To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

The sky is grey. It expands, blurring with the horizon. The land is grey. It expands, blurring with the sky. Water falls. Heavy, cold – the sound is deafening. It plasters the hair on my head and drips down inside my colour, soaking through the clothes on my back. My feet slosh through mud and wet grass, making sucking sounds whenever I wrench one leg free only to sink it back ankle-deep in thick sludge.

Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. While I struggle against the rain, my mind is left to wander, straying down paths I would rather forget. Don't come back, she says. The door slams shut with a resonant boom, and I know I've lost her. Or perhaps she has lost me – I can no longer tell the difference. The bond between us has only grown thinner over time, wearing away little by little, year by year, until it would seem to an outsider that there was never a bond to begin with. Don't come back.

I won't.

The wind picks up, propelling me forwards. I readjust the backpack, jerking the well-worn straps until they feel tight around my shoulders, and stumble on. There's an uncomfortable throbbing in my left hand. Phantom pain. Sometimes, I can still feel the fingers.

I won't go back.

Dusk is setting; the dull world grows slowly duller. The stars will be out soon, though it's too cloudy to see them. A pity. I would have liked to see the stars. It's been raining for over a week and I have been walking for so long; the days have started merging together. Grey gloom, damp earth, dripping branches– that is all I see from dawn to dusk. What I wouldn't give to gaze upon the stars in this hour…

Something big looms before me. I pause, one leg frozen in the act of sloshing forwards. It looks like a house. If it is, I should turn back – houses mean people, and people mean trouble. I can't risk another encounter with muggles; memory charms are not my strong point, and I have not yet stooped to the level of killing eye-witnesses in cold blood. In my hesitation, another gust of wind sweeps past, upsetting my balance. I topple forwards, my foot caught in the mud, and fall to my knees with a wet squish. It's cold and unpleasant. I struggle to regain footage.

The house is still there when I look up – and I realize that it isn't what I first thought it to be, but rather some sort of storehouse; most likely a barn.

I blink, and suddenly I am standing right before the door, so close I can almost see through the narrow gaps between the aged planks. How did I get there? The landscape has become blurred around me, details fading away into the omnipresent grey. Hadn't I been walking through a field only moments ago? I must have – my shoes are caked with mud; but I can't picture the scene, can't remember…

The barn shudders in the wind; groaning like a living thing. My attention is dragged back to the structure. I place one hand on the door, feeling the rough surface beneath my fingers. There is something important inside, someone I need to find.

Oh, Cassie, what have you done?

I push at the door. It takes some effort; the damp has caused the wood to swell. I am fairly certain no one has entered this barn through the doorway in a while. I ram it with my shoulder, once, twice, and it swings open with an ominous creak. I face the dark space inside and take a slow breath through my nose. The musty odor of straw is strong, and beneath it, the stuffy scent of animal fur and dried-out dung – horses, I decide. After a few seconds, my eyes compensate for the dim light, and I begin to make out the dusty frames of wooden stalls and poles.

My hand slips to my right pocket, fingers clasping around the smooth handle of my wand, and I'm momentarily confused. How odd. I thought I'd lost it.

The rain ceases abruptly. I glance over my shoulder in surprise, but there is nothing to see. Wherever I came from is now gone, swallowed up by the grey void. I should feel fear, but all I can muster is a dull sense of foreboding. There's no turning back now. I pull the wand from my pocket and take a careful step into the barn.

"Hello?" The word is sucked into the empty space.

There's a slight shift in the gloom ahead. I rise my wand between us like a shield, wary of an attack. Balin always said that orcs like cold and dark places… but who is Balin?

Something flickers in the corner of my eye. I hurl myself to the side – just in time – as a red light zooms past me. The stunning spell ricochets off the barn wall, briefly illuminating the scene in a flash of crimson. I hear cursing and leap towards its source before my attacker has time to fire another spell.

We collide, our two bodies falling heavily to the ground – with me on top. I fumble for something to hold on to, biting down on what I hope is a hand.

My attacker shouts. I receive a blow to the stomach that leaves me winded but does nothing to slacken my hold. A second blow knocks me sideways. I unclench my jaw and aim a blind punch at the person beneath me. My fist makes contact – waves of shock shoot up my arm – and I hear the satisfying sound of crunching bone. The shape cries out in pain.

"Impedimenta!"

I am knocked backwards, slamming against a solid surface. My bag cushions the blow, but it's still enough to scatter my wits. Disoriented, I fumble for my wand, but it is swiftly kicked out of reach.

"Lumos!"

Light explodes in my face, painfully bright. I yelp, one hand leaping up to cover my eyes, the other groping the ground in search of a blunt instrument to protect myself with.

"Hugo?" a sharp voice calls from somewhere above me. Female.

"M'fine," comes a muffled response. It's followed by a scuffling sound. I open my eyes a crack to see a blurry figure limping closer. "Fuck – she broke my nose!"

"Language," the second voice immediately counters, a hint of exasperation colouring her tone. My attacker snorts thickly.

I blink, and the two swim into focus. The wand-holder is a girl – a little older than me. Sandy hair. Average height. Her feet are firmly grounded to the earth, right leg braced as if she expects me make a desperate attempt at knocking her down. The second figure steps into the pool of wand-light. A boy. Blood leaks from his crooked nose. I feel a small twinge of satisfaction at that. He reaches out and grasps the girl's shoulder, squeezing. They look so alike; both fare-haired and round-faced – they can only be related.

The girl breathes a sigh of relief at his touch. She says, without raising her eyes; "You idiot. I told you to wait."

He shrugs, scowling. "Didn't think a muggle would put up that much of a fight."

Slowly, she stoops down (never breaking eye-contact with me) and retrieves something at her feet. It's a wand – my wand. She straightens, holding it up fir him to see.

"Not a muggle," she says.

There's a second of heavy silence as the boy – Hugo – processes her words. "Shit," he finally says. He grabs the wand, examining it closely as if it might be a fake. "Shit. What do we do?" When she doesn't immediately respond he says in an urgent voice, "Maggie? What the fuck do we do?"

"Language," Maggie murmurs again, somewhat automatically. Her eyes are sharp, taking in my ragged appearance, my tattered cloths and the bag slung over my shoulders. Her gaze lingers on my left hand. I clench my fist shut and bring it close to my chest, hiding the stumps from view.

"Are you done? I hiss.

She cocks her head to one side, a curious expression on her face. "What's your name?"

I laugh once; an angry sound – but say nothing.

Hugo's scowl deepens. "She could be a snatcher." He says the last word like it's something filthy that leaves him with a nasty taste in the mouth.

Now it's Maggie's turn to laugh, though hers sounds more sincere. "She looks about your age, Hugh. I don't think You-know-who is enrolling teenagers."

Hugo thrusts my wand in his pocket. "He did with Malfoy."

The insinuation, along with the casual confiscation of my wand, leaves me livid. "I'm not a Death Eater," I snap, shoving myself up in a sitting position. They watch warily as I roll up the sleeves of my jacket, exposing my bare forearms.

Maggie hesitates, then crouches, taking care to keep her wand trained on me during the manoeuvre. I wonder if I can knock it out of her grasp and take her hostage before Hugo has time to react, but she seems to guess my train of thought.

"Don't," she says simply, and there is an edge of steel to her voice. In this close proximity, I notice the cut on her lower-lip and the bruise spreading across her temple. She has been in a recent fight. "You'll only make things worse for yourself. Hugo?" Her tone softens slightly as she addresses her companion. "Make sure she doesn't try anything stupid."

He grunts and raises his wand, igniting the tip in warning.

Maggie settles on one knee. I flinch when she points her wand at my left forearm. She notes my reaction and raises one eyebrow. "Finite Incantatem," she mutters. When the spell doesn't trigger a response she nods to herself and straightens. "What are you doing here?" she asks. Her eyes dart to the doorway. "Are you traveling alone or with a group?"

Alone. Always alone. And as for her first question, probably the same thing as they are – seeking shelter from the rain.

But it isn't raining anymore; the grey void has eaten the world away…

A movement catches my eye, distracting me from my nonsensical thoughts; a slight stirring in the shadows behind Hugo. I crane my neck, trying to see what is concealed beyond the ring of wand-light. Hugo notices and glances over his shoulder. He stiffens.

"Dammit, Kid – stay back!"

But too late – a third figure has stepped out of the gloom, small and scrawny compared to the other two. It's a child, I realize – maybe only twelve years of age. He watches me solemnly through a curtain of matted black hair, dark eyes intense. Unnervingly so. I am the first to look away.

"Any more of you back there?" I call.

The child says nothing – only stares. I am about to repeat myself when Hugo speaks. "Don't bother," he says. Though he seems slightly mollified, the bitterness remains clear in his tone. He flicks his wand, prying my attention away from the new arrival. "He won't answer."

I ignore his words and address the child, careful to avert my eyes from his disconcerting gaze. "Why's that? Are you scared of me, kid?"

Maggie shakes her head. "No," she says, and suddenly she looks tired. "No, it's not that. He hasn't said a word since we found him." She shrugs helplessly. "We don't know if he can't talk or if he just… won't."

Something itches in the back of my mind when she says this; an odd sense of déjà-vu. I glance at the child. He is a pale creature, his features still soft with the curves of youth. He catches me looking and tilts his head, a small smile twisting the edge of his lips. The expression causes a shiver to crawl up my spine. It is… wrong, somehow. It doesn't belong there, on that sad and sullen face.

It's what gives the game away. Because the kid never smiled – not during the short time I knew him, anyway.

I close my eyes.

This isn't real – not the rain, or the Rogers siblings, or the mute boy with the unsettling stare. Just a memory – a dream; nothing more.

When I open them, the barn has vanished. So has Maggie and Hugo.

Darkness – that's all there's left.

Darkness and the child.

He is grinning now, mouth stretched wide – impossibly wide – and eyes empty of anything human.

I say, "What are you?" because it's obvious now that this thing standing in front of me is not the little boy I once knew.

The darkness stirs out of the corner of my vision like a living thing. I scramble to my feet, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever is concealed there. The creature remains hidden from sight, but I hear it. It slithers, a snake coiling and uncoiling its massive body. It's everywhere.

Understanding dawns, and with it comes a rush of fear. "It was you," I whisper. "You burnt the goblin. You countered Galadriel's Legilimency attack."

It speaks – and the boy's lips move, perfectly synchronized, mimicking the words like a ventriloquist's dummy. "The She-elf had no right. You are mine."

It is not a child's voice that says the words. It is unlike any voice I have ever heard, and reminds me of dark, dark places where the sun never shines. I shiver.

"I'm not anyone's," I say.

"Ahhhhhh," The Thing sighs and the boy's mouth opens wide, "but you are. I snatched you from the claws of Death itself, young one. I own each beat of your heart."

As if to prove a point, cold fingers creep up my back, seeping through skin and bone – right into my ribcage. It feels horribly real.

"What about the other witch?" I gasp, desperate to distract its attention. "Is she yours too?" Something clicks in my mind when I say this, a piece of the puzzle falling into place. "Have you been whispering in her ear ever since she woke up in this world? Is that what drove her insane?"

The fingers squeeze. My breathing quickens.

"I am not your enemy," The Thing murmurs, and there's something crafty in its voice now. "My power is yours for the taking."

"I don't want it."

"But you will." The pressure surges, expanding to my abdomen in a rush of cold. "Very soon, you will. Until then, child, I will wait – as I have for so long." Cold suddenly veers to heat. I cry out in shock and pain. "A parting gift," the voice whispers, "to remember me by."

I try to wrench free of its hold. It's no use; there is nothing to fight, nothing to defend myself against. I fall to my knees, tremors riding up my spine. The heat becomes unbearable; fiery fingers twisting in my stomach. I curl up in a ball and pray for an end to the nightmare.

Then, inexplicably, the fire flickers and dies. My head jerks up. The child is no longer fixing me with its empty stare. His eyes are now darting left and right, searching. The black space surrounding me becomes still and quite as the grave. I dare not breathe. Something has grasped the Thing's attention – something I cannot see.

"Impossible," it whispers.

The shadows explode. They close in, thrashing and twisting around me. The child's mouth becomes a gaping hole from which pours an inhuman shriek of fury and longing. "Impossible! It's here!"

I struggle, kicking and shouting with all my might. The darkness has become a river, a sea, an ocean in storm. I feel it on my skin – vast and angry. I open my mouth and it pours down my throat. The cold is inside me again; I feel sick; I can't breathe…

I am drowning.

The Thing's screams are the last thing I hear before I am pulled under – and then there is only silence.

Someone was shaking my shoulder. I jerked away from the touch, my mind still caught in the heavy folds of sleep.

"Cassie," a voice hissed. "It's only a dream, Cassie – wake up now."

My eyes flew open to find a shadowy figure hovering above me. I jolted upright, panic tightening my throat – and smacked foreheads with whoever was leaning over me. A muffled yelp reached my ears, the figure disappearing from sight. I struggled to my feet, dazed and disoriented, blood pounding in my ears. I took a deep breath and almost gagged. The barn smell was assaulting me – old wood, dust and straw – plunging me back into the past. A wave of nausea rolled through my stomach.

The sudden yearning to be outside; to feel the night air on my burning skin; to gulp it down until no vestige of the dream remained, seized me with irresistible strength. I stumbled blindly through the gloom in search of a way out. Dark outlines loomed left and right – pillars for the most part, though at one point I almost ran into the cow. It snorted and stamped, rearing its great head in alarm. I veered right, tracing the wall with a shaky hand, following the bumps and fissures in the wood until –

I found the door with a giddying sense of relief. A light breeze snaked through the gaps between the planks, cool and inviting. I pressed my hands against the door, pushing with all my might. It wouldn't budge. I tried again, with no further result. Sweat broke out on my temples. I shoved my shoulder against the wood. The double doors sagged slightly but still refused to yield. Panic rose, unbidden. I couldn't get a breath; my chest felt so tight. I needed to be outside; I was trapped here, in this dark and stuffy room where each gasp threatened to send me spiralling down into –

"It's all right," Bilbo piped from the space around my left elbow, his voice low and calm. "No need for distress. You just forgot the latch – see?" A small hand reached out and pushed the iron bolt upwards. "Now then," he said, "let's try again, shall we?"

With Bilbo's help the door swung open easily. A blast of cold swept over us, chasing away some of my fear. The moon shone bright and whole in the sky, casting its pale light upon our surroundings. I staggered into the night, down the winding path and through the courtyard, aiming for the cluster of oak trees scattered along the tall fence that marked the boundaries of Beorn's property. My knees gave way as I reached the first tree, and I collapsed on all fours. Bile rose at the back of my throat, tasting of copper and acid. My stomach heaved and I retched, spewing what little I could on the grass, which was quite an achievement in itself, seeing as I hadn't eaten in over forty-eight hours.

"Ah," Bilbo said, skidding to a halt at my side. "Ah… well." He seemed quite at a loss at how to proceed. After a moment of uncomfortable silence (occasionally punctured by the sound of dry heaving) he squatted beside me and placed a tentative hand on my shoulder. "Just, ah… let it all out."

A faint chuckle floated down the path. "Quite a bedside manner you have there, Master Hobbit."

Bofur strode into view, both thumbs hooked into his trouser pockets, an air of casual amusement about him. He looked different somehow, and it took me a second to realize that it was because he wasn't wearing his tattered hat. "Care if I join you?" he asked, and without waiting for a reply, sank down at the foot of a tree, his back propped against the trunk.

"You should be resting," Bilbo said, settling down at my side. "Goodness knows we'll wish for the opportunity when we're up and running again – whenever that may be."

Bofur sniffed. "We dwarves are a resilient lot. You needn't worry your head about our wellbeing, Mister Baggins. And besides," he sighed ruefully, "I was sleeping – and rather pleasantly too, I might add – but some clumsy oaf trod on my hand while she was stumbling around the room like a drunken Mûmak."

Another tremor rocked me from crown to toe. I retched, but my stomach had run dry, the last of its contents expelled at my feet in a sticky puddle. "Sorry," I muttered, twisting away from the mess to lean against the old oak tree. I tilted my head back and concentrated on taking deep gulps of cold air. "You can go back inside, Bilbo. I think I'm done throwing up."

The hobbit huffed. I glanced up to find him standing over me, arms crossed, an annoyed expression on his face. "You know," he said, "a little gratitude wouldn't go amiss sometimes. I don't know how things are done in your homeland, but we Shire-folk consider it quite rude to rebuke a friend who's done nothing but offer his help. Good night." He nodded curtly and took his leave, striding back the way we'd came without a backwards glance.

I watched, nonplussed, as he disappeared into Beorn's house. Only then of course, did I think through my actions and my words, coupled with the happenings of the past few days.

"Shit," I groaned, rubbing my face with my hands. "That was rude, wasn't it?"

"Aye, it was." Bofur scooted over, taking the hobbit's place at my side. He lent back and gazed down the path thoughtfully. "Your social skills leave a lot to be desired, Miss Morgan. If I were you, I'd apologize come daylight. Friends and good manners will carry you oft where gold cannot go – and you'll be needing both if you have any hope of swaying Thorin's final decision on your account."

I sighed, my mind going over the way I'd brushed Bilbo off the day before. "Shit," I muttered again. "I've made a right mess of things."

"Can't argue with that," Bofur said cheerfully. "But it's not all doom and gloom! I've yet to see our burglar remain irritated with anyone for long, and besides, he's taken quite a shine to you. He'll come round if you make it up to him."

"But Thorin won't." I pulled my legs up to my chest, feeling perfectly miserable. A snarky little voice in the back of my mind informed me I was indulging in self-pity, but I ignored it. "He didn't believe a word of what I said yesterday. When the company leaves for Mirkwood, he's not going to let me follow."

"Well!" Bofur exclaimed. "If that's what you believe, then you don't know Thorin at all!"

I arched an eyebrow at that. "I lied. Repeatedly. About where I'm from, about why I'm here –"

"Yes, yes." Bofur waved an impatient hand. "We guessed that much, lassie. The dwarves of Erebor have been reduced to nothing short of nomads. We've roamed these lands from Ered Luin to the Iron Hills many a time since our home was taken. An island in the north called England?" He laughed at my startled expression. "We would have heard of it, make no mistake!"

I started to speak, but he cut across me before the words could come out. "Listen, Cassie, I won't pretend to know what went down between you and Thorin yesterday, but a few lies won't undo the good you've brought to our cause." He grinned, reaching over to pat my knee. "Bravery and a loyal heart – those are the two things Thorin values above all else. And you have them in spades."

For a second, I could only gape. I replayed his words, growing more baffled by the second. Loyal? Brave? Was that how he saw me? The thought was so ridiculous I had to bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep my face from splitting into a wide grin. Salazar Slytherin was probably rolling in his grave.

Bofur cocked his head as he surveyed my expression. "Did I say something amusing?"

"No, no," I said, my voice quivering slightly. When he only looked confused, I chortled and said, "Thank you, Bofur. Maybe you're right."

He watched me closely a second longer, then laughed. "Glad to be of service," he said, and yawned hugely.

"You should go back inside."

Bofur shrugged. "Dawn's not far off; I might as well keep you company." He gestured towards the heavens. "A fine, cloudless night like this should not be wasted indoors – just look at all these stars!"

His words sent a jolt through my spine.

I would have liked to see the stars…

Grey gloom, dripping branches and shadows that stir like a living thing…

My stomach churned, a tight ball forming in my throat.

"Bofur," I croaked, casting around for something to distract my thoughts as flashes of the nightmare threatened to overtake me. "Can you tell me about Erebor?"

He blinked, perhaps a little startled by the sudden change of subject. "Aye, I can do that," he said. "What do you want to know?"

Anything, I wanted to say. Anything to keep the darkness at bay. "What was it like before Smaug came?"

"Ah!" Bofur sighed, and I could hear a smile in his voice. "The Erebor of old! Where dwarves tunnelled deep within the mountain, mining gold and precious jewels; where the hammers of our smiths sang day and night without cease; where fire blazed in the forges, unhampered by rain or wind…"

He needed no prompting from my part, swiftly launching into a detailed description of the ancient kingdom. He spoke of cavernous halls and chasms that stretched deep within the belly of the earth; of riches flowing from the mountain's veins; of delicate crafts wrought with hammer and flame. I could tell by the way his eyes focused on something faraway and lost that he was no longer with me in this moment. His mind was with his heart; in the home he yearned to reclaim.

I closed my eyes and pictured the Dwarven smiths at work, the steady clang ringing like bells through mountain halls. As I listened to his tale, the tension gradually left my shoulders. My back slumped against the trunk, and for a glorious moment, I let myself forget.

Cassie needs to stop taking Bilbo for granted.

I pray to the God of fanfiction that no one acted OOC.

Again, I don't have a beta. If you notice any mistakes, please feel free to point them out.