#rons got the whole head auror thing going for him and also being just sorta rugged. if still pale as hell

[wizardemotions]

the question came to mind of "in your ship, how might the larger/stronger party pick up or carry the smaller one?" and these were the answers i came to

[thewriterwhowrites]

In the Shadow of Dreams

@vivithefolle

@warriorlid14

So, here it is, Part 2. (It may have come out to be a lot longer than I intended. Oops)

During the week I came up with a title for the whole story, as you can see above. It’s probably really corny, but this is my first fanfiction so have mercy.

If you haven’t read the first chapter yet, or have forgotten what it was about because it’s been so long and you have read better stories in the meantime, you can find Part 1 Here.

For those of you who remember Part 1, I commend you for your memory and hope that you enjoy this next instalment.

I pray to every deity that it is as good as the first part. It probably isn’t, but it’s a Ron Weasley fanfiction, and Ron can make anything better. Am I right?

Don’t forget to give feedback. Let me know if this is what you expected or not. Tell me what you liked about it or what you didn’t like about it. I like constructive criticism. It’s what I live for.

I’ll also apologise in advance if the characters are OOC. Like I said, it’s my first ever fanfiction and I’m also new to Tumblr so I’m still learning.

Now that I’ve shut up, you can go forth and pull apart my work. Happy Reading.

———————————————————————————————————

And so, I ask you, what’s it like to be alone?

Harry doesn’t go back to sleep. Not with his best friend absent from the tent. He knows he should go out and look for him, make sure he’s alright. Mrs Weasley and Hermione would never forgive him if something were to happen.

But he can’t find it in himself to move. Ron was really rattled and he didn’t know why. What he did know, however, was that if he asked him, Ron would probably brush it off, pretend it didn’t matter, act like it wasn’t important.

But Harry hadn’t seen Ron look like that for months now. Not after they finally laid their demons to rest and managed to move on. Sure, they had the odd nightmare every now and again, but they, especially Ron, always managed to push passed it.

After a few minutes went by, and Ron hadn’t returned, Harry decided to go out and make sure he was alright. Even if they didn’t end up talking about whatever it was that was bothering him.

With his mind made up, Harry grabbed his wand and his coat, and made his way out of the tent. They were on an Auror assignment. Simple surveillance that wasn’t all that exciting. But that’s what Harry liked about it. After eight years of nothing but danger, Voldemort, Death Eaters, and wars, everything was seemingly peaceful.

Now standing outside, his wand lit with Lumos, he looked around, searching for any sign of Ron. It wouldn’t normally take long. With the Weasley red hair and Ron’s height, it would practically stand out in the dark, green landscape of the forest they were camping in for the night.

However, even with his eagle eyes - eyes that could spot the snitch in no time - he couldn’t see Ron anywhere.

Alright, now Harry was worried. Even now, nearly three years after the war, Ron never wandered very far. It was this internalised fear that something bad would happen if he wasn’t around. Harry thought it was sort of stupid.

But the argument in a tent, the locket horcrux, and the war, were always in the back of his mind, reminding him that Ron had left. It made Ron’s reasoning of never wanting to be too far away, understandable. Just because everyone else forgave Ron for leaving - even if it wasn’t completely his fault - doesn’t mean Ron forgave Ron for leaving. It’s true what they say, a person is their own worst enemy.

Deciding that he wasn’t going to find his best mate just standing around thinking of those useless months wandering aimlessly around with a cold tent, he began walking in a random direction, hoping the Potter luck was with him as it always had been.

As he neared the small river that they had decided to camp by, Harry heard a strained voice. And the closer he got, the louder the voice became.

It sounded like Ron was having a conversation with himself, and Harry didn’t like the uneasy feeling that gave him.

Quickening his pace, Harry called out, attempting casualness, “Ron?”

The voice stopped immediately and, through the darkness, Harry saw Ron’s tall frame rise and turn to face him.

“What are you doing out here, Harry?” Ron asked, his voice cracking slightly, before clearing his throat.

“Uh...” Harry was now at a loss for words. He knew Ron wasn’t mad. He didn’t sound it, at least. But he also didn’t sound like he wanted company either.

He felt Ron’s expecting gaze pierce through the night, and so, coughing awkwardly, Harry ploughed onwards, “I just wanted to make sure you’re alright. That must’ve been some dream.”

“It was.” Ron’s voice sounds distant now, like he’s somewhere far away.

His answer only causes more worry because Ron’s always the first one to try and laugh it off, act like it didn’t affect him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

They’re silent for a long, drawn out minute. It feels almost like they’re playing a game, seeing who’s the first to speak and break the silence. Harry hopes it’s Ron because he hates silence, but he hates trying to fill the void just as much, if not, more. Ron’s always the one to initiate discussions, no matter how pointless or distracting. And he’s always great at it.

It sort of makes Harry wonder if there’s an extracurricular course that could be taken to teach a person how to do that. It would’ve made this so much easier.

Finally, Ron speaks up, seeming to sense Harry’s discomfort, “It was just a stupid dream and by morning I’ll probably forget I ever had it.”

Harry doesn’t believe him, and he admits as much by asking, “Then why are we out here and not in the tent, sleeping?”

Ron is stubbornly quiet, and Harry knows that he has no response to give that wouldn’t be a lie.

“You know I’m pants at this sort of thing,” Harry reminds him.

“And you think I’m not?!” Ron retorts. Though his voice is loud, he sounds more miserable and frustrated than actually angry. “I wish Hermione were here,” he sighs out after another stretch of silence.

Harry scoffed, “Like it wouldn’t go the exact same way.” Ron, once again, doesn’t respond. “Look,” he attempts a third time, “I just want to know why this dream has you up when you’ve managed to push past them before.”

Ron mumbles something that sounds like, “Stame,” but that couldn’t be right because ‘stame’ isn’t a word, and Harry doesn’t need Hermione to know that. (Despite what most people want to believe).

He looks at Ron and gently asks, “What?”

“It’s not the same,” Ron repeats clearly. “I’ve had nightmares about the locket, Malfoy Manor, Fred’s death, your death... Hell, I’ve even had nightmares about the chess match back in first year.”

Harry would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised about that last one, but he remained quiet, knowing that Ron needed to get his thoughts and emotions together in his mind before he began to verbally explain it all.

“And my dreams...” Ron hesitates before continuing purposefully, “My dreams, as uncommon as they are, are about happy things. I won’t say what, you’ll probably just laugh. I know I would if it were you. But this dream...this...this nightmare...it was different.”

Harry longs to ask how this time was different. He wants to understand what Ron saw while he was asleep. But cutting into Ron’s speech is something Hermione would do. Asking question after question, badgering him until his metaphorical guts are spilled out on the floor for her to logically examine and take apart is something Hermione would do.

Harry’s not like that, though. Which is why he stays silent, allowing Ron to grasp hold of all his scattered thoughts before he continues to explain.

“It was just...so very different, Harry.” Ron’s voice cracks on Harry’s name and he hangs his head.

Harry knows he’s on the verge of crying, and this alarms him. Ron’s never this open with his emotions. Not really.

And he can’t get over how similar this feels to that of when Ron had just destroyed the horcrux that basically sent Ron away when they were seventeen. When they were literal kids in a war that adults had wagered years ago, but expected them to fight anyway.

“It was real,” Ron managed to say with a shaky breath. “I know it was real.” He lifts his head to look Harry right in the eye, as if daring his best friend to call him crazy.

Harry sees tears within the blue gaze of his best friend, and he wonders why he looks so vulnerable all of a sudden. They’ve all had dreams, nightmares, that felt real. How does this fact make the one Ron had just had any different?

“Ron, we’ve all had dreams that felt-”

“No!” Ron cuts in desperately. “This didn’t feel real, it was real.”

Now Harry’s confused. How could something be real when Ron hadn’t even left his bed?

“I don’t-” Harry stops, words slipping from his grasp quicker than he can speak them until he has nothing to say that wouldn’t sound stupid. That wouldn’t make Ron angry. That wouldn’t cause a fight. ...That wouldn’t make Ron leave again...

More silence passes, and though it feels like eternity it’s only been a few minutes, and Harry notices Ron’s regained his composure. He doesn’t look like he’s about to fall apart. Like he’s going to break down in tears.

Harry feels sort of selfish for being grateful for that. No matter how old he gets, he knows he may never be fully comfortable with people showing so much emotion.

“Let’s just forget it, Harry,” Ron decides, “It was just a stupid dream and it’s over now. No point worrying about it.”

If Harry were anyone else, like Hermione, he would probably continue to press the matter. But he was Harry. The boy-who-was-kinda-maybe-sorta-afraid-to-talk-about-feelings. Ron was his best mate and nothing could ever change that, but he wouldn’t push the matter. It was obvious Ron didn’t want to talk about it.

So, Harry decides to let it go. “Alright, we’ll go back to the tent.”

The sun is starting to rise by the time they enter the tent, so they don’t go back to sleep. Harry doubts they’ll be able to, anyway. Especially Ron. He still seemed pretty shaken about whatever it was he was dreaming about.

They wait until the sun has fully risen for the day before they pack up and continue on their simple mission. Harry thinks Kingsley just gave it to them because they hadn’t had a proper week off since they joined the Aurors, but he’s not going to say that out loud.

Ron took his job as strategist and tactician very seriously, and if he was sent out on a wild goose chase for the sake of it, well then, no one was safe.

Harry grins at the thought. Maybe he should voice the idea. It might distract Ron from whatever was on his mind right now. But he decides not to. Ron already seemed on edge. There was no point making him even more so or he might just fall off the figurative cliff.

“Do you really think there’s a werewolf out here?” Ron asks after a few hours of walking through the forest they were in.

“I doubt it,” Harry answers. “I mean, there probably was, but I bet they’ve gone back home. Y’know, seeing as werewolves only transform during a full moon.”

Harry knows Ron knows this. Hell, Ron knew this long before Harry did. But Harry just hates how quiet Ron is and he just wants to start a damn conversation. Even if it’s one they had back in third year.

“You don’t have to do this, Harry,” Ron tells him, adjusting the pack on his back.

“Do what?” Harry asks, half-turning to glance at the redhead who seemed to be lagging behind.

This wasn’t normal. Normally Harry was practically jogging to keep up with Ron’s long-legged gait. Maybe the pack was too heavy? Unlikely, Harry thinks, Ron was doing just fine the previous day. Before they went to sleep and everything got ruined by a stupid dream Ron didn’t even want to talk about.

“You don’t have to distract me,” Ron responds simply.

“And what makes you think I’m not trying to distract myself, eh?”

Ron goes to retort, but his mouth shuts and he frowns, “Alright, you got me there.”

Harry can’t help the grin of victory that crosses his face. Sure, maybe he shouldn’t be so smug, but he couldn’t help it.

“I’m sorry,” Ron apologises, and Harry’s smile is replaced with a wrinkled brow of confusion.

“What for?”

“I haven’t been much company this trip.”

“You’ve been plenty company,” Harry assures quickly. “You’re just a little...distracted, that’s all.”

“But still,” Ron replies, “Just because I woke up from a stupid, meaningless dream, doesn’t mean I have to be such a drag.”

Harry shrugs, “I guess not all missions can be fun.” His words are flat, he knows, because he doesn’t mean them.

Missions, no matter how dull, are always fun when Ron’s around. But he doesn’t want to make Ron feel bad or put pressure on him, or make him feel like he has to be happy because Harry’s bored and needs to be entertained.

Harry isn’t a child, and Ron isn’t a court jester. He isn’t a babysitter, and he most definitely isn’t some clown that was born just for the sake of making Harry Potter smile. That would be stupid and selfish.

Just because Rita Skeeter makes it sound like Harry only keeps Ron around for the laughs doesn’t mean Harry actually keeps Ron around for the laughs. They’re best friends. Equals. And if anyone has a problem with that, well, they can face the wrath of Harry’s wand. He knows more than just expelliarmus, you know?

“Ron?” Harry addressed after nearly an hour of silence.

“Yeah?”

“You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you? I don’t want you to think that just because you’re not an orphan, or the chosen one, or you haven’t had a connection to some evil wizard for most of your life, that your problems don’t matter. Because they do.”

He’s not one for being sappy. Neither of them are. But Harry felt compelled to say it. And once he did, he felt better. Because what he said was true. Just because Ron wasn’t hunted down by an evil wizard who strived to be immortal doesn’t make his problems invalid. It doesn’t mean they don’t matter.

“I know,” Ron nods, “But I’m fine. So there’s nothing to worry about.”

Harry’s doubtful. But if Ron wants to pretend that everything’s fine, Harry’s not going to stop him. They only have today left and then they’ll be back home in their small flat, complaining about the report they have to write, and reading the Daily Prophet to see what bogus articles have been written now. And then everything will be back to normal. Like there was no dream that woke Ron up and shook him to his very core.

Harry wonders if it’ll be that simple.

Something tells him it won’t be.

———————————————————————————————————

Harry was right, it wasn’t that simple. They had returned to their muggle flat, got cleaned up, and ordered takeout for dinner. Ron was too tired to cook and they didn’t have anything decent anyway.

They watched TV while they ate Chinese — Ron loved trying all of the muggle foods, but Chinese was his favourite — and Harry made sure that he kept his eyes resolutely on the screen so he doesn’t glance at Ron every few seconds to see if he would relax.

He had been rigid and on edge all day and it was rather alarming because, out of the Golden Trio, Ron was probably the most laidback. It’s a fact.

Maybe when they meet Hermione for lunch tomorrow, Ron will snap out of his funky mood, Harry thought hopefully. It’s not normal for Ron to be all quiet like this.

Or maybe, Harry reasons, he’s just really tired? He didn’t exactly have the perfect sleep last night.

Deciding that’s all it was and that Ron will certainly be back to his old self after a good night’s rest, Harry fully relaxes on the couch and enjoys his dinner, returning his attention to the movie that was playing.

They have an early night. After the dishes have been done and takeout boxes have been cleared away, they go to their bedrooms and go to sleep.

Harry is optimistic that everything will be like it always had been when he wakes up, ready for a new day. He expects Ron to be back to his chipper and talkative self, ready to tackle the intimidating task of writing up a detailed report on their investigation of a werewolf that has long since disappeared because it’s nowhere near being a full moon, Kingsley.

However, his optimism proves futile when, at 3:27am, Harry is jolted awake by a shout and a thud. Without even blinking, he grabs his glasses and his wand, running out of his bedroom as he shoves his glasses on his face.

He crosses the hall, pushes the door to Ron’s bedroom open, his wand raised, ready to attack or defend, or both, and finds Ron on the floor, breathing heavily.

“What happened?” Harry asks as calmly as he can despite his heart hammering in his chest and his hands shaking from the adrenaline that rushed through him like a drug.

“Nothing,” Ron denies stubbornly, glaring down at the floor he was seated on.

“So you’re on the floor because you miss camping, then?” Harry asks snarkily.

He receives a glare from the redhead, and Harry has to admit, he deserves it. But if Ron almost gave him a heart attack over nothing, then by Merlin, Harry‘s allowed to be, even a little, angry.

Harry sighed and crouched down beside Ron, who doesn’t look comfortable but also doesn’t look like he wants to move anytime soon either.

“Do you want to talk about it or do you want to pretend it didn’t happen?”

“You mean I have a choice?” Ron asks, looking up at him with a raised eyebrow.

Harry shrugged, “I’m not like Hermione who tells you what you should feel.” Ron snorts, returning his gaze to the floor. “Don’t go telling her I said that, though,” Harry quickly adds warningly.

“Course not,” Ron replies, “It’ll only make her ask why you said it in the first place. And then I’d have to tell her, and then she’d do exactly what you said she does, even though she’ll go on denying that she doesn’t.”

Harry’s too tired to follow what his friend just said, but he’s amazed that it somehow makes sense. So, he simply responds, “So, we won’t tell Hermione?”

Ron shook his head, “She’s the last person I want to know about this.”

“So it means that it’s something?” Harry voices the question pointedly.

“No,” Ron protests, “It means that it’s not important enough to bother her with.”

“So we’re just going to pretend you didn’t fall out of bed just now and shout like someone had stabbed you with a hot knife?”

“Something tells me a hot knife would be better than what I just felt,” Ron mutters, looking away from Harry as he did so.

“You make it sound like you were under the Cruciatus Curse,” Harry remarks.

“I’m sure that would have been a walk in the park compared to this,” Ron mumbles, and that makes Harry worry.

“This?” he repeats questioningly.

Ron quickly shakes his head, “I meant that. I’m sure it would be a walk in the park compared to that.”

“And what is ‘that’ exactly?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ron states, finally pushing himself up from the floor, “I’m going to try sleeping again before we have to leave for work. I think you should do the same.”

Harry stands up as well, and, as he walks to the door, calls teasingly, “Just make sure you stay in the bed this time.”

“Hardy. Har. Har,” Ron shouts back sarcastically. “Next time a curse heads your way, I’ll make sure it hits you.”

Harry just laughs and shakes his head, closing the door behind him, before returning to his own room.

He knew Ron wouldn’t do that. He’s more likely to jump in front of it than anything. It’s more likely that a curse heading for Harry hits Ron than a curse heading for Ron hits Ron. That’s not to say that Harry’s terrible at shield charms, he’s just not good at self-preservation. Not that Ron’s any better. What with him jumping in front of curses that were meant for Harry. But he knows when to jump into a situation feet first, when to jump into a situation carefully, and when to just not jump into a situation at all.

That’s the difference between them. Ron assesses the situation while Harry...well...Harry just doesn’t. He’s more likely to run into the fray and hope he doesn’t die.

When he’s back in bed, he drifts off to sleep almost immediately. He briefly wonders if Ron managed to do the same.

Unbeknownst to Harry, however, the answer is no. No, Ron does not manage to go back to sleep because he’s haunted by what had found him in his dreamworld. He’s haunted by what else could find him in his dreamworld.

How can dreams feel so real that it’s almost like he’s living them?

Ron shivers as he curls up in bed, a single candle on his bedside table, the flame flickering slightly.

He stares at it, hoping that if he stared at it long enough, it would burn the memories and the dreams right out of his mind and everything will be like it was before.

But he knows that’s not how it works. Even in the wizarding world.

He finds it amazing how alone he feels even when Harry is right across the hall. But he can’t tell Harry what he’s experiencing. Can’t tell him about the dreams. About the woman that keeps following him wordlessly. The woman who rarely speaks, even when he tries to talk to her.

Occasionally, she looks like she’s in a lot of pain. And sometimes, if he concentrates hard enough, he thinks he feels it too.

How could he explain that to Harry without sounding like a complete nutter? The answer is, he can’t. Because Ron Weasley isn’t the hero, Harry Potter is. Ron Weasley isn’t he one who has strange, memory-like dreams, Harry Potter is. And Ron Weasley isn’t the one who’s haunted by a person he only knows from dreams, Harry Potter is.

So why, then, is it Ron Weasley, and not Harry Potter, that is forced to witness the pain and torture of two people he has never seen in his life, and yet, feels such a connection to that it hurts the very essence of his soul?

How can he tell Harry Potter, his best friend, that when he closes his eyes, he’s living another person’s life? That he sees, hears, smells, tastes, and feels everything they do? That when they speak it feels like he’s the one who’s opening his mouth? That he’s the one who is forced to endure the hours and hours of torture that are inflicted by Death Eaters from the first wizarding war who should be dead by now? How do you explain this to someone without having the off chance of being locked up for being mental? Because, surely, that’s what he is?

Ron closes his eyes and thinks back to the dream — no, memory, for there is no doubt in his mind that that is what it is — and recalls every little detail of it. And as he does so, he wonders what it all means...

———————————————————————————————————

Elin was curled up to Phoenix in the darkest corner of the cell, trying to keep warm. It was nearing the end of winter, but that didn’t mean the days would automatically be warmer. And even if it did, it wouldn’t matter because it was always cold and draughty in the basement.

Phoenix was unconscious; like he was most of the time now. And Elin was resting against him, her head on his chest to ensure his heart was still beating.

She had two greatest fears in that silent moment. The first, was for the baby, and the second, was for Phoenix.

She had no doubt that, if there was a boggart right in front of her, it would take the form of her family, lying dead on the floor.

She was afraid neither would survive. That she’ll be left alone. Alone and lost in a cell where Colt Malfoy could do whatever he wanted and no one would be able to stop him. No one would be able to save her.

She inhaled deeply through her nose before slowly releasing the breath through her mouth in a silent sigh as she opened her eyes. She lifted her gaze to Phoenix’s peaceful face.

These were the only times he seemed to be at peace nowadays. It’s sort of sad, Elin thinks, she can’t recall him ever being this relaxed when conscious. The thought nearly breaks her heart.

These were the only times he seemed to be at peace nowadays. It’s sort of sad, Elin thinks, she can’t recall him ever being this relaxed when conscious. The thought nearly breaks her heart.

How long must they suffer at the hands of a madman?

If only she knew the answer to that.

She slowly lifts her hand and gently brushes her husband’s hair from his closed eyes.

“You always had such beautiful eyes,” she whispers to him.

She proceeds to trail her fingertips down the side of his face, tracing every line, every scar, every freckle... “I hope our child has your eyes. And your hair. I want a piece of you to be with me always, no matter how far apart we are.”

Her fingers stop when they brush against the new scar Malfoy had added to the collection. It was a jagged line going from just above Phoenix’s left eye, down to the middle of his cheek. It was the cause of a cursed knife and the wound had bled heavily. Elin was afraid that he would be blind in that eye, but he wasn’t. Of that she was very grateful.

“You may not think so,” she continues to whisper softly, “But I think you are still as handsome as the day we were married.” She’s not lying. He really is as beautiful now as he was back then. Time and scars could hardly change that.

“When we get out of here,” she goes on casually, “You are going to draw me a family portrait. I don’t care how long it takes you. You can take years if you’d like. But you’ll draw it and I’ll love it. Maybe not as much as I love the real thing, but I’ll still love it.”

Despite how foolish she must sound, she doesn’t feel foolish, not in the slightest. Because, no matter how bleak the situation, there is always hope.

There will always be hope. And that’s what she has to remember. That’s what she has to hold on to.

She’s tired, her body aches, and yet, she cannot bring herself to sleep. She knows why, of course. It’s rather obvious, really. She’s afraid. She’s afraid that, if she closes her eyes, even for a moment, something bad will happen and she’ll lose everything.

She knows it’s ridiculous, but she can’t help what she fears. She has to prepare herself for what might happen or she just might never recover from it.

Phoenix and the baby are all she has left. If she loses them, then she loses everything.

It’s the final day of winter. Elin knows this because Malfoy told her before she was escorted from his bedchamber and returned to the arms of her husband.

“Are you telling me this because we’ve been here for nearly five months and you want to gloat?” Elin asks from the door. “Or are you just trying to have polite conversation?”

Malfoy chuckles softly, “My dear,” he begins, rising from the bed, and walked towards her. “I thought you deserved to know that it’s your dear husband’s birthday tomorrow. In case you wanted to celebrate or something equally ridiculous,” he finishes with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Elin eyes him warily as she replies, “How do I know you don’t have something planned for him already?”

Malfoy shrugged non-committedly, “You don’t.”

After his usual disgusting kiss goodbye, Elin is dismissed.

She doesn’t feel anything when she’s with Colt. She’s numb. Making everything that’s happening, every sound, every touch, feel like it’s far away. Like it’s not happening to her, but to someone else.

However, the moment she passes through the doorway of the basement where Phoenix is waiting for her, she feels sick. She feels violated and dirty. But that doesn’t stop Phoenix from wrapping his arms around her. It’s his attempt at comfort as he tells her that it’s not her fault. That it could never be her fault.

The depressing part of this, though, is that a part of her never truly believes him. Yet, she knows that he feels the same way every time he comes back from his time with Malfoy and the Death Eaters. So, it doesn’t seem so different after all.

They’ve settled in for the night. They’re as comfortable as they can get, all things considered, and they talk quietly to each other. As if sharing a secret in their bed back in their bedroom, in the house they had built together.

“It’s your birthday tomorrow,” she whispers, hardly believing how fast the time has gone.

“Is it?” he whispers back lightly, “I hadn’t even noticed.”

“Well,” Elin continues just as lightly, “It’s not like we have a calendar in here.”

“Something tells me that if we did, Malfoy would keep changing the dates so we’d end up celebrating Christmas on Easter.”

Elin knows he’s trying to be funny, but she wouldn’t put it past Colt for such a vile trick.

“I’m clearly losing my touch,” Phoenix voices after a moment, “You haven’t said anything.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologises, lifting her face to meet his, “It was clever,” she assures, “It was. I just can’t find it in myself to laugh.”

“I know,” he nods, beginning to stroke her hair with his broken fingers, “I just miss the sound of it, that’s all.”

“I think I’ve forgotten how to laugh,” she admits solemnly.

“You’ll find it again,” he whispers, “I’m sure of it.”

And Elin smiles sadly, because she knows that, no matter what logic tells her, she believes him.

It’s two hours after they fall into an uneasy slumber when Elin’s eyes snap open and she sits up, causing Phoenix to stir beside her.

“What is it?” Phoenix asks groggily, forcing himself to straighten from the wall he had been slumped against.

Elin presses a hand to her stomach as she answers quietly, “I think the baby’s coming.”

“What?”

Elin looks at him over her shoulder, her eyes full of panic, “The baby’s coming.” The pain that ghosts across her abdomen leaves no room for doubt.

“But it’s three weeks early,” Phoenix points out, now alert.

“It is,” she confirms shakily.

“Then why-”

“Babies can come early,” Elin cuts in factually.

“I know that,” he replies gently, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, and Elin suddenly tenses through her first contraction. “What can I do?” Phoenix questions, his voice cracking with desperation to help. To ease the discomfort and pain Elin will surely feel.

Elin stares at him imploringly once the pain has past, and takes his hand, “Help me stand?”

With a wordless nod, Phoenix helps her rise from the floor.

Once Elin is leaning heavily against him, they walk the length of the room with slow, purposeful steps, before they turn around and go the other way. They do this for what feels like hours, hoping to alleviate the pain Elin is now in.

She breathes deeply; in through her nose and out through her mouth. Phoenix is sure to breathe with her as he holds her close to him, plodding around their prison with unsteady strides.

Knowing he’s there beside her gives her more comfort than Elin could ever possibly express. She wants to speak. She wants to say words that could, at the very least, show how she feels. But she knows it’ll be pointless. Because all Phoenix has to do is look into her eyes and he’ll just... He’ll just know. Like he seems to know everything.

Their eyes are the main, if not, only way they communicate nowadays. And it amazes her how much can be said in such a short time. It amazes her how much can be said without even needing to say anything at all.

Looking into his eyes gives her comfort and encouragement because they are telling her that he’s there. That he will always be there. He’s telling her that she’s not the only one who’s afraid right now, and that’s okay. It’s all going to be okay. Because they have each other. They’ll always have each other. And his eyes are so certain of this belief that she can’t help but believe it too.

More hours pass of silent shuffling from one end of their cell to the other before the contractions are so close together and the pain is so intense that Elin can barely stand. Can barely breathe through the oncoming agony that only promises to get worse.

Phoenix slides down the cold, stone wall, helps Elin lower herself to the floor, and then pulls her against his chest, ready to help her in any way he can, so that it makes the birth of their child just a little bit easier for her. Even if it’s just a fraction.

“You can do this,” he whispers against her, already, sweat soaked hair, “I know you can do this.”

Elin manages a nod through another contraction as she brings her legs up into the birthing position that she’s become so familiar with.

“I’m right here.” He takes her trembling hand with his bruised, broken, and battered one.

“I know,” she breathes out, “I know.”

It isn’t long until she’s forced to push.

Phoenix holds her as she screams, her entire body tensing as she puts all of her strength into the action. Once the contraction has past, Elin takes the chance to relax and breathe before a second later another contraction comes hard and fast.

Phoenix closes his eyes, the sounds of her screams and cries of agony hurting his very soul. She shouldn’t be here. She should be having this baby at home in the presence of professionals. With a healer, his mother and sister, there to help. Why was she forced to give life to this child in a place like this?

Feeling her relax against him, signalling the contraction’s end, he murmurs, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“What for?” she asks confusedly, her voice cracking slightly from the strain.

“I’m sorry you’re alone.”

To his surprise, Elin laughs. It’s a weak sound. It cracks and breaks, but it’s still a laugh, It’s still her laugh. “I’m not alone,” she replies softly, stroking her thumb over the back of his hand, “Because you’re right here. You’re right beside me. And when I’m with you, I’m standing with an army.”

Through his feelings of helplessness, he manages to smile, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” she responds before her breath hitches and another contraction rips through her.

This one, to both their horror, is so strong that, when Elin screams, it seems to shake the very walls of the cell. She grips his hand tighter as she pushes, knowing there is nothing else to do as she screams through the pain, trying to breathe when she can, for fear of passing out.

Finally, the contraction comes to an end, and Elin can breathe. She heaves in gulps of air, scared that it will never be enough. That it could never be enough.

She has only just caught her breath when another one, unmercifully, tears through, stealing the breath she had only just recently gained. Her eyes are shut tight, her hand trembling as it held fast to Phoenix’s own. Tears leak out beneath her shut lids, the pain unbearable as her jaw clenches, trying to hold in her cry. However, it is proving futile when another wave of agony crashes upon her and she cannot keep from screaming.

Phoenix is breaking inside. He can’t bear seeing her in pain, and, if he could, he would take this burden from her in a heartbeat. But he knows he can’t. So, he holds her, runs the fingers of his left hand through her sweaty hair, and prays that it will be over soon.

It is, however, not to be as, long into the night, the contractions keep coming, Elin keeps pushing and screaming, but nothing comes from it.

It’s a few hours before sunrise. Neither need a clock to know this. The baby hasn’t arrived yet, and Elin is exhausted.

Per Phoenix’s suggestion, she closes her eyes, resting as much as she can.

The contractions have stopped coming and Phoenix doesn’t know whether he should be relieved or worried. What he does know, is that he’s grateful that she’s not in any pain in this moment.

He presses a kiss to her sweaty temple, hoping she doesn’t wake up, only to have to go through more hours of agony.

He raises his eyes to the dark ceiling and whispers, “Please don’t take her away from me. Please don’t take her away from me.” Tears fill his eyes as he repeats the mantra pleadingly. “I can’t lose her,” he cries, looking down upon her peaceful face, “I wouldn’t be able to bear it.”

His tears slowly slide down his face unabashedly and he traces his thumb along her cheek, committing it all to memory before she is forced to wake and the pain returns.

There was so much he wanted to say in this moment. So much he wanted her to hear. But it would be pointless because she knew already. She knew how much he loved her. How much he was willing to do for her. Because he had proven it, had shown it to her so many times.

Through his sacrifice, his willingness to be hurt if it meant she would be spared. She knew it all. And so, there was no reason to repeat it all. She didn’t like being told something she already knew. It was just how she was. And Phoenix loved that about her.

It isn’t long and she’s awake again, squeezing his hand, stiffening through each contraction, and pushing with all her might as the room, once more, fills with her agonised cries and pleas. And all he can do is be there for her, hoping his support is enough to get her through this new kind of torture.

It’s a long night, and they both wonder if it will ever end. If they’ll ever get to see the child they have been waiting so long for.

Phoenix rests his forehead against Elin’s shoulder, massaging her back, whispering meaningless words of comfort, and praying to some deity he doesn’t even know exists.

The sun is just beginning to rise, welcoming the first spring morning of the year, when an infant’s cries fill the room.

Elin is soaked in perspiration, Phoenix is barely conscious as his headache has returned from little rest, but they are both so overwhelmingly happy that it hardly matters.

Phoenix hands her their baby, wrapped in an old coat they had set aside for this very purpose, and she gazes down upon the face of their child. The face of their son.

Elin has tears of joy sliding down her cheeks as she looks up at Phoenix, a big smile on her face, to see that Phoenix has tears shining in his own green-blue eyes. This was the moment, they both knew. This was the moment they were fighting for.

Phoenix lowers himself beside his wife and newborn child, his smile so broad it hurts his face. But he can’t help it. After a whole night of endless agony, his wife, his Elin, managed to bring their child into the world.

With his left arm wrapped around her protectively, his hand resting on her shoulder, his right caressed the soft, smooth cheek of the piece of perfection heaven had chosen to gift them with.

“He’s perfect,” Phoenix whispers.

“I told you we were having a boy,” Elin teases with a grin.

Phoenix chuckles, “Looks like Trelawny was right about you having the third eye.”

Elin rolls her eyes and shakes her head affectionately, “You’re just jealous that I have the gift and you don’t.”

“Oh, I am terribly jealous,” he agrees humorously.

“We’re still calling him Ronald, aren’t we?” she asks, returning her gaze to the baby.

“If you want him to hate us for the rest of his life, I’m sure Ronald is perfect,” Phoenix drawls sarcastically, earning a disapproving glare from his wife.

“We could call him Ron for short,” she suggests helpfully, looking back down at the bundle she was cradling. “Or Ronnie.”

“He’ll grow out of the nickname by the time he’s eight,” he points out.

“Well, he’ll be Ronnie until he’s eight and Ron until he’s old enough to carry the name Ronald with pride,” Elin decides.

“Something tells me that will never happen.”

Elin shrugs softly so as not to jolt the newborn, “Then he’ll be known as Ronald on a piece of paper only. He’ll be Ron to everyone else.”

“I’m sure he’ll have some respect for us after this.”

“I hope so,” Elin laughs. “No child of mine is going to be spoilt or disrespectful.”

“A true gentleman then?”

Elin smiles softly, though it’s also a tad mischievous, Phoenix notices, as she nods, “Just like you.”

Phoenix snorts, “You think I’m a gentleman?”

Elin grins up at him, “The perfect gentleman.”

Phoenix chooses to ignore her teasing, asking instead, “So it’s agreed?”

“It’s agreed,” she answers, looking down at their child. “Welcome to the world, Ronnie,” Elin greets in a whisper, “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

Phoenix smiles lovingly at his wife before looking down at his son. “You’ll be sharing your birthday with your dad,” Phoenix admits, “I hope you don’t mind?”

Elin’s eyes widen in surprise, having forgotten, and looked at her husband, ready to apologise before she stops herself, saying instead, “Happy birthday,” and gives him a quick kiss.

“It’s the best birthday I’ve ever had,” he replies.

And he’s not lying. Because he had just received the most beautiful, most perfect gift anyone could have given him. And it, of course, could only have come from the most beautiful woman who had ever walked this earth; his wife.

“I love you so much,” he whispers.

“And I love you,” she returns, before they move in to share another kiss.

It was March 1st 1980 when Ronald Garson was welcomed into the world. It was the day Phoenix turned thirty-one. It was the day Elin realised how much there was for her to lose. And it was also the day they both became determined, now, more than ever, to get out of there.

Ron will not be raised in captivity. Of that they could promise.

———————————————————————————————————

And there you have it.

So, as I said above, give me some feedback and I just might continue this. I’m kidding. Even if I only receive one comment, I’ll keep writing this because, now that I’ve started, I can’t stop.

I will, hopefully, post the next part next week, but we shall see how it all goes.