Standard Disclaimers: Please place all your blame for this drabble-ish thing on DarkBrooks and his "Vicar of Erebor" - a more comic take that made me really want to see a serious one. It is all based on the fact that Mr. Armitage played characters in both the TV show Vicar of Dibley and the Hobbit. This fic is likely to remain a one-shot, but, OH the possibilities :) Holler out to me if you are at all interested in reading more - I can probably get a bit further.
In the silence he watched it unfold, as clear as if he were experiencing it for the first time instead of the eightieth or ninetieth. The graceful, unbelievable, terrifying mass of scaled flesh falling like a stooping hawk on the people he loved. Their screams pulsed in his ears, a burst of distorted sound torn free from the scene in front of him.
His hand scrabbled on the dark stone, reaching. They were his. His to love and protect, and he would do it.
But his sword wasn't there. Nothing was there but the mirrored obsidian, stretching out into eternity.
He was helpless. Helpless and mute as the monster crashed past him and burrowed its way deeper into the heart of his home… the home of his heart…
There was nothing he could do…
"No!" Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, yelled. His voice tore as he spoke his defiance, his denial, his vow into the world around him. The ground shook beneath him as if in response and the cathedral ceiling above his head began to buckle- first one piece smashing to the ground, and then another, and another, until the echo of Thorin's screams was lost beneath the sound of his ancestral hall shattering...
Harry Kennedy screamed, jerking upright in his bed. He flailed in the darkness of his room, expecting to feel cold stone pressing in on him and finding only empty air. Gasping for breath, he trembled, so lost in the thrum of his own terrified heartbeat that he didn't even register his wife beside him, first frightened and then soothing.
That is, until she reached out to him - until she held him, soft voice whispering litanies of comfort.
Geraldine. His Geraldine.
"I… I… I'm sorry…." he stuttered, fingers reflexively clutching her.
"It's alright, Harry, it's alright… You're safe, love..."
Slowly, so very slowly, the dream left him. The sound of metal and bone crunching was replaced with the low lilt of his wife's voice, the chill of a stone tomb with the yielding warmth of her body, the scent of blood and smoke with that orange dusting spray and chocolate.
But there was nothing that could replace the taste of ash that lingered in his mouth.