Chapter One: Shadows of Despair

Author note: This story is the seventy-seventh in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Nature Versus Nurture".

Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own Flashpoint, Harry Potter, Narnia, or Merlin.

744 hours earlier (4.5 weeks earlier)

Everything was darkness. His eyes were open, but sight was nonexistent. He could feel his clothing and the armrest of his seat, sense the motion and direction of the car, and hear the sounds of Lou navigating them through Toronto's streets, but he couldn't see. And straining to see only brought a fierce, aching pain behind his eyes.

Inside his chest, his magical core throbbed. It wasn't as bad as it had been when he'd first woken up, but with each painful pulse, he was reminded of Sarge's warning. Choosing to stay meant pain. A war of seconds, minutes, hours… He longed to make himself feel numb, but the Healers had strictly forbidden any alcohol. Some jibber-jabber about how it could keep his magical core from healing right.

The car slowed and made a final turn; Spike blinked when he felt the car tilt upwards – the sound of the concrete changing right along with the car's upward slant. His driveway? Sure enough, Lou braked to a halt and he heard the gear shifter changing right before the engine turned off.

He turned his head, cocking it to the side. "Home?"

"Yeah, buddy, we're at your place," Lou confirmed. "I'll be around in a sec."

Spike nodded and unfastened his seat belt as he heard the driver's side door open and close. More distantly, he heard Lou jogging around the front of the car; he turned towards his door right in time with Lou pulling it open. His best friend didn't question it, merely reached in and guided him out, pushing his head down a smidge to avoid the top of the door frame.

Once out of the car, Spike stepped forward, trailing his hand up Lou's arm as he moved to be behind his friend, well away from the door the other man was already swinging shut. He heard the chime and subtle thud of car doors locking. Funny how that was so much louder now that he couldn't see. Reflexively, his grip tightened on Lou's sleeve and his eyes darted around, seeking for something other than shadow. Darkness.

Lou didn't try to break free; he only used his opposite hand to guide Spike into a better position for walking. Then he led the way to the front door, murmuring instructions when they reached the steps; Spike's memory overlaid shadow with a vivid view of his home's front door and the four steps that led up to it. He was able to shift smoothly to the side, listening for the familiar creak of the door before he grabbed it, pushing it a little farther open so he could follow Lou inside.

Inside, he automatically looked towards his mother's kitchen, jaw tightening – there were too many kitchen scenes in his memory for him to figure out what reality held. But his mother's voice came from that direction, loud and welcoming.

"Mikey!"

"Mamá," he called back, though not nearly as loud; unconsciously, his fingers were tightening further on Lou's shirt sleeve.

"Mikey?" His mother hurried over, examining him from head to toe. "Is something wrong? Why have your eyes changed?"

They had? He turned towards Lou, feeling his eyes widen. What was wrong with his eyes? Other than the blindness.

Lou huffed a sigh. "They're lighter in color, Spike."

Lighter like…like going milky-white? Like a blind person? Acid was bitter on his tongue as he realized – again. He was a blind person.

"Mrs. Scarlatti, maybe we could go sit down? This might take awhile to explain."

"What is wrong with my son?" his Mamá demanded, loud in her fear.

His best friend sighed again and Spike heard a soft rasping sound, like Lou was running his free hand through his tightly coiled, buzz cutted hair. Instinctively, the bomb tech leaned into his teammate's protective aura.

Then, flatly, grimly, Lou replied, "Spike's blind right now, Mrs. Scarlatti."

The explanation did not go well. Spike didn't need his sight to hear the mounting frustration in his best friend's voice or the increasing shrillness of his mother's. Even Lou's reassurance that Spike's sight might well come back wasn't enough to console his Mamá as she sobbed and hurled Italian curses at wizards, magic, and dragons alike.

"Enough!" she finally declared, rising from her seat to approach the two constables. "You have stolen enough of my son's life!"

"Ma! Lou didn't do this to me!" Spike objected, huddling closer to his friend. To be separated from his protective shield was petrifying; Lou was the only thing holding back his breakdown right now. The only thing anchoring his throbbing, pulsing magical core, still so charred and burned that every breath felt like a fresh assault on delicate lungs. He knew his body was whole. His lungs were whole. But his magical core wasn't – and his whole body knew it. It hurt.

His mother grabbed his arm, trying to tug him up. He whimpered, curling away from her. If he lost Lou, he knew what would happen. Burning, the feel of dragon fire sweeping over him – screaming till he couldn't scream any more, except inside his head.

He heard his mother's exclamation in Italian, her fierce demand that he let go. He knew she wanted more than that; she wanted him out. Out of the magical world, out of the SRU, maybe even out of Canada itself. Rather than let go, his grip on Lou tightened.

"Mrs. Scarlatti, please. You're scaring him; I brought him right home after they released him from St. Mungo's, but he's still hurting pretty bad."

His Lou. His fox, slipping around the facts and doing his best to hide Spike's biggest secret from his Mōdor. He fought back a whimper-whine, knowing that would ruin all of Lou's hard work. But his Mamá kept tugging at him, her efforts growing stronger as she grew ever more frantic. Then it happened; his fingers lost their grip for one critical instant. And his soul wailed mortal terror.

Gibbering fear, Spike jerked away from his Mamá and grabbed Lou around the chest, clinging to his best friend as he fought back the images erupting in his head. Burning. Burning from the inside out, so badly he'd nearly lost his soul to the darkness. His core throbbed, releasing a single pulse and his eyes burned so fiercely he knew they were glowing.

He fought to speak, but no words would come. Only a terrified whimper straight from his Animagus form. Lou's hand landed on his shoulder, then gently turned his head into the other man's sheltering presence.

"Easy, buddy. You're okay; I got you."

A second whimper-whine and he buried his face in Lou's chest. In the background, he heard his Mōdor's voice, rising in anger and fear of her own. Deep inside, he knew she was giving him an ultimatum, but he was mute. Shaking and trembling and…did she have to do this now? Couldn't she see he was hurting too badly to make any decisions right now?

Something boiled in his chest and he turned, blind eyes landing unerringly on his mother. "I have magic," he spat in her direction. "I can turn into a wild dog anytime I want." He heard her gasp, but the fury was riding too high for him to stop. "So go ahead! Hate me just like you hate anyone else with magic! You broke 'Lanna's heart when you shut her out like that!" His fingers clasped tight to Lou's shirt, bracing himself.

"I'm not leaving them, Mamá. I'm theirs and they're mine. I love you and Papá, but you haven't been my only family in years." His chin lifted, trembling with fear, anger, and defiance. "My team, they're my family, too."

"It's a job," his mother insisted. "We can fix it, Mikey. Get rid of this horrid magic."

Get rid of it? His core hurt all the more, but he pulled at it, feeling his eyes burn with the force of what little he had left. "No, Mamá," he whispered. "I chose this. I could've turned it down, but I didn't." He freed one hand from Lou's shirt and touched his chest. "It's mine now. Part of me, forever and ever. You can't take it away, no one can.

"And I don't want you to. I want my magic. My team. My family."

His mother was silent for a long, long moment. "My Mikey would not say such things," she declared at last. "You are not my Mikey."

He didn't cry until they reached the safety of Lou's apartment. Then he broke down and sobbed in his best friend's arms until exhaustion and grief dragged him down into dreamless slumber.

336 hours earlier (2 weeks earlier)

Spike had a feeling it wouldn't be a half-bad space to look at – if he could look at it. His new apartment, that was. His teammates had managed to find it in record time, helping him sign the lease and move in before his mother's three-week deadline was up. He'd lost a few things – his mother wouldn't let his teammates take the couch or the TV in his room, insisting that those belonged to his Papá even though they'd been in his room for years before Papá passed.

Losing her was far, far worse. Sure, he'd been angry and hurting, a perfect combination for lashing out, but he hadn't wanted to lose his Mamá. He just…he couldn't give up his team. His family by magic, by heart and spirit and blood. Couldn't turn himself back into the Michelangelo Scarlatti he'd been once upon a time. Before he'd joined the SRU and Team One. He'd changed too much for that. Turned into someone his Mōdor couldn't – wouldn't – love. The last time…he couldn't see, but he could hear; she'd turned her back and refused to even look in his direction. She hadn't even said good bye…

Hugging himself, Spike moved forward into the combined living room/kitchen area, angling for where his new couch was. But partway there, he banged into his coffee table, sparking a litany of hissed curses and pain-filled moans. He heard a few things on the table top rattle, though, thankfully, nothing fell. His friends had done that, making sure all his knickknacks were tucked far enough back on shelves and tables so they couldn't fall and break every time he misjudged distances. The only thing he could hurt was himself – he couldn't quite decide if he was angry or grateful for that.

Instinctively, he strained to see, desperately snatching for what should've second nature. So much a part of him that he could never lose it. Inside, his magical core throbbed; Spike bit back a cry as his head throbbed in time with his core, his eyes burning with the effort to see. It didn't change anything; the darkness around him seemed to deepen, laughing at his pathetic efforts.

Stumbling around his coffee table, Spike reached out, flailing until his hand touched the leather of his new couch. New to him, anyway; his friends hadn't been trying for anything fancy when they'd helped him pick out furniture for his new place. Sturdy, good quality, and in colors they knew he wouldn't mind – assuming he ever saw anything again. Tears stung his cheeks – it hurt. It hurt so much.

His thigh banged into the couch's armrest and he moaned, then turned his body around the armrest so he could sink down on the leather cushions. Once safely down, he curled in on himself, feeling the tears slide down. He wanted his Mamá, he wanted his home, he wanted his job. And most of all, he wanted himself. Whole and unharmed – Team One's computer and bomb tech, joyful and playful as he watched over Team One's dragon mascot. Able to see, able to stand being around Spyro. He wanted what he'd had, right up until that damn Welsh Green took everything away.

117 hours earlier (5 days earlier)

He was in the kitchen, cautiously working his way through starting to make lunch. The potion vials were all different shapes and Lou had drilled him in which shape belonged to which potion until he could recite it forward and backwards. The 'fridge was stocked with the basics, although he was avoiding any food that was easy to spill. No cereal or soup. No cooking any pasta – or, really, anything that required the stovetop or oven. Nothing that needed a sharp knife, either.

It meant his diet was rather bland and boring, adding insult to the injury of losing his sight, but Spike knew perfectly well how much he was depending on his other senses. He couldn't risk burning his fingers, not when touch was so important to him at the moment.

With a tiny, mostly internal sigh, the lean man finished assembling his lunchtime potions and turned towards his 'fridge to retrieve bread, butter, and his current container of deli meat. Maybe he could ask Lou to surprise him with the next purchase? Or get something spicy, with proper Italian seasoning?

Then he heard a knock on the door and jerked around, frowning. Middle of the day and he knew his friends were on shift. None of his neighbors would bother, he knew. He'd wondered if they would for the first week, but after that, he'd realized that most folks in the apartment complex preferred to leave well enough alone. Not exactly a neighborly environment, but it actually suited the blind man to be left alone. He was still learning how to navigate his own apartment; he didn't need to try and figure out some stranger's apartment, too.

His visitor knocked again and Spike heaved a groan before feeling his way out of the kitchen. There was an agonizingly empty space between the kitchen island and his couch; he moved with wary slowness, hands outstretched in an attempt to keep from banging into anything; his hip was still sporting a bruise from whacking into his own bedroom doorway on his way to the shower that morning.

Once he reached the couch, the raven-haired man felt his way along its back, letting it guide him towards his apartment's front door. Inwardly, he checked his mental map of the apartment – not whole, not yet, but slowly filling in as he learned his new space. Unless he'd forgotten something again, there wasn't anything for him to trip over between the couch and the door.

Much to his relief, the map proved accurate; he reached the door without smacking into any furniture or tripping over anything on the floor. Spike fumbled at the locks, then drew in a deep breath and focused. One hand slid up, finding the top deadbolt; once it was open, he dropped the hand straight down to the other lock, opened it, and then eased the whole door open.

Familiar darkness greeted him as he fought to see, doing his best to locate his visitor – were they still there? His chest throbbed, core heaving within; his free arm curled around his middle and he fought to keep from panting like his Animagus form. His eyes burned, a headache taking up residence behind them.

Red light sparked in the midst of deep shadow; Spike froze, focusing in on that light like a drowning man on a life preserver. Slowly, the light trawled outwards, forming a human-shaped outline in front of him. Deep inside, he knew it wasn't Sarge – the shade wasn't his. Hard-pressed by life, yes, but in different ways than his boss. A part of him wondered how he knew that even as the rest of him screamed relief – he was seeing.

"Hi Spike."

He cocked his head to the side, struggling to place the voice. "Umm…"

"Oh, sorry," the other man apologized. "It's Grant Taylor."

He jerked back to fully upright. "Shiloh."

Taylor chuckled. "Yep," he confirmed cheerfully, a slight Southern drawl sneaking into his vowels. "Parker gave me a call, asked me if you're up for goin' out ta lunch?"

"My team?" Spike asked hopefully.

"Yup."

Excitement flared in his chest. "Let me get my keys."

The other man grabbed his shoulder before he could race back into the apartment. "Whoa, there. I see 'em."

Shame, guilt, and jealousy writhed, but Spike forced himself to nod and move out of the way. Bad enough to trip over things when he was all alone or with his friends; he wasn't sure he could take the embarrassment of doing that in front of a stranger.

Walking into a restaurant, even one he'd been to before, was nerve-wracking. Too vivid, too loud, too everything – if not for that shimmer of red around Grant, Spike knew he would've been floundering in a sea of darkness. He couldn't hear with so much clatter around him, leaving him without two primary senses in a place where neither touch nor smell could help him navigate.

The wizard walked through the restaurant without any hesitation whatsoever, seemingly oblivious to Spike's hand on his arm, yet he moved with deliberation, guiding the blind man towards their destination even as he avoided any possible mishaps. Spike glanced around automatically, straining to see more than just Taylor's magic, but it was no use. Just the same shadows and an endless abyss of black.

When Grant paused and adjusted his position, nudging Spike to a specific location, the raven knew they'd arrived. Knew, too, that the wizard was about to have a bit of fun at his friends' expense. A tiny grin quirked at the thought of a prank and he wished he could be more than a bystander to that prank.

A light knock against wood brought his head up, blindly glancing towards the wizard in confusion. A shift of air as Taylor leaned away from him and a slight change in the sound of the other man's voice. "Room for one more?"

He could practically hear the buzz of confusion before Sarge responded, a playful note in his tone. "We'll send him back in one piece."

"Just give me a call when you're done," Grant Taylor replied, grabbing Spike's arm and tugging him sideways.

"Spike!"

Lou. Familiar; his best friend – lit up with a shimmer of bronze that glowed just a tiny bit brighter with happiness. He couldn't help but tilt his head as he asked, "Aren't you guys on shift?"

"Lunch at Pearly's." Ed's voice, coming closer; the tall, lean Sergeant's yellow magic outlined his form, giving Spike a target to focus on. At the same time, the raven sensed movement at his side and knew Taylor was leaving – a cheerful whistle drifted in the wizard's wake as he departed.

"Well, yeah, sure smells like Pearly's," Spike teased, doing his best to keep track of all the magical outlines that marked his friends' locations.

Lou's bronze briefly rose before Sam hissed, "Lou, don't. We'll move." Silver and pink suited action to words and Spike felt a surge of gratitude that his teammates would let him and Lou keep their backs to the wall. Any cop who'd been in the SRU long enough got a bit…twitchy if they couldn't see the door to a room or building. Just part of the job and the instincts they honed as part of that job.

Sarge's scarlet moved aside as Ed guided him towards the table; he let the other man direct each movement, well aware that there had to be several chairs out of position and ripe for tripping over. But his Sergeant never let him come to harm and, in short order, Lou's hands, rimmed with bronze, were reaching out, tugging him towards his place at the table. Even when he was down, Spike huddled in, waiting for his friends to shuffle the plates around. No silverware moved and he tilted his head, pulling at his magic.

To his surprise, it didn't hurt as much as it had before, as if proximity to his friends' magic was supporting his own. He felt a slight burn in his eyes, but it was a familiar burn – the pulse of active magic. The outlines in his sight grew a little brighter, but to his discouragement, none of the items on the table appeared. Bummer.

"Spike?" Low…tentative.

His eyes shifted around and Spike clung to what he could see – his friends, hidden by shadow, yet he knew where they were. He could see where they were. "Yeah, buddy?"

"Is that working?"

He blinked, head tilting further to the side as he parsed the question. Oh. His jaw twitched upwards. "Kinda. Can sorta see your magic. And the guys."

When the waitress came in, he couldn't see her, but he could see his friends' outlines change position as they looked up at her and shifted to follow her movement around the table to take their orders. He still had to guess as to her exact position, but when it was his turn, Spike was fairly sure he was looking right at the woman as he rattled off his order, sticking with something he'd had a couple times before. No menu necessary.

As the waitress left with the menus, Spike glanced down towards the table – and fought a surge of astonishment. As if in response to his blindness, a sheen of multicolored magic coated the table, outlining the objects on it – his friends' magic, he knew, for there wasn't any emerald in the mix. It probably wasn't even deliberate, just his friends' subconscious desire to help him – and their magic had run with it.

Gingerly, he reached out, angling for what appeared to be a bread roll basket; he sensed Lou tense up beside him, but didn't knock anything over as he picked up the top roll. A soft murmur from his best friend pointed him to the small plastic cups of butter and Lou even helped him line up his butter knife on the roll itself. Spike cut through the roll, brows knitting together as he kept fighting to see. His core throbbed in protest, only to subside as the magical auras around him soothed the agitation.

The longer the meal went on, the more he relaxed, as if there had been a fist in his chest that he'd only noticed when it started to unclench. Though his core was still as burned and damaged as it had been that morning, the more his power could 'ping' off his friends', the easier it became to grip his magic and see those magical outlines. Near the end of the meal, he even 'saw' a sheen of emerald join the magic coating the surface of the table and every item on it. To his delight, the emerald curled around a plate the waitress had just brought – apple pie topped with whipped cream.

Grabbing it, he held it away from Lou – he tried to grin, but couldn't, as if his muscles didn't quite remember how to do it, but… "Spike! You ordered the ice cream! Gimme!"

Laughter rang out, hoarse, rusty and real – a grin finally broke free, joy suffusing his soul in spite of the darkness around him. He offered the plate, hearing Lou's mock huff right before the plate vanished and was replaced with a bowl. A cold bowl – his ice cream!

Unable to help himself, he teased, "What's the matter, Lou? So slow even a blind guy can beat you to dessert?"

Lou growled. "I'll show you slow, Scarlatti!"

As if the lunch out with his friends had flipped a switch in his brain, once Grant Taylor brought him home, Spike could see magic flowing out, coating anything within a meter of him with an emerald tint. Odd, but also extremely useful – though darkness still surrounded him, his emerald magic saved him from banging into his couch and barking his shin on one of the barstool-type chairs next to his kitchen island.

Gaining confidence, he moved around the island, automatically glancing towards the potion vials he'd left sitting out. In his vision, they sparkled with the hues of their own magic or maybe the magic of the wizards who'd brewed them. Hard won memorization came back and Spike quickly grabbed the potions he should've had with lunch and drank them down, grimacing. Afterwards, he was able to move right to his 'fridge and grab a bottle of juice to wash the taste of potion out of his mouth.

For the next several minutes, Spike moved around his apartment, testing his new ability and doing his best to inspect his surroundings now that he could 'see', after a fashion. Bit by bit, his movements slowed and he finally remembered the other reason – besides being blind – why he couldn't be on-duty. Although he hadn't been prescribed any sleeping potions, the primary potion Queenscove was using to heal his core essentially caused the same affect.

Already half-asleep and struggling not to trip over his own feet, Spike stumbled for his bedroom, hardly noticing when his shoulder whacked the doorframe. It was all he could do to reach his bed before the potion finally shut his mind down.

114 hours earlier (5 days earlier)

He could see – he was walking along, in the middle of a forest. Inhaling deeply and his inner canine delighting in the outside environment. The smells in the air and the tang of pine tree on his tongue. Spike grinned widely, thrilling in his life – knowing he was on his team again.

Then he registered the weight of a young dragon in his arms. The way Spyro was craning around, looking up at the sky with an expression of horror. No. No, no, no. Not again – how many times did he have to live through this? He screamed as the dragon descended, fire on its breath and fury burning in its eyes. The final moments of sight as flames raced towards him.

A sharp sound broke through the nightmare, right before the fire could engulf him. He reached for the sound, begging for it to help him. Release him from the never-ending nightmare that haunted every hour of his life, waking or sleeping. The sound died an instant, then shrilled again, breaking the nightmare apart as Spike clawed his way clear of potion-induced slumber.

It took another few seconds to shake the last of sleep away and then he scrabbled in his jacket for his shrieking cell phone. Pawing it on, he brought it up to his ear. " 'Lo?"

"Spike, you okay?" Lou, anxious, worried…something was wrong, he just knew it.

The raven hung his head. "Potion. Knocks me out," he admitted.

His best friend relaxed, but his voice turned chagrinned. "I woke you up, didn't I?"

His brain was still slow, grinding back to life, but Spike was SRU; he knew how to fake it. "Lou, stop. It's okay; I'm awake now. What's wrong?"

On the line, Lou audibly hesitated. Then he drew in a deep breath and told Spike, "Sarge got kidnapped."

"Again? What, has he got a 'kidnap me' sign on him?"

His friend snickered at the snark, but sobered an instant later. "He knew what he was walkin' into, but Marina showed up with this sob story that if Sarge didn't go with her, her mother was gonna get snatched." A pause. "Mother's disabled enough that the family's got disability plates."

Spike's free hand clenched, but he whistled. "Must be bad."

"Yeah," Lou agreed. "Buddy, we were right behind 'em, but the subjects got away. We're lookin' for 'em now."

"Send somebody over; I'm coming in," Spike ordered.

"And do what?" Lou demanded. "Spike, I got your laptop, but Sarge is behind wards; there's no way we can track 'em till those wards are down."

A part of Spike was grateful his friend hadn't come up with the blindingly obvious – you're blind – argument, but… That was Sarge… Again… "Lou, there's gotta be something… What about the 'team sense'?"

Lou moved away from whoever he was near and hissed, "Spike, it's been down since the dragon. Besides, wards block it!"

Down since the… No, no… If not for him, they'd have a way to get to Sarge. Even if location was blocked, if they could get the 'team sense' back up, then maybe they could talk to Sarge! Determination fueled him, screaming for him to help his team. Get back in the action and do something!

Even as Lou ordered him to stand down, to not do it, Spike reached for his power, snarling as he channeled every scrap of power he had into his charred, burned link to Sarge. Around him, the emerald sheen vanished, plunging him into pure darkness. And his magic let out a wail; he collapsed down on his knees as the dragonfire burns sent his core into spasms of pure agony. His head throbbed angrily and he moaned, free hand rising.

"Spike! Talk to me!"

" 'm okay," Spike mumbled. "Find Sarge; 'm okay…"

He wasn't sure what Lou said, only that suddenly the phone was off. And he…he was trapped in shadow. Even thinking about using his magic sent daggers of pain through his brain.

For two short, glorious hours, he'd been able to see. Even if it was just magic, it had still been something other than pitch black. But now…now he had nothing. Less than nothing. Because Sarge was gone and he couldn't do anything to help.

Alone in his bedroom, Spike curled in on himself and howled like a wild dog.

Author Note: Happy Friday to one and all! I would say that I hope everyone enjoyed, but that feels a bit mean since poor Spike is so miserable right now.

Last week, I was blessed to be with my parents - they were finally able to come down for our 'Christmas vacation'. Mom is doing better, although she is still working on regaining her strength. We are praying that she will continue to strengthen throughout the spring and summer.

If any of my readers has any prayer requests or would like to Beta Read Small Beginnings, please do reach out.

Have a wonderful rest of your April and 'see' you in May!