Warnings: violence, slash, hints of domestic violence and child abuse, language. Dark characters. Chapter re-edited (may 13, 2015)

Chapter 2: What a Bad Dream

"My sleep wasn't peaceful, though. I have the sense of emerging from a world of dark, haunted places where I traveled alone."
― Suzanne Collins, Mockingjay

He felt the metal visor clang shut and his vision was reduced to what he could see out of the helmet's slits. The smell of horse, stirred up dirt and a packed crowd, washed over him causing his heart to quicken. The roar of the crowd pushed him forward as he carefully balanced the hefty weight of his lance as his horse charged forward. He felt the blow shudder its way up his arm when his lance met armor. Silence.

There was no sound from the crowd now. Just silence. The limp body of his opponent lay crumbled on the dusty ground, helmet askew. Empty periwinkle blue orbs stared lifelessly back at him. A sick sense of triumph was all that came to him.

And then everything shifts….

A large drunken man, reeking of stale ale and sweat towered over him. His meaty arms swung down and Harry tried to wrap his thin arms around his head to lessen the blow, but it helped little; just like he knew from experience that it wouldn't. The man's—no his father's slurred words fell like daggers slicing through unprotected flesh; the words different, but the meaning always the same.

"Useless shit. It's your fucking cunt of a mother's fault…already had one worthless devil child. Should have drowned im at birth like I shud uf done with you….disgusting little weakling you are….nothin without your devil tricks"

The words are punctuated by another blow and Harry can feel his tiny body shudder at the impact, curling in on itself as though making himself smaller might cause his father to reconsider. And for once it seemed as though luck is on his side. After another kick the man seemed to lose interest in him, apparently not getting as much pleasure when he refuses to try and fight back—or perhaps he simply drank more tonight and didn't have the usual energy it took to toss around his tiny son.

Harry doesn't move; doesn't dare breathe a sigh of relief as he hears his father move away, stumbling slightly as he made his way to the second room of their small two room shack. He hoped his mother had the foresight to not be in that room—but he knows that if she didn't, there is little he can do. He hears a shrill cry and the sound of pleading, followed by a crash and the sound of body meeting wall.

He curls into himself, trying to shut it out. But even as he does so he feels an anger and hatred take hold; quietly nestling its way down and into his very soul.

It was then, the day before his fifth summer that he decided that someday, maybe not now…but someday, no one would be able to make him hurt. That it would be him with all the power.

This he vowed. And deep down he knew it to be true.

Again colors swirled and shifted….

He's staring down at the thin, frail, fever flushed woman in front of him. She struggles to draw breath, only to use it up with a hacking, choking cough. Red staining the cloth held weakly between her bony fingers. He didn't mean for this.

Not this.

True to his word, he had gotten his revenge but the act of deviance…of ignorance, was only meant to cause 'the man's' slow painful death….not hers.

Not his quiet sweet mother's. Green eyes—paler then his own but still distinctive, stare absently up at him, as though they no longer saw what was really in front of them; as if she has already left this plane of existence for another. He bites back a choked sob; there is no point in showing his sorrow. It will change nothing.

When he first noticed his father's hacking cough and shortness of breath, all those weeks ago he knew—even only being just five- he knew his father's hours were numbered. And oh how he rejoiced at this knowledge…watching vindictively as his father grew sicker, weaker….his life force—wasted as it was—slowly ebbing away.

Harry knew that with his gift; his magic- the very same magic that his father had cursed and belittled so often since discovering that not only did his oldest son have it, but his second son…. the same son that he had stolen away in the middle of the night to prevent the older one's magic from infecting it; also had it—that he could have saved his father from falling to what the villagers labeled as consumption*.

It was exactly that reason that Harry had stood by and done nothing. But he hadn't meant for his mother….his beautiful, sweet mother to also catch it. To catch it and have it take over so fast that not even Harry's gifts could spare her life.

Now he stared down at her…the final minutes of her life, wracked with pain, knowing there was nothing he could do to help her: nothing that could stop her from leaving him.

And he felt the icy hatred in his chest grow.

Blackness crept in, blanking out the scene and once again it changed before his eyes….

He felt nothing as his knife sunk down, slicing into the soft flesh, perfectly fitting between the man's ribs. The warm spurt of blood trickling out of the newly made hole and made his fingers stick together; not that he cared.

He let the heavy body fall with an almost unheard thump, stealthily wiping the knife off on an old rag he kept secured to his belt for just that purpose. He paid the fallen man no more heed…for it was not him that the assassin had come for tonight—no, that life was yet to be taken. But he had no doubt that it would be. He had been paid after all, and if there was one thing that was true for Myror—the name he now went by, it was that he never went back on his word. Never.

He almost mechanically crept through the hanging shadows, moving with the honed grace of hours of practice, moving silently to push the door open. There were no amateur mistakes for someone with Myror's skills….no creaking floor boards or un-oiled door hinges; just precision and deadly results.

He took a moment to stare down at his soon to be victim. Her face was peaceful in sleep, the gentle rise and fall of her chest unlabored, the moon's light causing a slight glint off her fair locks. It was a shame really….he might kill for pay, but he could admire a beautiful thing when he saw it…. and there was no doubt in his mind, that this young girl—just two decades old, was beautiful.

Not that it would save her in the end.

Ten seconds later, the chest was still.

This time it felt as though he was being ripped away—there was no fade out, just a quick sharp pain and an awareness that he was no longer staring down at the now dead girl…

This time when he came to, something was different; something not quite the same as it had been in the previous scenes. He didn't know what it was, but he did know that he didn't like it. Not at all.

He was standing in the middle of sunny clearing: the feeling of unease and trepidation that clung to him, was at complete odds with his peaceful surroundings. He took the time to scan the area, trying to pin-point just what was trigging his incredibly sharp instincts. There was nothing.

At least that is what he thought.

He jump, arms shooting out when he heard a soft cough coming from behind him. Wheeling around, knife drawn in order to protect himself from whatever it was, his heart pounding like it hadn't since his first kill all those years ago, he stared in shock at the small child in front of him.

He could have sworn the boy hadn't been there three seconds ago.

Taking a deep breath to calm his thudding heart, he narrowed his emerald eyes at the child, trying to decide if he should just kill the boy and be done with it. Something made him pause however-as though his instincts were screaming at him that the timid child was not what he seemed.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded not lowering his weapon for a minute.

The child seemed wholly unconcerned by the sharp saber being pointed in his direction, "I should be asking you that question, Myror the murderer" the boy replied.

His answer caused Myror to freeze in both fear and surprise, how did the boy know who he was? There were very few who could connect that name to his face…just who was this boy?

"How do you know that name?" he hissed, forcing himself not to take a step back from the boy like every instinct in him screamed to do.

The child gave him an enigmatic smile, cocking his head slightly to the side his dark bangs falling to the side to reveal stunning green eyes-incredibly familiar green eyes in fact.

"Because we are one and the same" the child replied calmly.

What did the boy mean? Why was he here….why was he playing such dangerous games? He knew Myror's chosen name…he should know just how unwise it was to come here and taunt such a man, and yet he held no visible fear.

"What do you want?" Myror repeated

"To warn you" the boy replied.

The feeling of unease increased, "to warn me of what?" he asked simply because he had to hear what the child said.

"Everything will change and only one of us can win…" The boy replied calmly staring Myror directly in the eyes.

He didn't need his years of experiencing to know that what the child was saying was not some idle threat. Fear engulfed him, squeezing painfully at his chest and he decided to end this here and now. But as he lunged forward, blade on a direct course to meet the child's carotid, it was met with nothing but air.

He stumbled, just catching himself in time to prevent his forward momentum from causing him to fall, his breaths coming out in harsh puffs—more from fear than exertion. He spun wildly around, as though he would somehow find the boy to have moved behind him.

But there was nothing: nothing but an empty sun-dappled clearing.

Myror scanned the area again, not quite willing to believe that he had imagined the whole thing…but there could be no other explanation. As his observation proved, he was quite alone in this place. His was the only heartbeat to be found.

He couldn't stop the chill that trickled down his spine at the distant sound of a lone crow's caw.

Harry bolted upright, chest heaving as he frantically drew breath, a chill shuddering through him as his sweat soaked skin met the cool nights air.

It took him a few panic filled minutes to realize just where he was….and more worrisome, just who he was. He honestly didn't know what to think at the moment, his heartbeat finally calming and his immediate fight or flight reaction easing enough to allow him to lower the sharp knife that he had stashed under his rather uncomfortable sack of provisions, which was currently doubling as a pillow.

It would seem as though both his Harry and Myroe halves were paranoid enough to always sleep within reach of a weapon; the only difference being, that with one it was an enchanted stick, and the other a sharp, carve-your-eyes-out dagger. Details.

Once he was calm and collected enough to think again, he allowed himself too rationally analyze just what the scenes he had 'dreamed' could mean. He could only assume that his dreams consisted of Myror's still largely repressed memories. Why they were coming out jumbled, and when Harry was asleep, he didn't know… but he could safely say; he appreciated Myror's memories sharing his head space about as much as he appreciated Voldemort's. Which in case you were confused, was not at all.

What disturbed him more than the fact that he had just witnessed his less austere half kill without remorse or any hesitation, was the fact that Harry (for that was who he still considered himself) was starting to feel some form of sympathy towards his other half. He knew what it was like to be small, defenseless and at the mercy of someone who should have protected, rather than punished. He knew what it was like to feel like he was being left behind, when others left time and again—whether by their choice or another's mattered little; in the end he was still left alone.

So yes, he could empathize with Myror, he could even understand how his malevolent half became what he was…considering Myror's past and the fact that he was operating with mostly Harry's crueler, more self serving emotions, it really wasn't all that shocking he had become what he had.

Still, the fact that he could understand and even pity a cold blooded murderer scared him and unfortunately, it was not even the first time that it had happened. It was the same way that he had felt sorry for Voldemort when he had witnessed the small boy left alone in a muggle orphanage. Oh, he knew that Dumbledore showing those memories to Harry, had not been meant to make Harry sympathize with the mass murderer, but that was what had happened. Not that he had told anyone this…not even Ron or Hermione; it was something that Harry was sure that not even they would be able to forgive or understand. In a way he was actually rather thankful to the horcrux; it allowed him a rational reason for why he would not have to be the one to end Tom's—no, Voldemort's life.

He knew it made little sense, for that little dark haired, blue eyed orphan was long gone—in the boy's place; a cruel, sadistic half reptilian monster…but he couldn't help but wonder if someone had shown Tom love or understanding as a child, whether he would have taken the path he had. Stupid he knew, but then again one can't argue sense with things like emotion.

This time though it was different. Back in wizarding world, his feelings of sympathy for Voldemort were dangerous yes, but it was not the same kind of danger. He did not know how his and Myror's souls combining, would ultimately play out; he didn't know if feeling empathy towards Myror would allow that half of him a stronger foot hold over his thoughts and actions. That thought terrified him.

Oh, he was well aware that back when he and the goblins had ultimately decided that this was the best course of action, that he had told both himself and them that he did not care if his other half was the dominate half and therefore the driver of this ship, (as he would no longer have enough awareness to realize this fact) but that had changed. He somehow knew that the goblins had not been entirely correct on the last part of their theory. He could sense Myror along the edges of his consciousness, and he could not help but wonder if Myror was not as entirely unaware as he had been hypothesized to be.

The thought of his own sentimentality causing him to lose the dominate status within his mind scared him more then he liked to admit—even if only to himself. To become a non-entity, a trapped half formed pattern of memories in an alien brain, was not the fate that he wanted. He could not allow it to happen.

When Harry realized that this line of thinking was causing his heart rate to once again pick up he quickly shut it down. No, he would not get ahead of himself, there was absolutely no proof that any of his current fears were anything more than just that; fears.

So what if he had witnessed some of Myror's memories through his dreams?—that was not entirely unexpected. The goblins had said they didn't know how the bonding of souls would happen or what effects it would have in the end. So really, it only made sense that he and Myror's two separate halves might take a little time to merge into one smooth, functioning personality. That was all this was.

Soon enough, he would not think of himself and Myror as separate, but as one….his own thoughts and memories acting as the guiding force for his new person. All he had to do was be patient and continue the best that he could.

It would all work out in the end…..it had to.

-oo—

Harry was coming to realize that there were far worse ways to travel, then by magical means.

After three days of riding on a rather contemptuous, smelly, stubborn horse, both his temper and his rear end were starting to long for the relative ease of floo-connections and port keys (or better yet a broom! Because while yes, brooms could be a tad uncomfortable to ride given the friction on certain important body parts, at least there was a sense of freedom and control with them—with horses, well this horse at least… he most definitely did not feel like he was the one in control).

Later, when he looked back on the events which took place just a few hours before sundown, on his third and close to last day of riding, he would blame his inattention on the horse. Because he was a war hardened bad ass, and no one (especially a group of morally questionable bandits) should have been able to get the jump on him.

So yes, when said bandits did just that—somehow surrounding him and trapping him before he was even aware they were there—it was obviously the horse's fault. No, he is not going to explain how he reached this conclusion; you really have no need to know…just know that what he says is true. Yes, definitely the horse.

As the stupid thing skittered back, nervously pulling against the reins that Harry was attempting to control it with, Harry realized just how screwed he was. He scanned the area in front of him counting no less than five men, while simultaneously adding another four or five to the count, gotten from his brief peripheral scan. No, not good odds.

Especially considering that his main experience in fighting was not with a blade, sword or a muggle-made weapon, but more along the lines of his wand (which he did not have) or his wandless magic (which was decent, but given he was in a foreign place and the few attempts he had tried with his magic had gone horribly wrong—aka: blowing up the fish he was trying to summon for dinner he was not very confident in relying on said magic to get him out of his current predicament).

"ello, what have we got here boys? A lost little princess with a bag full of coins" a large, exceedingly unclean brute (and yes, Harry was going to use such terms to describe his foes—live with it!) said, the smirk on his face not lending favor towards a friendly resolution. It was like the death eaters all over again—violent, stupid and ignorant, but exceedingly dangerous. Grand.

Harry fought down the urge to bristle at being called 'princess' (something he was not!) and instead remained silent, once again desperately searching for a way to escape unscathed…something that was looking more and more unlikely. He most decidedly did not like the leering looks on the creep's face. Knowing his luck it wasn't just gold that they were after…though they did speak the truth, he did happen to have a rather large bag of it thanks to Myror's deal with King Odin. Damn his other half.

Deciding that he might as well try to talk his way out of this one (not that he thought it would work, but he was kind of short of options at the moment), he did his best to put on a "I am a secretly powerful warlock—you had better not fuck with me" face and yanked the reins to face the creep (as he was obviously the one in charge of this motley crew) square on. "I do not want any trouble, I only wish to pass through, but I will warn you now… that should you try to stop me, you will regret it"

Ok, so maybe not the smartest thing to say to a testosterone charged group of mongrels. It didn't help that the exact moment he finished his brave (reckless) speech, his horse decided that it (Harry was not actually sure if it was a she or a he) had, had enough and chose to buck him off and run. Leaving Harry lying on the ground, covered in dirt with only a few blades as back-up. Oh so very, very screwed.

And from the mirth and disbelief on his attackers' faces, they knew this as well as he did.

Harry scrambled back from the approaching man, hurriedly rising (stumbling) to his feet, his hand on the hilt of Myror's long, very lethal looking blade—to bad Harry had no idea how to use the stupid thing without taking off his own ear.

"Aww….lookee boys, princess is going to try and fight. Tell me princess do you even know how to hold that blade? It looks like a blade made for a man sweetheart, and you are certainly no man" the leader said leering again and licking his lips.

'What the fuck?! While Harry knew he wasn't exactly butch and built like a steamroller (like the creep in front of him) there was no mistaking his gender…' Harry shook his head mentally, pushing his irritation away, so that he could focus on what was going on in front of him. He knew what the slime-bag was trying to do; he was trying to distract him…to get under his skin and make an already easy target, even easier to take down. Well hell if Harry was going to let him, he might know that he was essentially a dead man walking, but he would be damned if he was going to go down without a fight. Harry sent the leader a defiant glare, unsheathing the long blade and reading his muscles for the upcoming attack.

The leader chuckled looking far more amused at Harry's defiance then upset by it. There was a spark of excitement in his cold eyes that did not bode well for Harry if he lost.

The first few moves were feints; first from the bandit, then from Harry,—neither of them landing a blow of any importance. The rest of the men's cheers and jibes grew louder as their leader failed once again to make contact with Harry. That was one thing Harry had on his side—he had always been talented at dodging. Unfortunately, dodging would only get him so far here….and it seemed that his momentary reprieve had come to an end.

The next blow landed, causing Harry to let out a pained hiss as he felt the other man's knife bite into his shoulder. He danced back a few steps to put space between him and his attacker, only to realize that there was no more space to retreat into. The next few blows came swift and brutally, catching him on the forearm of his weapon arm and one his right flank.

By now, Harry knew that he was as good as done for. There had been little enough chance of him getting away when he was perfectly healthy, much less wounded and losing blood. He couldn't believe that this was how his second chance was going to end….over before it had even started, before he had even had a chance to meet his brother and to discover who he was in this world. It seemed so unfair.

He barely felt the blade as it sunk into his stomach, the pain that was there was almost as though it was affecting another—that he was simply witnessing it. He felt his knees it the soft earth beneath him and his vision start to fade.

The last thing he saw was the man's cruel, laughing eyes.

-o-

When Harry came to for the second time, in a rather short space of time, he stared around him in shock…well, confused shock he should say.

He knew given what his last few memories consisted of, that he should be dead. He frantically looked over his body, making a quick inventory of how he felt and the state of his clothes. If what he last remembered was true, he should be covered in his own blood—with several wounds…. not perfectly clean and healthy.

But he was. There was no evidence that the attack and his rather embarrassingly quick defeat by the bandits, had ever taken place. There was no sign that he had ever been injured, nor was there any sign of the men who had attacked him.

He shook his head and surveyed his surroundings once again. His horse (which he distinctly remembered vowing to turn into horse meat) was standing tied to a nearby tree, supplies and saddle in place. He gave the clearing a closer look and noted that, while it was obvious that there had been others here at some point, he could not be sure that it had been recently. That and the fact that there was no one else here outside himself and the stupid horse, leant credit to the theory, that he had imagined the entire thing.

Harry wasn't sure if he should be feeling relieved or disconcerted by this. In the end he settled on relieved….he had experienced realistic nightmares before (just because they happened to be visions sent by a mad-man had no bearing)…the entire thing must have just been his over active imagination….or perhaps a side-effect of the bonding?

Either way, there wasn't much that Harry could do about it here and now, so he decided to just disregard the whole episode and continue on his way. If it was some type of a vision, he did not want it to turn out to be one of the future.

It was probably best if he got to Camelot sooner rather than later (perhaps if he was lucky he would be able to find a competent physician versed in magic who could help him understand what exactly was going on with him right now).

In his haste to leave this place and its dreams behind, Harry completely missed the smear of fresh blood on the tip of his blade.

-00—

Harry could not remember the last time that he had been so awestruck.

Ok, so that was a bit of a lie…he did remember, he just wished that he didn't. The last time he had felt this way, was when he was still new to the world of magic and all that it entailed; that first glimpse of Hogwarts had truly been one of the most magnificent sights he had ever witnessed. He had been sure that it would be the most magnificent sight that he would get to witness in his life, but today he had been proven wrong.

He allowed himself a moment to just pause and take it in; to truly appreciate the stunning beauty of what was known throughout this land, as Camelot.

The bright afternoon sun, basked the proud looking white stone of castle's turrets, with all its might. The reflection on the glass like lake was almost picture-like in its perfection. Even a few miles away from the bustling center of the kingdom, Harry could make out the sound of horse hooves clacking on the cobblestone streets, and the muffled shouts and cries of the busy market place located just inside the high stone gates.

True, he knew that it was likely the distance and his own hopeful spirit which caused him to see Camelot this way—he was well aware, that up close and personal given the times, that Camelot would be far less than ideal (he had a vague knowledge of the current sewage system used in the time period he assumed he was in, as well as the hygiene habits and live stock living quarters—so he knew that it would be very odorous, if nothing else). But somehow these tiny little details did little to sink his optimism over finally having reached the legendary city.

He even found himself rather excited at the prospect of getting to witness a real, life jousting tournament. He felt a momentary pang of sorrow when he thought how much Hermione would have loved to have experienced this ("Oh! Harry the history! The time period, and how it shaped magic as it is today!"). Even Ron would have enjoyed it, given the tournament and the fact that most tournaments were followed by feasts.

No! there was no point on pining away for things that could and never would be. He had known what he was leaving behind when he made this plan. No he should concentrate on what he might gain because of his choice not what he had lost. This was the moment when he was finally getting a chance to start over… it was not the time or place to wallow in the past.

Plus he had been told that without doing a lot of black magic, that it was not possible to bring anyone besides himself from his old world to this one. And he knew how well those black magic rituals had worked in the past (he had lived with the consequences of one for his entire life thanks to Lily's attempt). So no, he would not ruin this moment with useless feelings of being homesick.

Steeling himself by taking in a large, determined breath, Harry gave a decisive flick of his horse's reins (he wondered if his horse had somehow read his mind regarding his thoughts about turning it into meat patties, for it had been far better behaved since his 'dream?,' not once trying to buck him off) and started to move towards the proud castle.

He was finally here. He was in Camelot.

*Notes:

Chapter title: Title taken from Mercer Mayer's children's book 'What a Bad Dream.'