The Golden Thread
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Total Word Count: 10,353
Warnings: Mentions of Cannibalism

Summary: I open my eyes and nothing is as I remember, for there is nothing to remember at all. I travel down these paths with no voice, lost amongst the trees with no direction save for the one that takes me ever closer to freedom. Constantly I must ask myself, where are my steps taking me? Who are these people that lead me on my journey? What is it that I am so intently searching for?

This story was written for the i_reversebang challenge on Livejournal. The story is based upon a piece of art by piecrumbs which can be found (along with an amazing second piece that she did) by going to the master post on the i_reversebang page or my post on my LJ.

Many many thanks to my beta for hashing through this with me. And a lot of love and thanks to my wonderful, amazing artist, piecrumbs, who's art provided me with such wonderful inspiration.

Prologue

Once upon a time, in a world that may have been a dream, a man woke with nothing more than a purpose and a vision. He sought but one, a man whose skin was made of wrinkled paper and whose eyes were as deep and dark as the earth. This man was known as nothing and everything, for this man was movement, this man was time. Time turned his fathomless gaze upon the man and asked of him, "What do you seek, my son?"

"A man."

"But he is lost; you and I both know this."

The man was not deterred in the slightest, for this he already knew. "I know he is lost. I want you to help me find him."

Time extended out his leathered hands and smiled a crooked grin, all bent and twisted teeth. "I can offer you nothing except for time."

"You must help me. I was told that you were the only one." The man's eyes narrowed dark and determined. "There must be something else."

The one known as Time did nothing but smirk in response. His tongue flicked out to wet dry, cracked lips before he spoke again, "You do not understand, son. Power is not something offered lightly. Time, yes, time I can give you to find him, but the cost is steep, the terms are irrevocable."

"Anything," the man replied, "I will give you anything."

A baleful round of laughter filled the air at the man's response. "If you wish it."

"I do."

"My price is your voice—"

"Done."

"—and your memories."

Dark eyebrows furrowed and a frown fell upon the man's face as the spit dried up within his throat. "My memories? How can I find a man I do not remember?"

Time tilted his head almost as if confused. "That is a question for you to answer on your own." His lips then pulled back into a grand smile. "If you do not take my deal, you will never find him—that I can promise you. Give to me what I desire and you have my word that you will find him."

The man bit his lip and breathed in deeply through his nose. "How long?"

"For as long as it takes."

The man gazed at Time, almost as if he could see through him, almost as if what he sought was already within his grasp. To find that man he would do anything, give anything, even his own life. "Will I ever get my memories back?" he whispered.

"Find him and you two shall return as you arrived; fail, and in this realm everything you are will belong to me. For Time is generous and takes as well as gives." Reaching out one trembling hand, Time took one step closer. "Shake my hand, son. Shake and time is yours."

The man closed his eyes. He had made a promise never to leave the other behind. He had made a promise that no matter what happened, they would always be together, in this world or the next. He was bound to that oath like a man possessed. He could still see the entrancing grey of his eyes, the breadth of his hands, and the entrancing grin. He had promised… "Deal." Reaching out his hand, the man grasped firmly onto the wrinkled skin and opened his eyes. "You have a deal."

As the words left his mouth, the illumination of this world, of this nothingness, began to fade. As the light snuffed out, all he could see was a sparkling pair of eyes and a bright gleam of warped teeth. Words failed him, speech left his chest, his eyes shimmered into darkness, and the truth of the world was forgotten. That man was gone. All that was left…was me.

Part 1

My eyes flutter open to sound of birds and the sight of searing light flittering through the trees above me. In these first few moments of wakefulness everything seems to fall into place: the rocks and twigs digging into my back, the musty smell of wet soil flooding my nostrils, and the cracking mud falling off my face. But then engulfing my senses, as if from nowhere, is the utter confusion and the terrible throbbing knocking around behind my eyes and causing me to groan. Where the hell am I? I roll up into a sitting position and swallow harshly to prevent the quickly forming nausea from disrupting my stomach even more and inciting the gag reflexes. I attempt to open my mouth to breathe in, only to find that doing so causes a pulling pain to sear my jaw. What. The. Fuck? Why the hell can't I open my mouth? I run a trembling hand along my lips and nearly scream. Fucking Christ! My lips are sewn shut. My lips…are sewn shut…I take several deeply drawn in breaths through the nose, attempting to settle the utter horror trying to claw up my throat. I place my hand over my mouth and squeeze my eyes shut against the dizziness. This is okay. I am okay. I will figure this out. There must be a logical explanation to all this, surely there must be.

After several minutes of doing nothing but breathe in and breathe out, the immediate panic begins to cool and my stomach settles with a derisive growl. My vision, which up until this point had been swimming about furiously, comes into focus as well, allowing the world to appear before me in a wash of greens and greys. Around me on every side is a tree of sorts, twisted and crooked, growing left and right and up and down, like a strange plethora of artwork born of the earth. I look ahead of me only to lay witness to the most bizarre fact—I am sprawled in the middle of a pathway, a path wide enough for one on horseback, yet too narrow for someone travelling by car. Every half a dozen feet down the path are odd, dilapidated wooden signs, the paint on them having worn down under the elements. I tilt my head to the side and find one of them next to me, the faded remains of the words, 'Time Awaits', smeared across the wood in grey paint. Upon seeing the words, a wave of discomfort rattles my brain and I close my eyes against the feeling. It's not pain, not really. It's more of a pressure, like there should be something there when there isn't. Wait…

Okay, okay, breathe, breathe. Let us think about this situation rationally. What is the last thing I can remember? The thought slogs through my mind and carries on in silence. Okay, I cannot remember what I was last doing. How about the day before? Another frisson of apprehension settles inside of me when nothing pops up. There is nothing there; absolutely nothing. There is only a giant white slate where my memories should be. Do I even know my own name? My eyebrows furrow when I realize that I cannot even recall that simple fact. Strange as it is, I think to myself, "I have no memories." I think the words again, a third time, a fourth time. It's not until the fifth time that it truly begins to register. I genuinely cannot recall anything. Honestly, it should be an alarming discovery, but with the dirt shifting beneath my fingernails and the fresh breeze sifting through my hair, there is no fear. Uneasiness? Yes. Perplexity? Yes. Bewilderment? Fuck yes. But fright? Not so much.

I push myself up from the ground and wipe the dirt from my hands onto my pant legs. My nose scrunches of its own accord, ill-content with rubbing dirt all over my nice clothing. But the alternative of having mud caking onto my hands is not a suitable option. There is already enough mud peeling off my face, I don't need more of it thank you very much. Glancing around, I contemplate my options. Although, frankly, I suppose there is really only way to go and that's forward. I must be on this pathway for a reason. As I move along the trail, I glance at each of the numerous signs. In most cases, the words are too worn out to read, but it does provide me with a bit of entertainment as I walk. The pathway doesn't last more than ten minutes before forking in two. There's a sign sticking in-between the two paths and I stoop down to read, 'Turn Right for Cobb, Turn Left for Eames.' Cobb? Eames? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Neither word rings any bells, not that they could even if I wanted them to. That being the case, I reckon it really doesn't matter either way. Neither track sounds more appealing, so I guess I shall try the true and sturdy first: right. I walk quickly deeper into the woods, the trees rapidly growing thicker and the branches sticking out at all sorts of odd angles. Several of them whack me square in the face which results in a growl roiling in my throat. It's not like I can open my mouth and swear. Crappy…thing. Fuck! I let out a short huff through my nose and resist the urge to touch my lips. Picking at the cords in my lips will do nothing but cause me more pain and more unneeded anxiety.

I continue along the same trail for what seems like hours, a discordant chorus of animal sounds filling the air around me and the sun filtering through the trees and lighting the ground before me. As the path begins to widen, I find myself coming across a muddy puddle; within its thick depths are several sets of footprints already imbedded into the ground. There are two sets of smaller footprints, clearly made by the bare feet of children, and another larger pair of footsteps marking the ground alongside them. Perhaps Cobb is a person then? Or maybe a group of people? "Don't you think you're going the wrong way, Arthur?"

My eyes swivel around. What the—? Up in the trees sits a lovely woman, her hands wrapped around a thick branch and her back hunched forward elegantly. Her legs are dangling from the branch, swinging back and forth almost like a small child. Although her one foot is bare, the opposing foot is cradled in a strappy black heel. In the most Incongruous fashion (completely inappropriate in these surroundings), her one shoe is matched by a tight, glittering black dress that clings to her from her shoulders down past her knees. As if in support of my sentiments, there is a frayed tear line running down the side of her dress, almost as though some creature had latched onto it with its nails and pulled. Not that I really have any room to make remarks. I'm wearing a nice pair of trousers, a button down, and a jacket no less. Why exactly I'm wearing them in the middle of the woods, I have yet to discover.

Upon my inquisitive assessments, the woman's lips draw up into a voracious smile, almost as if she could swoop down upon me like some wild animal. It takes all of my will power not to take a step back from that crazed look on her face. "Arthur, Arthur, Arthur," she murmurs, "such a stubborn man you are. And now look at you. Unable to accept the inevitable, you are lost." I want so very dearly to respond, but my lips do nothing more than pull painfully at the thread buried into my skin. I huff out of my nose in frustration causing the woman to let out a tinkling laugh. "You agreed to this, my pet. Don't complain about it now!"

What the hell do you mean I agreed to it? And why do you keep calling me Arthur? And even more importantly, what do you mean that it was inevitable—what was inevitable? You, my lovely lady, make absolutely no sense. I am in the middle of the forest, with a crazy woman in a tree babbling nonsense at me. This is certainly a dream. She grins at me once more. "I can see the questions in your eyes, but I cannot help you. It is not my place." I scowl at her and attempt to convey my displeasure through mere gaze alone. It doesn't appear to work. "I can give you a hint though…if you'd like." She pauses and I sigh. Yes? She continues staring at me until I finally nod my head in agreement. Alright lady, let me here your mad ramblings.

She flashes me a wink and after a length pause finally says, "The man whose eyes flame green as trees gives nothing more than lies and games." That's it? That's my hint? What the hell is wrong with this woman? She chuckles at my dark expression. "Good luck, Arthur."

I blink my eyes and the tree branch is empty. My eyes narrow. Holy mother of fuck what is going on here? A bird caws from a tree and the woods go silent. It is only as the quiet fills the space around me that I hear it: laughter. I hurry down the path and burst out into a clearing. Okay. This is…odd. In the center of the clearing, all angles and glass, sits a modern style home colored a dark shade of red. Laid out in the front yard is a large blanket, upon which sits a teapot and an assortment of sandwiches and cakes. "Our guest is here! Phillipa! James! To the front yard!"

Alright, so perhaps Cobb is the family? A tall man with dark hair steps out of the front door leaving it open for two small children, a young boy and girl neither of whom can be more than six. The girl races up to me and grabs at my hand. Oh no no. I don't do the children thing. She tugs and my hand again and smiles. "Come on, Uncle Arthur! It's time for my tea party! You promised you'd come!" Uncle Arthur? How curious indeed. Alright, I'll go along with this. It is my dream after all…

I allow her to drag me forward to the blanket where the man and boy are already sitting. "James, aren't you going to say 'hello' as well?" the man asks.

The boy looks up at me through his bright, blond lock and whispers with a tentative smile, "Hi Uncle Arthur."

I would reciprocate, however, given my current…circumstances…The man smiles at me. "How have you been? Not well I suspect, but that's why we're all here, isn't it? We're going to have a nice relaxing picnic!" I roll my eyes heavenward. Yet another person that clearly knows more than I do but to whom I can't ask any questions. Oh how wonderful. The man starts dishing up a ham sandwich and a sugar cookie for each of us. The kids eye the food with drool practically hanging off their little demonic lips. "So Arthur, the lip binding…does it hurt?" I shake my head slowly. "And the memories? Still buggered off somewhere?" I give him a wary eye but nod anyways. "A shame, that. You have so much to offer. Tea?" He pushes a cup in my direction. My eyebrows shoot into my hairline. Are you serious? What an asshole. I narrowly suppress the urge to smack my forehead and instead turn the desire into a fierce glare. "Oh yes, of course not. Sorry." I roll my eyes again and get myself comfortable.

"Uncle Arthur." I look down at Phillipa who has half a sandwich crammed in her mouth. Isn't that just lovely? "What's that on your mouth? Is it lipstick?"

"It's gold thread, honey," the man says.

"Ohh. Can I touch it?" I sigh and gesture her forward. Alright, come on you little brat. She springs forward with a giggle and clambers into my lap. Okay, I'll admit, that big grin on her face is a little bit cute. Before I know it, a small hand is tracing along my lips, moving up and down each piece of gold. A giggle tumbles out of her lips. "It feels funny!" I can't help it. I smile back at her. Trust me, it does feel quite strange, little one. She pokes at my lips. "Does it hurt?"

Her dad responds, "No sweetheart."

"Did a bad man do this to Uncle Arthur?"

For the first time since the beginning of lunch, James peeps up. "I know! It was mean Ol' Misser Fischer!"

Phillipa gasps. "Was it, Daddy? Mr. Fischer is bad bad bad." She turns her face towards mine and frowns. In a soft whisper she leans in and says, "Mr. Fischer eats babies." My eyebrow rises. Oh really now? An old man who eats babies? Your Dad sure reads you some strange shit.

"He does though." What? "Eats children." You cannot be serious. The dad's eyes are grave as they stare into mine. "After his son grew and moved away, old man Fischer went crazy. Or so they say. He pines for his lost baby boy, so now he cooks children in his pot to keep them with him forever. Such a sad tale really." A sad tale? A cracked man who eats children is somehow sympathetic? Apparently this dream is far darker than I had thought.

Phillipa huddles further onto my lap. I don't know how or why it happens, but suddenly I find my arms wrapped around her. Even more strangely, it seems natural. Maybe I do know these people after all. I may have been knocked about hard enough to lose my memories, but maybe it is only a temporary thing. One can hope anyways.

"Do you kids remember the song?"

Phillipa perks up in my lap and James claps his hands. "Well duh, Daddy," Phillipa huffs. "I'm six now, remember?"

"Of course," he smiles.

With a glance over at her brother, Phillipa nods her head completely serious. "James! Come on! Ready?" She clears her throat with a dramatic flourish and I resist the urge to laugh. James watches her expectantly. Almost, but not quite in unison, the two start with Phillipa taking the lead and James vaguely mumbling along,

"Old man Fischer, down by the sea,

With his spoon and his spices, he heats up his pot,

The—the k-kids come by his house to play,

For curiosity knows only the one way."

I feel my eye twitch a little as their dad claps. "Good job you two! You almost forgot that one line, but you remembered it! Good!" Was that supposed to be a nursery rhyme of sorts? Because I think you may have missed the mark by a lot. You know the part where stories aren't supposed to scar children for life? I think you may have missed that step…

"So Arthur, are you going to go?"

What the hell is he on about? Where the connections between the two conversations are is beyond me. At my confused look, he sighs. "Are you going to go to Mr. Fischer's?" Why, by all that is holy, would I go there? I narrow my eyes at him and wait for him to explain. For some reason, I know he will. 3…2…1..."If you want Saito to answer your questions, you must bring him one of Fischer's children. It is his payment." In typical fashion, my eyebrow starts creeping upwards again in question. "Saito is the only one who can help you with your journey. Lucky for you, he has a personal vendetta against Mr. Fischer. Therefore his price for information is one of Old Man Fischer's children—alive."

So what exactly are the pros and cons of doing such a thing? Let's make a quick mental list. Pros: I might be able to find out what exactly it is I'm supposed to be doing (considering that no one is being particularly helpful so far despite our apparent familiarity with one another). Cons: I must sneak into a psychotic man's home and kidnap a child from him without him finding out and potentially attempting to kill me. At this point I'm not really seeing how this benefits me. I mean, of course I would like to know why I'm here, and clearly I want these damn threads cut out of my lips; however, that requires a doctor, a nice, skilled, clean doctor. I suppose this man Saito may be able to give me some helpful information. Maybe. Or maybe I can just convince this man to tell me more. That seems like a much more reasonable option.

He looks at me with a question in his eyes as I wave my hand at him. But now, let's see here. First I point at him, then my head, then at my chest. That sounds about right. 'Do you know me?' Standard pseudo sign language. Perhaps he can garner my question out of that. The man shakes his head and chuckles. "Arthur, you and I have been friends for a long time, but I do not know how to help you. I cannot help you with your search. You have to seek out Saito's assistance."

Oh for fuck's sake! I rub a hand over my eyes and groan. "Uncle Arthur? Are you okay?"

Peeking out from under my hand, I cannot help from sighing. With a nod, I lean down and touch my lips to the top of her head in a semblance of a kiss. In an instant, a tiny pair of arms is wrapped around me. Whoa, wait a minute here! "I'm gunna miss you, Uncle Arthur. I don't want you to go."

"I'm sorry sweetie," my supposed friend responds in my place, "but he has to. He has a very important job to do. Come on, why don't you help me pack some food for Uncle Arthur before he leaves?"

"Okay Daddy." Little Phillipa hops off my lap and skips after her dad, followed shortly by a running James. Wow, thanks Cobb family. Some wonderfully helpful advice and some food for on the go, except, aren't you forgetting one thing? I can't eat jack shit with my mouth sewn shut. And isn't that just a terrifying thought?