Disclaimer: I don't own the Hobbit or anything associated with Middle Earth.

AN: So it's been a little longer than normal. I've had a pretty busy week. But here's the chapter! It's not really the most eloquent one, but that was purposeful because it's supposed to be talking, and talking isn't usually very eloquent. Also, I should probably say that this chapter deals with some things that could be upsetting to some people.

Chapter 16: Burnt

"Anything that's human is mentionable, and anything that is mentionable can be more manageable. When we can talk about our feelings, they become less overwhelming, less upsetting, and less scary. The people we trust with that important talk can help us know that we are not alone."

― Fred Rogers

By this time, I had been on with the team for a while, about… jeez, nearly five years. We were more than just a unit, we were a well-oiled machine. We were the perfect team, the best of the best. So, naturally, they called us when the NSA found information that suggested a group of Russian terrorists had come to America and were planning something big. There really isn't much in Connecticut, but the area where they were supposedly hiding gave them easy access to New York, and in a terrorist's mind, New York is pretty much the bullseye of my country.

So there we were, in Connecticut, and it was actually turning out to be a good case. We really didn't have to do much; our IT guy, Jack, did all the work. He traced the IP address of… well, this isn't going to make much sense, what with the lack of computers here. Anyway, we figured out that at least a few of the terrorists were in the basement of this old brewery. You know, where beer and stuff is made. I don't know why they were there, they just were. I guess they knew the owner or something and convinced him that they weren't murdering monsters. Or maybe they just really enjoyed the beer. Anyway, we went to ambush the fuckers. It didn't work out so well.

You know that I'm a very capable fighter. My boss told me to split off from the group and sneak around behind the terrorists to block their exit, so I did. Despite what you've seen, I was actually very good at following orders. At work, at least, and not as much anymore. So I snuck around behind this group of about… four I think. There were six of us, we figured we'd nab 'em easily. Assuming that it will be easy almost always guarantees that it will not be easy, but we had been told that the group wasn't very large. We didn't count on there being more guys that we couldn't see.

But of course, there were, and one of them managed to get the jump on me just as everything was going down. So my team and that first group of terrorists were engaged in a firefight… sorry, that's basically both sides shooting at each other, and this hulk of a guy pulls me out into the middle of it. Everyone stopped, thank God, and then the terrorists were backing out of there towards this van, and they were pulling me with them. None of my team would shoot at them because they were using me as a human shield, and then I was in the back of this van, and I thought, it'll be fine, the team will catch me in the car chase. Except I'm clearly the best driver on the team, or rather, I'm the best at car chases, and without me they had no chance of catching the guy who was driving the terror van. He was an insane driver, and I would have been impressed if I wasn't so terrified. I think that was the first moment in my life that I had ever felt fear, the real thing. And then, I don't know, someone knocked me out, I guess. I can't really remember.

The next thing I do recall is waking up in this cellar-type room. It was in this cabin in the woods, because there was this big forested park not too far from the city, which I assume is where they took me. It smelt like rotten wood and dust and dirt; not overwhelmingly smelly, but there was this musty smell that, after a while, felt like it was physically coating your throat and nose. I was on this table, with my arms and legs chained down and stretched at angles that we really uncomfortable, and all I could think about was the fact that I was not dead yet. To be honest, I'm still not entirely sure why they took me. Maybe to use as a bargaining chip. They could have just let me go when they left the warehouse, or dropped me off somewhere while I was unconscious, or even killed me, but as you know, I'm not that lucky.

Some of the men who had abducted me, plus a few others, were in the room playing cards and talking in a foreign language. I assumed it was Russian, but now that I think about it, maybe it wasn't. I don't remember exactly how that case turned out, but I think maybe there were only a few Russians, and then the others were from somewhere else. I don't know, it doesn't really matter. The intel that the NSA sent us was bullshit. The point is, there was a bunch of them in the room playing poker and smoking cigarettes and having a grand old time while I was tied to a table.

The thing you should probably know about these people is that they were a small group of zealous, twisted, cowardly, hateful… well, they were terrible people who wanted to slaughter innocent people. They were planning this mass shooting at… some big business, or something. I don't remember. But, being the sadistic bastards they were, they weren't just going to leave me alone. No, they stripped me and left me bare on the table, and barely fed me, and they... um…

It started with beatings. They broke one of my ribs and bruised me black and blue, but I can take a beating. They got bored with that after a while, and I guess it isn't easy to beat someone on a table. Anyway, they moved on to waterboarding, which is basically pouring water down my throat until I choked. But waterboarding doesn't really allow for screaming. And these men wanted to make me scream. I don't understand why. Maybe it was that they were all just sick bastards. Maybe it was because I was a federal agent. Maybe they just wanted to take out all their crazy hate on me. Most likely it was a combination of all three.

They did…other things, but I'm not going to go into detail about those. Nope, not happening.

The whole time, I never screamed. At first, I called them some colourful names, but it just made them more determined to break me. I wouldn't give them that satisfaction; I refused to give it to them, and you know how stubborn I can be. Almost as bad as you. No, I never screamed until… well, I told you they liked to smoke. I swear, their lungs must have been disgusting blacked things. Smoking does that, you know. You should really quit. I know, I know, I'm going off topic, I just…

This one time, one man had a cigarette and… and he…

Ah, um, I need to take a break, I think. Do you have any water?

Or maybe something stronger?

Fine, just water.

Thanks.

Alright, yes, um… the man with the cigarette… well, cigarettes are like pipes, except they're smaller and straight and have an exposed burning end. So he put his cigarette out… on my bare chest. He uh, he burned me with it, and… God, I don't think there is any pain greater than the pain of burning skin. I screamed, just liked they'd been hoping for. And they laughed. They laughed and I screamed and they brought more cigarettes and then they abandoned the whole cigarette thing and just used matches and lighters and even a glowing hot poker from the fireplace they must have had upstairs. And it was so bad that I could smell my flesh burning and all I could focus on was the flame and these shadowed faces above me. God, even just talking about it makes me feel sick…

When my team finally came to my rescue three days later, I was this skinny, beaten, shuddering mess on the table, and I was out of my mind. The image of the fire was seared into my eyes. Almost my entire upper chest was covered in second and third degree burns, sorry, I mean really bad burns, and there were less severe burns on my arms, stomach, legs, and face. But those weren't the worst part of it all; the worst part was the months spent in complete fear and anxiety, the flashbacks and the nightmares and the panic attacks. The psychiatrists at the hospital said I had PTSD and pyrophobia, which basically means I was stuck in this continuous loop of the trauma and I had a crippling fear of fire. I was given a mandatory therapist as soon as I was released from the hospital, plus some antidepressants. The meds were okay. Not pleasant, but okay. The therapist was awful; I had to visit this lady, Dr. Partridge, twice a week and she kept insisting on making me tell her what happened, but I couldn't do it. She had about a million forehead wrinkles, and every time I told her that I wanted to stop talking about it she would wrinkle up her forehead real good and stare at me for five minutes straight. Old hag. I never really felt safe about opening up to her. She'd ask me how my social life was, too, to make sure I didn't become a recluse or something I guess, and ended up just bullshitting her. I told her I was dating a guy named Fabio. It was actually pretty funny. Sort of.

The point is, I never really fixed myself, I just sort of let it all stew under the surface, filing it away in a little box in the back of my mind. I never got my burns fixed either. Most of them healed okay with this cream I used, but the ones on my chest need surgery, or skin grafts, or laser therapy. I just can't do it. Having these masked doctors leaning over me while I'm on a table? It would be like going through that all over again. I'd probably have a panic attack; I get nervous just thinking about it. And I've never really talked about it with someone either. I told Patrick about it, and my boss, but not a lot. I would've talked to my dad if he were still here, because he made me feel safe, as dads do.

I guess you're the first person I've ever really told all of it to. So, er, yeah. When I saw all that fire back on the cliffs, I just sort of snapped. I had been coping pretty well too, but I just… it was overwhelming.

So, um, that's it; the story of how I became a completely broken, neurotic, fucked up mess.

When Gemma was done, she looked at Thorin, as if she were waiting for him to pronounce her a freak of something. In truth Thorin, didn't know what to say; it was just too awful to think about. He had come to realize just how good of a person Gemma was. Though she was stubborn, opinionated, infuriating, and bossy, he didn't think he had ever met anyone more brave, loyal, honest, or just. And she had been through such hell already, being abandoned by her mother and losing her father; Thorin could tell that she had a terribly damaged self-esteem, as if she thought these things made her weak or awful. She hid it expertly behind all that bravado, but he saw it now, in the way she looked at him so desperately.

Thorin did the only thing he could think of; he wrapped her in a crushing embrace, tucking her head under his chin and stroking her hair as he used to do for his nephews when they were young. Her hair was soft, and delightfully thick with waves and curls, and he found that he enjoyed the way it felt running through his fingers. Gemma had been a nervous wreck the entire time she spoke, fidgeting and gazing off in a way that meant she was not fully present, part of her back in the past. Thorin felt awful that he had forced her to relive all of this, but once she started she just kept going, as if revealing this secret somehow brought her some release. He felt her hand clutch the fabric of his shirt as she embraced him back. He had never been free with physical displays of affection, and he had a feeling that Gemma wasn't that kind of person either, but this was… nice.

Thorin almost wished he didn't know. It was difficult to imagine Gemma going through all that. He looked down at her and was struck again by how beautiful she was. He had not thought of it for a while, at least, not consciously; just passing thoughts that he was quick to discard. Now though, it was like the first time he saw her. She was this exotic creature, all intensity and darkness and strength. By Mahal, she was beautiful.

And asleep, apparently. She had not slept well in over a week, so he understood. In fact, Thorin could feel his own eyes grow heavy. So heavy. He too closed his eyes and lay down of the floor, still holding Gemma's body to his.

It was a few hours later when movement jarred Thorin from slumber. At first he did not know where he was. He felt a warm form pressed against him, and for a second he was afraid someone was attacking him in his sleep. But no, it was Gemma; she had fallen asleep on his chest after their discussion. One of her arms wrapped around him while the other rested on his chest. His hands sat on the small of her back. Their position made Thorin blush, but he did not move. Gemma shifted suddenly again, and her hand gripped his shirt. He could see her forehead wrinkle, eyebrows knitting together as she let out a small moan of pain. A nightmare. Thorin didn't want to wake her, he knew that did not end well, but she began to shift around a bit more. "Gemma," he whispered. She did not wake. Thorin tightened his hold on her and ran his hand along her back. "Shh," he soothed, "It's alright. They will never hurt you. Never." Gemma stopped moving and nestled further into the soft fur of his coat.

Content that she was no longer suffering, and still in the fog of half-sleep, Thorin pressed a kiss to the top of her head and went back to sleep. Seconds later, the front door creaked open and a tall man entered the cottage to find thirteen dwarves, a wizard, a hobbit, and a woman asleep on his floor.

AN:

A heavy chapter, though not extremely long. I spent a long time trying to get this right, so please let me know what you think. I realize that the situation isn't incredibly realistic, but hey, this is fiction. Also, someone asked me if Gemma was raped, and while in all likelihood that would be what happens in the event that this situation occurred in real life, it would open up a whole new can of worms within this story, and I think it's already got enough going on. So, while I'm not outright denying it, I'm not exactly implying it either. Gemma has enough traumas to deal with, and the trauma of rape is a whole new ballgame.

Furthermore, I've now brought to light Gemma's struggle with mental illness. I'm going to try the write about this topic as accurately as possible, because it is an incredibly serious issue that is often misrepresented in media. I recently finished a psychology class in school in which we spent a lot of time studying mental illness, so I'm fairly confident that I will be able to portray these disorders with some degree of realism. In the following chapters, Gemma might refer to herself as "crazy" or by other slurs; please know that this is not at all my view of the mentally ill. There is such a terrible stigma around mental illness, and oftentimes victims see themselves in this way even though it is not the case, so that's what I'm trying to show. One in four people in the world will experience mental illness at some point in their lives. It is not something to be ashamed of. And while I am definitely not an expert by any stretch, I'm always available to chat if anyone out there feels like they have no one to talk to. Despite what Gemma thinks, talking does help.

On a happier note, this story has passed 100 reviews! You guys are amazing, I'm so happy that you are enjoying my little story. That little bit of fluff at the end of this chapter is for all of you, but especially for that one guest reviewer who begged for it! Ask and you shall receive. Do you think we can try for 200 reviews?