Title: Til Love and Fame to Nothingness Do Sink

Author: Honorat

Rating: T

Pairing: Lamia/Dulaque, mild Lamia/Jacob Stone

Characters: Dulaque, Lamia, Flynn Carson, Jacob Stone, Cassandra Cillian, Ezekiel Jones,

Warning: Canonical character death implied

Disclaimer: Dean Devlin, John Rogers, and TNT own these characters.

Description: Gap filler for the finale. While Eve and Flynn are out trying to save the world, the Librarians in Training try to save Lamia. Lamia's POV, so I can't really finish the story. The extended episode shows Jacob covering Lamia's body with a red plaid blanket when Flynn returns with Eve. I am not happy about Lamia's fate, and I hope there is some way she can return in season 2.


Her wound is fatal.

Lamia is a master of blades, and she understands precisely where to seek death between the ribs, exactly where to find mortal weakness. The pain, she knows, is approaching, prowling on the edges of her consciousness, but that is irrelevant. She has always expected that her death would come by violence. That part is no surprise.

What astonishes her is that she is not standing to face it. For the moment her world narrows to the struggle to rise. Every measure of her will strains to force nerves, sinews, muscle, bone to bring her to her feet to face her killer. But her body, which she has crafted so superbly into a weapon, betrays her.

Everything betrays her, in the end.

Dulaque has bought his victory with her defeat.

Lancelot.

The hero of her story. Best of knights. He promised to take her with him to Camelot, to a legendary and magical future. They would reign together in a world of youth and power and beauty. He wove tapestries of dreams with his words—but they were only webs of deceit, and she, the hapless fly. She thought to be his Guinevere, never realizing she was his Arthur.

She manages to turn enough to meet his eyes, hoping yet to see that if her sacrifice is necessary, at least it costs him something to make it. The only emotion she sees is mild regret mixed with insufferable satisfaction. Dulaque has what he desires from her.

She needs to scream her rage at him as he stands on the edge of the void, poised to create a world that has no memory of her—but she has no breath to do more than whisper, "I loved you!"

Already her love is past tense.

And then she is falling, expecting to dash her head against the floor. Instead, arms fold around her, easing her to the ground. The Librarian, dispassionately kind, yet more to her in that moment than the man she loved.

She hears Dulaque's cool voice explaining, "Unfortunately, that was required."

All she has been to him is a means to this end—a sacrificial animal. Worst of all, she has betrayed herself. She has allowed herself to love a man who has never loved her, without ever seeing his treachery.

The pain is coming, now. Her back is wet with blood as its teeth sink in.

The blood Dulaque needs to destroy the world and remake it again.

His voice recedes as the roar of agony fills the space between the sounds. "And so, with blood, passage was opened to the Loom of Fate."

Lamia feels the Librarian abandoning her, leaving her to follow Dulaque, leaving her to die alone. She is, after all, his enemy. And he has a world to save.

Then a hand interposes between her head and the cold hardness of the floor. Its warmth supports her as the dimensional door closes on all her dreams.

She wants to hold on to the anger, because anger can hold pain at bay. But all her breaking heart can feel is that she wants her Lancelot back. She wants to die in the arms of her love. Could he not have given her that, at least?

Lamia has never been one to weep. She has so few breaths left. Why must she waste one in a sob? A warrior should not die with the tracks of tears on her cheeks.

And then she is no longer alone. Strong arms are gathering her in to an embrace, holding her up.

"Hang in there, darlin'," a voice like gravelled velvet says.

Jacob Stone, she realizes. His shirt is rough against her face, and she can hear the steady beat of his heart in counterpoint to the frantic pulse of her own.

With one hand, he holds pressure on her wound. She cries out at the pain of it.

"I know," he soothes. "Just tryin' to keep you from ruinin' this good shirt. Gotta stop you from bleedin' out all over the place."

He is ordering the other librarians around, sending Cassandra to fetch a first aid kit, some plastic, and a knife, and telling the thief to call 911. Lamia knows it's too late, but it is too much work to tell him.

The Library Annex keeps fading in and out of focus on the waves of sickening pain.

In one of the clear moments, she realizes that she is now being supported by Cassandra, and Stone is using the knife to clear the fabric from her wound.

"Your lung is collapsed, and I need to keep this incision from sucking any more air into your chest cavity," he tells her. "I'm gonna tape this plastic on three sides so when you breathe in, it'll block the air intake, and when you breathe out, air can escape."

She would nod that she understands, but her head doesn't work.

The girl holding her is trembling and babbling. "Tension pneumothorax. Symptom: jugular distension, cyanosis, shortness of breath. The average total lung volume of an adult female is about 4.2 litres of air. The spirometer (developed in 1846 by Hutchinson) is used to measure ventilatory function (dynamic lung volumes and maximal flow rates)."

"Cassie, it's okay." Stone's voice is an anchor. "Just focus. I'm almost done here."

Lamia is relieved when Stone takes her in his arms again, so much more secure against the solid muscles of his chest. But the trembling doesn't stop. She realizes she is shaking. The Annex is so very cold.

"She's in shock," Stone is telling the others. "Jones, can you run upstairs to my locker and grab the blanket you'll find there."

Her cowboy is the only one not panicking at the moment. Lamia huddles against his warmth.

The blanket arrives, and the other librarians swaddle her in it. They are so kind.

"I'm sorry," she tries to tell them, for killing them, for destroying their world with her blood. "Thank you." Did the words come out, or did she just think them?

"Shhh. Don't try to talk." Stone strokes her hair, then cradles her cheek with his hand. "I don't get out the red lumberjack plaid blanket for just anyone, sweetheart." She can hear the smile in his voice. "You're special."

She tries to reach for his face. The air is gurgling in her throat. She is drowning in blood. "Don't . . . go," she manages to choke.

"I'm not goin' anywhere," he says softly, taking her hand in his calloused one, and she can feel his breath move her hair. "Rest now. You're safe."

As the dark closes in, Lamia knows he is telling the truth.