Author's Note: thanks to all reviewers, glad you're enjoying it :)

Pierce the Darkness, chapter 4

One Week Later

Her back was killing her. She couldn't see her feet, which had swollen along with her ankles to impressive proportions. She was craving all sorts of bizarre foods, like those yokdri Legolas had brought home a few days ago.

More specifically, yokdri with baiyou. Even better was yokdri in baiyou—the crunchiness of the fried treeworms was a perfect counterpoint to the sponginess of the blue Jello-like Centauri delicacy. Just thinking about it made her stomach growl hungrily.

But they were out of yokdri, out of baiyou, out of even the cases of pre-packaged flarn and breen Legolas had picked up off a Narn down in Brown 12. Not that she was hugely fond of flarn—tofu had never been a favourite—and there were only so many of the Swedish meatball-type breen a girl could stuff into herself, but they were at least an improvement over the green and brown goo the Drazi had fed them.

She glanced down at her wrist, where the face of a watch was stuck somehow to her skin, adhering without a strap. It was after six o'clock in the evening, and even if Legolas had gone to the outer levels he should have been back by now…

Hating the worry that bubbled up in her for him—worry indicated caring, which meant she was liking him and that could be dangerous—she stomped back to the room they shared and set about cleaning it for the tenth time that day.

Buffy was bored. Traumatically, soul-scarringly bored. Knowing that familiarity with the world around her was the key to getting Legolas to let her out of here, she studied her notes of whatever he told her about where they were until she was cross-eyed.

She knew that the Centauri were getting more aggressive, that they'd attacked the Narn again and were systematically taking over scores of colonies on their borders. No wonder the Drazi had been so upset—they'd lost a dozen colonies already, as had the Pak'ma'ra. And there were whispers of some other new danger, of black ships that screamed like your worst nightmare… Legolas had said that everyone in Downbelow was tense and frightened.

Downbelow. That was the name of this place she and Legolas were in. Unfortunately, she didn't know what they were down below of, and Legolas always became irritatingly vague on the issue when she asked. He was still stubbornly insisting they were merely in a huge and elaborate network of caves beneath the surface of his world, Arda.

Buffy wasn't so sure. Yes, Xander had made her watch far too many sci-fi shows, but unless something drastically weird had happened to the population of the Earth, the Drazi were aliens. Legolas, too, was an alien, for that matter. And judging from the sketches he'd made of the creatures he met when he left each day, there were piles more aliens out there, too.

There were no windows anywhere that Buffy had been able to find in her searching of Brown 32. Desperate for sunlight and fresh air, Legolas had been searching without success for some, too. That kind of made Buffy think they were on a spaceship of some sort. A really big one.

One without comfortable furniture, she thought with a sigh as she lowered herself into the uncushioned steel chair. She supposed she should be happy they even had the chair, but then decided she wasn't in a glass-is-half-full mood at the moment and indulged in a moment of surliness.

Chairs, aliens, food, and space ships aside, there was another issue that had Buffy worked up. It was an issue she stuffed to the back of her mind, refused to deal with, refused to even admit existed. Because if she did, it would escape her control, and then god only knew what would happen then.

Rage.

Also known as fury, anger, wrath, ire… she'd been numb the first few days after waking up and finding herself pregnant, numb and disbelieving. Then the anger had kicked in and it was, in Buffy's estimation, a miracle of the first order that she hadn't gone insane and killed Legolas, then ventured out of Brown 34 and killed anyone else whose throat she'd managed to get her hands on.

How was it remotely possible? Buffy had never thought she'd become a mother—death was always nipping at her heels. No sooner had one apocalypse been put down than another was rearing its head and building strength. When would she have nine uninterrupted months of peace and quiet? Never, that's when. She'd fight until a demon got his good day and she died. Her path led to a box in the ground, not a delivery room.

And then there was the method and source… she hadn't been made pregnant in the usual, and infinitely more enjoyable, way nor had the father been someone she loved and wanted to create life with. She didn't even know Legolas, let alone want to have a kid with him. Hot he might be, but also bossy, proprietary, chauvinistic, and…

Buffy glanced at her watch again: 6:15. And late. The Elf was late. What if something had happened to him? In the week since they'd woken up, he'd insinuated himself into the murky world of arms running with frightening ease, making her wonder exactly what sort of people these Eldar/Edhel guys were, anyway.

He'd just sorta waltzed in and taken over. And in spite of at least five death threats and a few murder attempts daily, he acted like it was all in a day's work.

She heaved herself up from the chair and reclined on the cot, settling in to fume some more about him. Legolas was overprotective, and treated her like she was made of glass, never allowing her to lift anything heavier than a teacup and babying her until she wanted to scream. She was a Slayer, for god's sake. She was the strongest and toughest human on the planet, and just because she had another person growing inside her—and didn't that just sound gross?—didn't mean she was no longer either of those things.

He treated her like she was feeble and incompetent, like she couldn't make adequate decisions. She, who had battled gods. She, who had saved the world a dozen times. It was enough to give a girl a complex.

Beneath it was the niggling suspicion that it wasn't her Legolas was concerned with, that she was just serving as an incubator for his child. She'd spent almost half her life as the Slayer, and the first years of her tenure as The Chosen One had been as the Watchers' Council's piece of meat, a tool, nothing more. She'd had a bellyful of being dehumanized, thankyouverymuch, and was not so eager to get back into that unhappy groove any time soon.

Feeling that familiar rage start to build, feeling resentment rise, Buffy opened her eyes and looked down to find her hands in her lap, clenching repeatedly into deadly little fists.

"Stress is not good for the baby," Legolas said mildly, and she looked up to find him standing in the doorway. He'd taken to dressing like a Narn, which meant lots of leather and metal studs. Buffy thought he looked like a dominatrix's wet dream.

He glided over to her in that supremely graceful way of his and sat on the cot beside her, taking her hands in his and rotating his thumbs on her palms, massing the tension away. "What can have made you so irate?"

"I don't give a crap about the baby," Buffy growled, trying to snatch her hands from his, but he only went after them again, finding little knots of tension in the mound under her thumbs and easing them away.

"You do not mean that," he murmured, tugging her forward to lean against him and wrapping one arm around her to stroke soothingly over her back.

"Don't tell me what I mean!" she exclaimed, trying to struggle free of him, but he only put the other arm around her too, holding on like one of those sucker-fish things that stick to sharks and pressing her head against his shoulder. "I know what I mean better than you do, and I really, really don't care about this thing inside me. I just want it out."

Legolas' face, when he drew back, was amused. "All women feel that way when their time is near," he said. His tone was patronizing, and to Buffy, it was the final straw. Pulling back her fist, she punched him with all her might.

He sailed back, tumbling to the floor and rolling until the wall stopped him. Slowly, he sat up and pushed his hair off his face, staring at her with eyes wide with amazement and dawning anger.

Buffy got to her feet and stood over him, furious. "Don't you ever treat me like that again," she whispered, not trusting herself not to scream like a madwoman. "I am not 'all women'. I'm not just being hormonal. I have not had nine months to get used to being this pregnant, I didn't even have the choice to be pregnant in the first place.

"You killed all those Drazi in a rage at being raped for your sperm, but you got off easy, Elf. You don't have it inside you, changing your body, slowing you down and making someone else treat you like a useless walking womb."

Her hands were clenching again, and she was feeling light-headed. Unsteadily, she made her way back to the cot. He was on his feet immediately, trying to help her, but she slapped his hands away viciously. "Don't touch me," she hissed. "God, I can't stand when you touch me."

He drew back as if she'd struck him again. "The child is mine as well as yours," he said, his voice low and uncertain. "I have a right to be concerned with how your behaviour affects his health—"

Buffy leant back against the wall and closed her eyes. "If I weren't pregnant with your child, would you act the same way?" she interrupted.

Legolas was quiet a moment. "I don't understand."

She opened her eyes and regarded him steadily. "If we woke up in that room and I wasn't pregnant, would you behave as you do toward me? Would we even still be here together? Or would we have gone separate ways, trying to return home?"

"I… do not know."

She closed her eyes once more. "I know," she said, feeling immeasurably tired. "The answer is no. No, you wouldn't treat me like a useless burden. No, you wouldn't forbid me to leave this area when you leave for the day."

Buffy sighed. "You only concern yourself with me because of the baby. If it weren't for him, you wouldn't bother with me, and you know it. All I am is a womb to you, something you need for an ulterior motive."

Legolas looked horrified by her accusation. "How can you say that?"

Blinking her eyes open, she fixed them on him. "When he's born, will you even want me around, still?"

"Of course," he replied automatically. "Our child will need his mother—" He stopped when he saw her face crumple.

"See?" she said, throat constricting. "I'm nothing but the baby's mother. I'm not the Slayer, I'm not even Buffy. I'm just… a means to an end. I don't matter. Without this baby, I'm nothing to you or anyone else."

He just stood there, stricken, and Buffy was reminded of nothing so much as a deer poised for flight. Finally, he walked back to the corridor and brought in a small package. "For you," he said stiffly, as if his lips weren't working properly, before leaving her there.

Buffy opened the package; inside was a collection of small paintings. The scenes were of places she'd never seen—exotic worlds with three suns in a vivid scarlet sky, or swirling purple seas crashing upon a pale celadon shore.

Just yesterday, she'd complained about the barrenness of their room and said it needed a little artwork to liven up the place. It had been a throwaway comment, just Buffy expressing her frustration at being cooped up in a tiny windowless place, but Legolas had heard it and remembered, and brought her a present.

"Legolas!" she called, struggling to her feet after placing the paintings down with care. She sniffled and realized she'd begun crying. Dammit, she thought, but began to run as best she could from the room and down the corridor.

She couldn't hold the speed for long; her belly was unwieldy and jounced uncomfortably, even if she clasped both arms around it for support. "Legolas!" she shouted, wincing at the loud echo off the metal walls. But there was no reply. "Where are you?" she asked dejected, head drooping.

"What is it?" he asked from behind her, and she whirled around so suddenly her feet tangled in her skirts. In an instant, he was there, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her back toward their room.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, trying to hold herself as separate from him as she could in that circumstance. "I can be a real bitch sometimes. I really thought that's how you felt… I didn't know." When he said nothing, she continued hopefully, "Thank you for the paintings. They're… really strange."

Another beat of silence, and then: "They are strange, are they not? What imagination the artist possessed… three suns, indeed." His arms curled tighter around her, and her arm fastened around his neck. "I am sorry I do not acknowledge you as a person more often, Buffy."

Back in their room, Legolas peeled the covers away and set her down on the cot. "Truly, I do value you as an individual, not merely as a womb. You are the mother of my child, and though you do not accept it, my wife. As such, you hold my immense respect and care."

Nudging her over, he shucked his boots and lay beside her, pulling the covers over them both before curling himself around her. "Even should this child perish, I am bound to you for all days, Buffy." His warm breath against her ear and neck was making her shiver. "And the prospect is not so grim to me as you seem to think. Were you not so great with child, I would show you in ways better than mere words."

His hand came up then, cupping her breast and stroking his thumb over her stiffening nipple. "You were chosen as the best of your kind, and in the time I have known you, your strength has never faltered," he murmured, placing a kiss in the hollow of her clavicle. "You are a woman any man would be proud to have for his own."

"For all days?" she repeated shakily, her breath shallow as his hand smoothed down over her belly to her hip and thigh, then back up.

In response, he turned her face to him and settled his lips firmly on hers, kissing her gently at first, then with more passion as she opened her mouth to him. They both twisted, trying to face each other better, and soon Buffy found herself on her back with Legolas draped over her. His hand reclaimed her breast, kneading and squeezing, and his knee slid between her legs, rubbing insistently.

When he finally pulled back, he was panting as hard as she. His face was flushed and his eyes sparkling and bright, bright blue. "There," he said breathlessly, gaze roaming over her features with frank appreciation. "I trust that convinces you that I see you as something more than merely the mother of my child?"

Buffy tangled her hands in his hair, staring up at the ceiling in a daze. "Mhmm," she answered at last, after he nudged her for a reply.

Smiling, Legolas bent his head and nuzzled under her ear, nipping at the lobe. "I cannot wait until he is born, and we do not have to stop. I feel quite… cheated, that we are to be parents without experiencing the actual conception."

"Me too," she blurted, then blushed when his smile became a full-out grin of satisfaction. "Don't be cocky," she scolded, smacking him lightly on the arm. "When I'm back to 100 I'll give you a run for your money. I'm a Slayer, you know. We're built for speed and endurance."

"The speed will not be necessary, I assure you," Legolas told her soberly. "I intend to take a very long time." A wave of heat scalded through Buffy at that; one look at his smug face told her he was perfectly aware of it. "But the stamina…" He brushed a silken kiss over her mouth. "Yes, I eagerly await the time when we can see if Elven stamina can keep up with that of the Slayer."

And he tucked her more closely against him, combing through her hair with his fingers. When her regular, even breathing told him she was asleep, he carefully detangled his limbs and stood, then tucked the covers closely around her.

He was, in equal parts, both disturbed and relieved by her outburst. He was displeased that she thought so poorly of him, but glad to finally understand the basis for her moodiness and insistence on keeping her distance from him in recent days, both physically and emotionally.

To a certain extent, yes, he had focused on her pregnancy instead of her, and that had been his mistake. But at no time did he relegate her entirely to only the container of his child. No, she was his wife, and therefore the mate of his heart, mind, and soul.

But Legolas was unprepared for such a bond. He had been unwed a very long time before joining the Fellowship and befriending the Dwarf. Neither had travelling so long with Gimli prepared him for the rigours of being in a relationship, as both he and the Dwarf were of a like mind in most things after over a century of comradeship.

He did not love Buffy; that, he could not lie about. But she was beautiful in appearance, and though prickly as a thorn-bush, strange in speech and manner and so very, heartbreakingly young, she had a fine fëa: that, he had seen even before waking her a week earlier. She was a good woman, a strong and courageous woman, and he was sure it was but a matter of time before he did love her.

Could she love him? Certainly, she desired him; her response could not have been manufactured. But she was Mannish, and though he had counted a score of Men among his closest friends he had to admit that longevity of emotion was not their strong suit. Fickle they were, inconsistent and capricious. If their situation improved—if she no longer was dependent upon him for her survival—what guarantee did he have that she would not leave him?

As Edhel, now that Legolas was wed to Buffy, they were wed forever. He had not spoken falsely when he said they were bound for all days. Even after she died, which as a Man she would do long before him, there would be no other for him. So he was quite concerned with making her live as long as possible, especially since the last Drazi had said her health while pregnant was fragile. If she were to die soon, he would be condemned to a life of continued celibacy and solitude.

"So I shall make this time count," Legolas murmured. He had to. It might be the only time he had with her.

Two Weeks Later

"I have returned," Legolas called as he entered their set of rooms on Brown 34.

"Get anything interesting?" Buffy asked, smiling up at him in greeting as she waddled in from the next chamber. She'd spent the day like all the other days, rummaging and sorting through the piles of stuff he'd been bringing back with him. His days were spent scavenging, trading, gaming, and probably doing all sorts of other activities he wasn't sharing with her when he returned home.

"Do you recall that Centauri Tromo Handgun I obtained in exchange for the case of W & G Model 21's?" Legolas inquired, doffing his metal-plated coat and studded gauntlets to reveal the tunic and fitted trousers beneath.

"The one that cost you a dozen Thrakallan phase pistols? Yeah," Buffy replied, taking the coat and gauntlets and putting them away in a closet she'd found behind a wall panel. "Did you manage to get rid of it, finally? I know those Centauri were looking for it… they don't seem to like when their weapons get traded away."

"Especially to a 'pointy-eared Earther'," Legolas said, the pained expression on his face indicating what he thought of being called that. "I managed to locate someone who wanted it even more than the Centauri."

He stepped back into the corridor and dragged in a large crate. "In return for the Tromo, a Hyach trader gave me the entirety of this." He wrestled off the lid and stood back as Buffy came forward to investigate.

"Flarn, baiyou, breen… treel?" She glanced up at him, packages of each of the foodstuffs in her hands, eyes wide. "How did you--?"

Legolas smiled and nodded toward the crate. "Keep looking," he told her mysteriously.

She thrust the packets at him and continued digging. Bottles clanked, and she muttered, "Brivari? Taree?" She grinned crookedly at him. "I'm not exactly able to enjoy alcohol at the moment, you know."

He took the bottles from her and set them on the counter. "Then we shall save them for when you are."

"Oooh, yokdri!" Buffy cooed, carefully lifting out a padded container and setting it aside.

"I cannot believe you enjoy that," Legolas muttered. "I would never—"

"It's all in the preparation," she interrupted with a grin. "You don't know what you're missing."

"I shall never see fried treeworms as a delicacy, no matter how they are prepared," he shot back. "I maintain that it is a mere pregnancy-induced craving of yours, one you should count yourself lucky that I indulge."

"Yeah, I'm the luckiest girl in the world," Buffy said with mock-sourness. "There's—" She stopped abruptly, staring down at the mesh bag she pulled from the bottom of the crate. "Are these… these aren't… are they?" She looked across the room at him in wonder. "You got me orcha?"

Legolas shifted on his feet, looking uncomfortable. "You had said you worried for your health, with the lack of fresh fruit and sunlight… I cannot do anything about the latter, but the former I was able to obtain."

Buffy set the bag of orcha fruit down and walked to him. "All this food, especially with the orcha and taree and treel, cost far more than just a Tromo," she said quietly. "What did you trade?"

He refused to meet her gaze, staring out the door into the corridor. "The changeling net."

She sucked in a breath. "But that was supposed to be our ticket out of here!" she said, her tone urgent. The look on his face was scaring her. "What happened?" Her hand on his sleeve rubbed gently, trying to soothe and encourage him at the same time.

"There is no way out of here for us," Legolas whispered raggedly. "We are adrift in the skies, and there is nowhere to go… the stars are endless…"

He was starting to look pretty shell-shocked. "But I… I explained this all to you, days ago, and you seemed fine," Buffy said, leading him to their cot and pushing until he sat. "You know about all the different types of people here, where did you think they came from?"

His eyes were bleak when he tore his gaze from his hands to look at her. "I… do not know. I thought they were merely other races I had not yet met, from parts of Arda I had not yet roamed."

Buffy sat beside him. "What happened?" she repeated. "Please, tell me."

"Belladonna decided it was time for me to know the truth." Belladonna was a prostitute Legolas had befriended the previous week—she was the one who had traded the paintings to him for Buffy. Of the race B'lldn, she looked more like a plant with tentacles than a sentient being, but was reputed to be a courtesan of the highest skill.

That's what she told Legolas, in any case. Buffy wasn't thrilled that he associated with her, but she refused to admit it was jealousy. He insisted that Belladonna was simply an informant who'd taken a liking to him because he would talk to her of the intellectual arts rather than the sensual ones.

"What did she do?"

"She brought me to Brown 100." He paused, swallowing. "There are… windows there."

Buffy sucked in her breath. "And what did you see?"

"Stars." His voice was barely a whisper. "A black void, holding naught but stars as far as even my eye can see. We sit among the stars, as Ilúvatar said would happen after Arda was no more." His shoulders were trembling. "Can it be true? Can my home be gone? Can Ithilien and Eryn Lasgalen be gone?

Legolas bowed his head and was silent a long moment. Eventually, he composed himself and murmured, "My father, my mother… Eldarion and his sisters… I still do not know what befell Gimli, either."

"I don't know what happened to my family or friends, either," Buffy replied quietly. "I guess we'll just have to be each other's family now."

He looked up at her in surprise. "Are you ready, then, to accept me as your husband?"

She snorted. "Not nearly. But we can be… cousins. For now. Until we know each other better. And we'll make new friends, eventually. Look, you've already got Belladonna. You'll meet more people, make more friends. If you ever let me out of here, I'll make some, too."

"You are not a prisoner," he said indignantly. "I wish you to stay here for your own safety. The more I explore of Downbelow, with its gambling hells and brothels and narcotic dens, the more convinced I become that we must find a way out."

He sighed, a faint flush on his elegant cheekbones speaking of his embarrassment. "It was foolish of me to trade the changeling net for the food, when I have finally learnt of the world beyond this dank place."

"Yes, it was," Buffy agreed easily. "But it sounds to me like you had yourself a little moment of insanity." She patted his shoulder. "We've all been there. You should have seen what happened when I had mine. Lasted months. Wasn't pretty."

As she spoke, his arm came around her, and now she snuggled more comfortably against him. "Besides, you didn't do anything we can't fix. It'll just take a bit longer, is all."

Legolas glanced down at her ever-burgeoning belly. "I wonder how much more time we have."

"I'm torn," Buffy said slowly, "between wanting it out right now, and wanting it to stay there forever so I don't have to deal with it. I'm no closer to wanting a baby than I was before, Legolas." She looked away from him, studying the wall. "I don't feel like I have anything to do with it, like it's not connected to me at all."

Both fell silent for a long time. Legolas, too harboured fear of having this immense issue thrust upon him, not only a child but a spouse as well. Had he not sought to escape such bounds to his freedom by fighting and travelling so long? Joining the Fellowship and then, when the War of the Ring was over, settling in Ithilien had not entirely been motivated by a burning need to banish evil from his world.

And now all choices had been taken from him.

"It will get better," Buffy said, burrowing more deeply against him, trying to stave off the bleakness, the feeling of futility and powerlessness.

"It must get better." Legolas recalled the endless depth of stars outside that little window. "There is… nothing else for us."

flarn: Minbari food substance, like tofu.
yokdri: fried treeworm, eaten as a delicacy.
baiyou: blue Centauri jello.
orcha: Markab fruit.
brivari: Centauri alcoholic drink.
taree: Narn alcoholic drink.
treel: Centauri fish, eaten as a delicacy.
breen: Narn food, similar to Swedish meatballs.