Pierce the Darkness
Chapter 3
Legolas almost changed his mind about what he meant to do when he rose from the narrow cot and Buffy shivered. But it was the very shivering that convinced him that he needed to search further afield from this dreary labyrinth of corridors and empty rooms for items to sustain them—she needed warmer clothing, and blankets, and a higher quality of food.
He woke her, murmuring that he was going out. She only tried (unsuccessfully) to curl tighter in spite of her rounded belly and mumbled, falling asleep again almost immediately. Legolas left the room and strode quickly down the corridor toward the door behind which, yesterday, he'd seen the stairs leading both down and up.
Which to choose? As he paused, indecisive, in the threshold, the sound of a door scraping open caught his attention. Leaning forward, he peered toward the bottom of the stairwell to see two creatures walk to the bottom of the steps.
One had a bald brown head and two long protuberances dangling off his face from where his nose would be, hanging halfway to his chest, and large glistening eyes. The other had an odd, down-turned face that resembled nothing so much as one of the uglier varieties of birds in its stage of infancy, and its respiration was noisy and laboured-sounding when it spoke.
"Malein's charging more for enviro-paks lately," the bird-like one rasped. "Soon I shall not be able to afford his ridiculous prices." He barely spared a glance at Legolas as they passed.
"You should see what he demanded for this!" exclaimed the other, facial tentacles waggling from the force of his ire as he raised a sack to eye level and shook it for emphasis, apparently unconcerned with how it dripped a viscous lavender goo. "I cannot believe my particular needs merit the smuggling of two crates of stims onto the station."
They continued up the second half of the flight of stairs "If you would just eat live or recently dead food like any other civilized race," the bird-creature replied, eying the sack with distaste, "you would not have to trouble yourself with such matters."
The tentacled one sniffed haughtily, completely ignoring the elf watching them in silent amazement. "My people eat carrion, as well you are aware," he stated. "Only a more sophisticated person can truly appreciate the fine bouquet of meat that is several weeks dead."
The door clicked shut, and the other's response was lost to Legolas. He stood there a long moment, numb with shock. No matter how he tried, there was absolutely no explanation he could devise that would account for what he had just seen and heard. They, like the Drazi, were misshapen and grotesque in appearance but unlike their erstwhile captors, spoke in speech as refined as any Man or Dwarf (thought he refused to compare them to his fellow Edhel).
Legolas felt ignorant and vulnerable, two things guaranteed to make him out-of-sorts, and reconsidered his decision to seek supplies; this was clearly a place rife with all manner of life, and he had no weapon beyond the shivs he had fashioned from the spoons. What if he were attacked, and unable to return to Buffy?
She carried his child, though he had not placed it within her in the conventional way. She was bound to him in body, if not in soul, and her life as well as that of their daughter or son was his responsibility. But there was not enough of that dubious food substance to last long, he admitted to himself. It would soon be gone, and what then? No, he had to take the risk.
With that thought firmly in mind, he descended the staircase. One last glance backward told him he had left the area known as Brown 32, whatever that indicated. He squared his shoulders and opened the door to his left.
Immediately, his acute senses were assaulted; the corridors that stretched before him were filled with the pervasive evidence of life: messy corridors strewn with pungent garbage, the low hum of voices punctuated by the occasional clang of metal or rushing of liquid somewhere behind the walls. The floor plan seemed identical to that of the level Legolas and Buffy had awakened upon, but whereas that one was characterized by its barrenness and glaring bright light, this was just the opposite.
Dimly lit, for which Legolas soon became quite relieved, the corridors were strewn with all manner of refuse: boxes, rags, scraps of food and cloth. Dirt was thick beneath his unshod feet, and the smell of urine was rank in his nose. He felt a fleeting moment of panic, much like that experienced when he'd first stepped inside Moria. Were there no windows in the entirety of this cursed place? The air was stale and thick, with a greasy grey haze to it, and Legolas altered his breathing to be more shallow, so as not to take as much of it into his lungs.
Beyond the foul smells was another aroma, that of cooking food, and he found himself following it. He rounded one corner, and another, until he discovered a family huddled around a metal canister perched precariously atop a damaged crate, a small fire crackling within. Thin, pale faces lifted to him, and the woman's grip on her bent spoon tightened as if she prepared to go into battle.
"Move out of the way for the man," she directed the children softly, and obediently, they shifted to the side to make room for his passage. Legolas opened his mouth to ask for some of the food, wanting to take it to Buffy, but he found himself unable to speak the words.
"Thank you," was what he ended up saying, nodding politely as he walked by. Then, "Enjoy your meal." The smallest child, a boy, summoned a slight smile for him and nodded back. Then they all turned back to the smoky little fire and huddled close once more, his presence already forgotten.
A sick feeling started in Legolas' stomach once he was on his way once more; clearly, some illness or accident had befallen the woman's husband if she were forced to live in this hellish place, her children subsisting on what had appeared, when he'd glanced into the pot, to be a scant and watery gruel.
That will not be Buffy, he vowed silently, and quickened his pace. More voices beckoned his attention, and he hurried down the corridor to find a group of men clustered together around a makeshift table. There was another of the bird-like creatures Legolas had seen in the stairwell with the tentacle-faced one, but all the rest were of normal Mannish appearance.
One man, better dressed and healthier-looking than the rest, stood behind it with two cups in his hands and a third on the table. The rest, poorly attired and all exhibiting signs of poor health, gazed eagerly down. Curious, Legolas looked, too. On the table were two crude little wooden blocks, and one small enamel statuette.
"Let's see your wagers, gents," said the man behind the table. "If you can guess which cup the statue's under, there's a case of fresh spoo in it for you." On the floor beside him was a small crate, presumably containing the spoils he mentioned.
It is a game, Legolas realized with a jolt. These fools are gambling when their belongings would be much better kept in their own possession.
One chap, short and stocky, dropped an item—quite similar to the weapons the Drazi had fired at Legolas-- into the basket beside the cups on the table. "It's worth 250 credits!" he declared hopefully.
"A W&G Model 10?" the gamester sneered. "Do you know how common these are? I can wave my hand and have a thousand of them in a half-hour."
The man's expression of anxiety grew as he took the weapon back and rummaged in the voluminous pockets of his overcoat for something else, withdrawing another weapon, this one boxy and unwieldy. "It's a Kalat Avenger," he said. "I took it off a Narn just yesterday, still fully charged." When the gamester's face lost none of its sternness, he continued, "It's worth 300 credits! That's certainly enough for a few games!"
"A few? Try one," the gamester corrected. "Just half of this spoo is worth 300 credits." His smirk turned crafty. "But I'm a generous man. I'll give you one go, for the Avenger."
The man's relief was nearly tangible, and he bounced on the balls of his feet in anticipation as the gamester upended the cups over the blocks and statue. He began to shuffle the cups around, weaving them back and forth with such speed and dexterity that had Legolas not had the acuity typical of his race he would have been hard-pressed indeed to keep track of where the statuette was.
The gamester stopped finally, and grinned appealingly at his customers. "Well, my fine sir?" he enquired heartily. "Which cup do you call?"
"The left one!" cried the fellow who'd bet the weapon. "It was there all the while, I know it!" There was a thread of desperation in his voice, and Legolas knew that he had the illness that sometimes afflicted a Man, that of compulsion to gamble.
The gamester's pallid fingers lifted the left cup and revealed a dull brown block instead of the shiny little figurine. "Sorry, mate!" said the gamester, his voice all oil and false sympathy. "Why not try again? Surely your luck has to turn around sometime!"
"If you won't take the W&G Model 10, I don't dare," the man whispered, his gaze flickering down the corridor toward where Legolas had just come. "My family..."
Pity filled Legolas, then rage at the suspicion that this man was the head of the wretched things he'd just passed in the corridor, eking by on thin soup and hope. Had he no sense? This was a game none could win! None but...
Legolas' lips thinned to a line and he strode forward. "If one of you but lends me the coin, I shall win it back for you, and more besides."
The men clustered round stepped back to make room for him. "And who might you be, friend?" asked the gamester, his gaze curious and wary.
Legolas just stared at him and held out a hand, waiting for someone to place the ante in his hand. When a cool weight settled into his palm, he looked to find the stocky man who'd just lost peering anxiously at him.
"Can you really do it, mister?" he asked, watery blue eyes alight with a mixture of hope and apprehension. "I can't afford to lose any more—"
"You should not have lost any," Legolas told him severely, and tossed the item—a short length of clear crystal-- into the basket.
"What is it?" the gamester demanded, squinting suspiciously at it as the murky light winked off its facets.
"It's a data crystal from a Vicar," the pale-eyed man whispered, sweat dotting his brow. "It's worth a fortune." The gamester pursed his lips as avarice lit his eyes, and then he nodded.
Legolas was tired of this—both the gambling addict and the gamester were repulsive to him on a variety of levels and he wished nothing so much as to be away from them. "Begin," he commanded the gamester, who blinked and slowly replaced the cups. He started to shuffle them, his hands moving with practiced grace in increasing speed until they were just a pale blur in the dim corridor.
When he stopped, his hands fluttered nervously before being consciously stilled and placed on the edge of the table. "Okay, mister," the gamester said to Legolas. "You're so confident, let's see what you can do."
Legolas resisted the urge to roll his eyes and merely tapped the cup with the statuette under it. "This one," he declared, aware that the men pressing close around him were all holding their breath in anticipation.
The gamester's face tightened with displeasure as he lifted the cup and there, for all to behold, was the little figurine. He recovered quickly, though, and flashed a greasy smile. "There's always someone who can get it on the first try," he said. "But I'd wager you can't do it again."
Legolas turned back from where he was handing the container of spoo (whatever that was) to the stocky man. "How much?" he inquired coolly. "I can win each time, as many times as I play."
The gamester's face flushed an unpleasant, mottled red. "I say you can't," he said, his voice close to a snarl. "The odds—"
"The odds do not apply to me," Legolas interrupted. "I am Edhel."
There was no comprehension on the gamester's face, not on any of the other men's; Legolas wondered where in Middle-earth they might be, that none had heard of the Elves. It had to be far indeed from the regions he normally frequented. Perhaps these folk had lived so long in this stifling underground place that they had forgotten the Children of the Stars?
It was a quandary for another time. Now, Legolas slapped the crystal back down on the table and met the gaze of the gamester. "I bet this," he said, "And you shall wager the weapon this man has just lost to you."
The gamester stared at him a long moment before nodding grimly, then dropped the cup over the statue and began to shuffle. His hands were nearly invisible, fluid and sinuous, as he shifted the cups over the scarred surface of the table. When he stopped, his face was confident as he wordlessly challenged Legolas to guess if he might.
How ridiculous, Legolas thought. Even if he had not had the ability to follow the speed of the gamester's movements, still there were cues aplenty one might use. The cup under which hid one block had a tiny hairline crack at the base; the cup covering the other block had a minute chip on the rim. Though perhaps, he was prepared to acknowledge, these Men were unable to see the flaws with their less-sharp eyesight...
It did not matter. Legolas indicated the correct cup, and once again had the satisfaction of seeing the displeasure on the gamester's face as he turned it over and showed the insipid little shepherdess in her shiny porcelain skirts and glazed-pink bonnet.
He managed not to smirk too much as the weapon and crystal were dropped with great reluctance into his hand. "Shall we play again?" he asked, his voice almost a purr. "Surely my luck cannot hold."
The gamester laughed nervously, eyes darting around. "Actually, I have somewhere I need to go—"
"Give him the chance to earn back what we've lost," said one of the men, stepping forward. He was easily as tall as Legolas himself, and burly. One by one the other men raised their voices in agreement and, facing a mutiny of sorts, the gamester was forced to agree.
Shuffle, reveal: another win for the Elf. And another, and another. On and on it went, and finally the gamester was forced to quit; Legolas had won every item he had—the crates behind him, formerly filled with all the items used as wagers, had been returned to their previous owners.
Their little audience fled as soon as everything had been redistributed; Legolas' unprecedented winning streak seemed to scare them for some reason he could not fathom, and even his most ardent admirer—the stocky father to the family of before—had left with a rather anxious backward glance, after pressing the "W&G Model 10" into his hand with a mumble of gratitude.
"My thanks," Legolas told the gamester with magnanimity. He had won everything back for the others over the course of an hour or so, and had the weapon as his own. His bare feet, clad only in thin socks, were cold from standing on the chilly metal floor of the corridor for so long.
The gamester flung the cups, blocks, and statuette into a small case, clicked the latch closed, and turned to glare at him. "Watch your back," he growled. "My boss doesn't like people who cost him money."
"And I," Legolas replied, "do not like to be threatened." He narrowed his eyes at the man. "You may tell your 'boss' that."
One last sneer, and the man was gone. Legolas was at somewhat of a loss for what to do. Slowly, his head downcast as he thought, he retraced his steps toward the stairs leading to Brown 32 until a voice broke into his reverie.
"That was amazing!" exclaimed a voice, and Legolas looked up to see the stocky man of before with the rest of his family. "How'd you do it, mister? What was your trick?"
He felt rather disconcerted, with so many eyes fixed so expectantly upon him. "I used no trick," he demurred. "Just the gifts the Ilúvatar gave me at my birth."
"See, a religious man," murmured the mother of the family. Her arms rested protectively around the shoulders of two of her brood, and she squeezed them lightly to call attention to her words.
Legolas was a little mystified; he was not sure what "religious" meant, though he had some idea. But he was no more pious than any other of his kin. "Do you know where I might obtain some boots?" he asked.
"There's shops up in the Zocalo," suggested the eldest child, a daughter in her teens. Her dark eyes were fixed upon his face with an intensity that spoke of a burgeoning infatuation. "But they'll cost you a fortune."
It was just on Legolas' lips to ask how to find this place—his total lack of money notwithstanding-- when the father spoke up. "Malein is sure to take an interest in how you was able to beat his game. He don't take kindly to losing, that one."
"Malein?" Legolas asked. "The gamester warned me about his boss. Have I aught to fear?" His tone said clearly that he was rather a stranger to that negative emotion.
"I'd keep my back to the wall if I was you, mister," the man replied slowly. ""Malein likes to run things tight here in Downbelow. It won't be long before he goes looking for you, before you can cost him any more."
"Then I shall be careful," Legolas said, and bowed slightly. This family, with their eager words and thin faces, was disturbing to him and he wanted to be away from them. Turning, he stepped quickly down the corridor.
He wandered down one hallway and another, peering into various rooms and chambers, asking everyone he saw where he could make some purchases. But all and sundry seemed reluctant to speak with him, and he wondered if the gamester had already set into motion some campaign of ostracism.
Hours passed. His belly rumbled with hunger, and he wondered how Buffy fared. He hoped she did not worry about him, that she was comfortable and safe without him to help her. His fury from yesterday, at the violation of his body by the Drazi, had not abated but his shock over his impending fatherhood was wearing off with the typical resilience of the Eldar.
His people were never surprised by pregnancy; it was always a choice, always an undertaking approached with the utmost prudence and caution. A child was never conceived in times of strife and war, nor when the people involved were not deeply in love and ready and willing for such a commitment to the child and each other. For him to share such a link of deep intimacy with a woman he did not know, had never met, had certainly never made love to, was unthinkable.
And yet, think of it he must. That he was the child's father was not in dispute, nor was his desire to parent it. His connection to Buffy, however... what was she to him? Never before had he known of two who had procreated without sharing a profound love. Quite plainly, he had no idea what to do with her. How was he supposed to raise a child with a woman for whom he had no feelings of devotion, love, desire? In his experience, two did not conceive without lovemaking, and there was no lovemaking without firm and unbreakable bonds of marriage and affection.
Conception went hand in hand with marriage and love. There were no children without love between the parents. He did not love Buffy, nor did she him, and yet this child existed. It was quite beyond the scope of his comprehension, and made his head ache.
After going over it for several hours, Legolas thought he might have an answer of sorts. He and Buffy had never made love; therefore, they were not wed by traditional means. Yet there was a child, a child that would need both its parents. There was no way Legolas would fail to be a part of his son's or daughter's life, nor would he allow another man to raise his child.
He came to the conclusion that, lovemaking or no, Buffy was the mother of his child, and as such was his wife and mate. How the child came to be was irrelevant; only that it was. There had never been another Edhel born whose parents were not wed, and their situation would be no different.
Satisfied with his decision, Legolas continued his prowl for supplies. He was unwilling to return without at least procuring some food and a blanket for Buffy. He came, at last, to what could loosely be termed a shop; slightly damaged goods were arranged artlessly on various tables and crates with grimy tags announcing their worth.
He found a warm-looking tunic of thick fabric, with full sleeves and an open front that would fit over her burgeoning belly, that would be perfect for Buffy. There were also some boots and a sleeveless garment that laced up for himself.
"Do you have any food I could buy?" he asked the merchant, but he was preoccupied with an exchange of glances with another man who was walking by; the newcomer's mien was distinctly ominous, if the cold slits of his eyes were any indication. A short, quick shake of his head to the merchant, and then he melted into the dank shadows.
"No," the merchant said shortly, and began hurriedly to pack up his wares.
Legolas glided over to him and grasped a handful of his shirt, hauling him close. "You say that under duress," he hissed at the man. "I tired rapidly of the corruption of this place. Your petty issues do not concern me; I need food, and I shall have it. This weapon—" he removed it from where he'd stowed it in his tunic—"is worth 250 credits, I am told. I am willing to trade for what I want, but will take it by force if you refuse to sell it to me."
"That'll be all, Gregor," drawled a voice from behind Legolas, and he slowly turned his head to find the man from before, who'd glared the merchant into refusing to sell the food, standing there. His feet were firmly planted on the floor as if bracing himself for a fight and he leant on a smooth metal staff, though he did not appear lame or otherwise in need of support. Legolas found himself smiling faintly as he released the merchant.
Gregor took off at a run, leaving Legolas alone with the newcomer. "Are you Malein, then?" Legolas asked. "I've heard you would be displeased with my run of good luck at the cups."
The man gave a snort of laughter. "Malein doesn't lower himself to associate with the likes of you," he grunted. Legolas took one look at his homely and scarred face and thought it an ironic statement. "But he's been made aware that you've already cost him a Vicaran data crystal, along with the rest of the day's take from that game of cups." He sauntered closer. "And he's not happy about it."
"I am sorry," Legolas lied. "Perhaps his luck was just as bad today, as mine was good?"
The man's face twisted with anger. "Good luck, my ass," he snarled, and pressed something on his staff that made it hiss and glow, crackling with energy. "No one cheats Malein and gets away with it."
With that, he advanced upon Legolas, who gave not a single thought to the weapon he had just tried to trade to the merchant; he had no idea how to use it, after all. Legolas dodged nimbly to one side and struck with a swift hand to the back of his opponent's neck. Rendered unconscious, he fell flat on his face to the ground, his staff falling to the side and abruptly returning to its former inert state.
Legolas advanced gingerly; a finger to the man's throat told him he was dead. Legolas went to the staff and nudged it with a cautious toe. When he remained uninjured, he grasped it and found it perfectly weighted, a superb weapon that he could actually use. Then he looked around-- Gregor had departed without his belongings and Legolas felt only the slightest pang of conscience as he pulled on the tunic and boots he'd found for himself, then a back-holster of sorts, into which fitted the staff.
Then he quickly packed whatever else he thought could be useful into a single crate and hefted it up. He made his way back toward Brown 32, glad to see the family of before had departed, leaving only the steaming can in which had burnt their cook-fire.
By the time he was once more walking down the sterile corridor toward where he'd left Buffy earlier, he was flushed with pleasure at having been able to provide for her and their child, no matter that his methods had been... unsavoury.
She was lying on the cot when he entered the room, but not asleep—she bounded upright into an attack stance but relaxed when she saw it was him. "I see you were able to find some things for us," she commented mildly.
"I am not sure if there is any food anywhere within these items," Legolas told her, pulling out the garment for her and several thick blankets, "but at least you shall not be cold again this night."
She stared at him a long moment before nodding, a faint smile gracing her lips. "Thanks," she said. "I appreciate it."
He nodded and dug into the crate once more. "I have procured two weapons," he told her conversationally, "though one remains a mystery to me and the other has untold abilities beyond what I know I can do with it." He placed them on the cot before her.
Buffy picked up the W&G. "I think I can use this one," she commented.
"Then keep that, for your protection, should something happen when I am not here."
She glanced up at him quickly, hazel eyes keen. "What happened?" she asked. "Something happened."
"I believe I have made an enemy," Legolas admitted.
"Already?" Buffy groaned. "It's only been a day."
"He was cheating the impoverished," he said defensively. "I won back what they lost, returned it to them."
She stared at him a long moment, then began to laugh so hard she had to sit, groping behind her for the chair. "Oh, shit," she gasped, wiping her eyes. "Robin Hood. The father of my hitchhiker is Robin Hood."
He blinked, unsure what a 'hitchhiker' was, but thinking it did not sound complimentary. "Speaking of which," he began, "I have been pondering our situation."
"Oh?" Buffy asked, sobering instantly and eying him warily. "And what conclusion did you come to?"
Legolas leant against the cool metal wall and surveyed her calmly. "Though we have never made love, still you carry my child. I do not believe the means matters overmuch, merely the ends. Therefore, as the mother of my daughter or son, you are my wife, and I your husband. As such, we are bound together forever."
Whatever reaction he had expected—disbelief, anger—her laughter was one he had not considered. "Um, that might be how it was back in Happy Land, or wherever Elves come from," she said when she'd calmed down once more, "but in my world, and this one I suspect too, things are different." She shifted, trying to make herself more comfortable. "There's no magical bonding of souls, and you sure as hell can't just state that we're married and have it be so. So, sorry. But no."
He sighed. "You do not understand. I am Eldar. There is no other alternative."
She only shrugged. "Tough. Bad enough to have motherhood forced on me, I'm not going to let wifehood be forced on me, too."
"Whether you accept it or not means naught," Legolas gritted out, his patience waning.
"It means everything," Buffy hissed at him, standing clumsily and getting right in his face. "I haven't saved the world nine times, and died three times, just to back down when some jerk declares me his own personal broodsow. So you can just forget it. I'm the one inhabited by Junior, here, so we're gonna keep me happy and do what I want. I've got enough problems right now, and a pissy father-to-be isn't going to be yet another one. Clam up, or I swear I will leave here and you will never see me or the baby again. Is that clear?"
Legolas was taken aback by the vehemence of her words. She had been so calm to this point that he had underestimated the depth of her upset concerning this situation. His mind whirled as it processed what she had told him. She was of a people who did not wed as his did; it would take her some time to become used to the idea. He could wait.
Would have to wait, really, because what other choice did he have? She was volatile and seemed stubborn enough to follow through with her threat, and there was no way he could permit her to take his child with her, never to see him or her.
Slowly, he nodded agreement. "As you wish," he said, but finished in his head, for the moment. He had no intention of allowing her to roam freely without the protection of his bond upon her, nor would his child be fatherless.