as quickly as it once did, nor did he hold appealing the streaks of silver, which dulled his once vibrant corn-silk colored hair. Cloistered and secluded he had studied the word of God and man, prayed, and asked forgiveness for his great many sins. He had willed away all thoughts and longings of his previous life, as he studied and worked to fill the ache in his heart. He had aged humbly in seclusion, yet the outside world had continued to progress forward hurriedly and had blossomed ever deeper into darkness. In his opinion, which no one at the abbey seemed to take into count, he had succeeded- he was or had been ready- that was until they told him of his placement. He was to be pushed back into the world of pain, from wince he'd sought shelter from. Turning on to the quay, he was left wondering- why? Of all the lands to be discovered and proselytize to in the world, why would the church send him there? Reaching the Mary Mora he certainly had no answer, but then again his will also was no longer his own.

The ship was dank, dark, and dismal and for much of his life this boisterous vagabond world had been home. On silent nights in the abbey, he recalled the rolling waves that had once lulled him to sleep and caressed his wounded soul. He had missed it. However twenty years older, the lust for adventure and to see beyond the next horizon had passed. The world of the ship and discovery no longer had its appeal over him or his soul. Siting his satchel on the narrow cot he turned to discover the space he would call home for two, and if the wind was not with them nearly three months. He was delighted to discover a bookshelf, small writing desk, and mirror.

Surly Reverend Paul would not call his amusement vanity?

Walking over to the tarnished mirror he stared at himself, the white banded collar around his throat, its two tails falling downward on to a still broad chest. His black robe oddly accented his frame, which was still visibly muscled in the dark garment. As he stood at the mirror he fought to understand his transition, a transition that had brought him closer to God but had left no visible mark upon his person. The church said he was ready, but was he? Was he still that man of fifteen years ago, trapped in grief and despair, or had he truly surrendered himself? Could he do this, go there? Looking at his reflection he found his answer. Turning, he gathered his modest belongings and headed to the room's door. The door moved inward as he touched the handle.

"Do my mine eyes truly deceive me mate? Are ye truly a black robe Smith?"

He recognized the brogue laced voice that called to him, it had been seventeen years but it rang true and clear as a bell.

"Lon?"

The once burly red headed man stood at the door blocking his path. Fifteen years ago, that would not have been a problem, but now he was different and it seemed his God was keeping him aboard this rotting ship for a reason. Like expected twins another voice chimed in, one he also knew too well.

"Ben?"

Now, with the two men - his former friends- blocking his way, escape was futile and the need for flight drifted out left him like morning mist. The satchel in his hands fell back onto the bed and he conceded.

"Tis gotten into ye mate," Lon's accent was still thick even after thirty years of living in London.

Could he tell them? Could he tell them why he turned to God, about trying to forget her? He placed a warm hand on their shoulders and answered their question,

"Tis me boys… me in the flesh and robe."

The waters had been calm for the most part and unlike his last journey across the vast Atlantic, only one storm had threatened their lives. Unbelieving until that storm, Lon and Ben had given him grief over his new chosen profession. However, during the storm, when not only their lives but their souls were at stake, they had professed and clung to his faith in those treacherous moments between wave and crest. Leaning against the wooden railing a smirk crossed his face,

Reverend Paul would be happy to know he took no pride in their reliance.

Like he himself, Lon and Ben were shocked at his transition that had yet left no visible mark except for on his soul. They had not so much as doubted him, but deeply questioned how he, a man who knew every good pub and brothel in London, could give up the drink and flesh so easily. Truth was, on cold nights he craved like any man, but his taste for flesh ended nearly Nineteen years back, when he walked away and she, Pocahontas, chose the love of another for a second time. After her, what woman could tempt him? What woman could replace her in his heart? None, of this much he was assured.

After many nights filling in the lost time of their lives to him; Lon having been chased back to England after a botched sheep stealing swindle in his native Scotland and Ben having traveled back to Jamestown, and failing disastrously as a tobacco farmer, he bristled at the mention of Rolfe's trade, Smith opened up as to why the brotherhood of the cloth became his home. They understood and tried in their small ways to prepare him for the journey ahead.

"John have you heard she's….?"

Smith cut Lon off so fast that he surprised himself. Lon seeking to force him to want to know said,

"Now mate, this tis to know when you get to Jamestown ye won't be surprised that she …"

Lon had almost completed his sentence when John Smith abruptly left the room and made his way out onto the deck. Standing against the weathered wood and sea, Smith pondered.

Did he really run from all matters of the heart?

In the past, give him a Turk to kill or a mountain to climb and he would do it, but tell him then or now about the woman he once loved and he runs.

"What does this make me?" he voiced aloud.

Both Lon and Ben caught up with him. After this last encounter and seeing the, not quite dead, anger in his eyes- wisely chose to not be throttled by the handsome middle aged priest. This knowledge brought a wide smirk to John Smith's face, they'd let him figure things out once he got to Jamestown.

Reverend Paul would call the smile on his face pride.