Undercloak: Part Seventeen

by queenB

"Every smallest step on the field of free thought and the individually formed life has always been fought for with spiritual and physical torments."

Friedrich Nietzsche, The Dawn

Gomurr the Ancient straightens his robes, running his old, gnarled hands flat against its seams as he stands before the large, ornate doors at the entrance of the Crimson Dawn's innermost chamber. As he studies the snarling head of one of the door's elaborate gold dragons, he can't believe he is here, presenting himself as a supplicant to his long-time rival, begging for the soul of a woman he barely knows. None of this is like him, he thinks. He might even believe he is turning soft in his old age if he didn't know better. But a nagging in the back of his mind tells him this is the right thing to do. He only hopes Tar doesn't think he has gone one step too far.

He pounds a small, greying fist against the door and the hall behind him echoes as if a thunderous hammer has stuck at the very heart of the Dawn. The door creeks slowly and solemnly open, pulled by a pair of Tar's Undercloaks, slithering their dark feet through the shadows, breath as cold as the darkest night. Gomurr turns to look into one of their vacuous faces and sees nothing but a pair of cinderous eyes swimming in a dark hood and an even darker fate. He knows the being in front of him used to be a thinking, feeling human. Perhaps he even had a home, a family, people he cared for. Perhaps like others before him, he traded it all... for power, for strength, for another chance to live and breathe. It is a dark path the Undercloaks walk, trading bits and pieces of themselves until nothing is left but a dark, cold hunger and the urge to serve their master. Gomurr turns his gaze away from the lost soul and wonders if he has just glimpsed the future of the X-Man known as Psylocke. It would be such a great waste, he thinks, such light burned away for the dark of Tar's bidding, such squandering of a perfectly noble soul.

As Gomurr travels the long, dim path to Tar's throne, he can hear the neon minions tick menacingly behind him and feel his rival's cold stare on him. He keeps his eyes lowered and his posture tall as the Ebon Vein pulses under the thin floor beneath his feet. He will not be intimidated. After all, he taught Tar most of the tricks he knows. But he still plays the part of the humble subject, knowing that sometimes ceremony is the most sacred trust of all.

Once Gomurr reaches his destination, the neon creatures disperse from behind him, a few skittering up Tar's chair and one even laying across his lap like a favorite pet. Gomurr squints sharply at the ebon-skinned proctor as he strokes the living neon character. Such liberties this one pursues, such folly. Though kept a secret to the outside world, the Dawn always held a certain level of majesty and respect. Its power now grows weak and the realm itself threatens to fracture and disappear. Gomurr knows Tar can feel it, the proctor's fate is completely intertwined with the Dawn itself. He only hopes that his rival keeps his part of the sacred trust of the Dawn and does not give into desperation. Desperation has no place in the realm of shadows. He shakes away his critical thoughts as Tar's resonant voice rings loud in his ears. "Why are you here, Gomurr?"

Gomurr suppresses a sigh as he kneels and bows low. "I come for the life of the telepath, Elizabeth Braddock."

If Gomurr were looking at Tar, no doubt he would see the expression of amusement in his face. Instead, all he can hear is his deep, bellowing laugh. "Relinquish the life of Braddock? You must be joking."

"No joke. I request the girl be freed from her debt."

"There is no precedent for such an action."

"I know this. But there is something about this one. I had to speak on her behalf."

Gomurr looks up at Tar's smirking visage. "I know she is unique, Gomurr. Why do you think I wish to have her among my Undercloaks? Why do you think I have sought to claim her life before her debt was due? Silly, silly man."

Gomurr shakes his head and breaks his reverent position in front of his rival. He bounds up the stairs as neon minions sink their talons into his robes, hindering his movement and attempting to protect their lord. He growls under his breath and looks at the sea of pink neon gathering around his feet. He takes a deep breath and then says, "Tar, please. Let's talk about this like civilized sorcerers. How long do we play these stupid games? You want these creatures to harm me? You even think they could?"

Tar rolls his eyes and then snaps his fingers. The minions slink away from Gomurr and tic-tak their way out of the throne room as their master says, "So what is your request? What do you want to say?"

"The ninja-girl should be free of her debt. It only fair. She never sought the Dawn herself."

The taller mystic stands and scratches his hairless head as he says, "That is a good point... though we've been over this countless times in the past. The one who benefits, who wields the power is the one who must pay the debt. Enough of the Dawn was given to save her life. So her life she owes. And fairness is hardly a concern. It never has been in all these centuries."

Tar steps down from his throne and motions for Gomurr to walk with him. "What has gotten into you, Gomurr? First you bring these outsiders to seek the Dawn... disrespecting me with your impetuousness and brashness, never once asking my permission. And then you ask me to look past the debt? Why?"

Hovering above the ground to remain at eye-level with Tar, Gomurr says quietly, "Maybe it's because you break too many rules on your own. Maybe I see that something is not right with the Dawn and I take advantage."

As they approach the heart of the Ebon Vein and it glows bright red and orange against their features, Tar stops and stares hard at his rival. "The laws I have enacted since my reign as Proctor have been to benefit this realm. You of all people should understand this. It is hard to remain strong as an unseen force in an unseen mystical world. Especially now... now that people don't believe in magic, in truth, in fear. I will do what is required to hold this realm together. I have and will continue to do so."

Gomurr sighs as Tar's motivations begin to become clear. "And you have great hope for this Braddock girl? You think she can heal the Dawn?"

"With her leading my legion of Undercloaks... the world will once again dread the Crimson Dawn. We will be in every darkened corner waiting, we will be the cold breath of fear in the dead of night. We will no longer be mocked. People will believe in magic and we will have more souls to harvest."

Gritting his teeth, Gomurr glares at his adversary. It takes every ounce of restraint to keep himself from telling Tar what a fool he is, how the Dawn was never meant to be about conquering, never meant to rule humanity through fear. But he knows he won't listen. Any pleas will fall on deaf ears. They have had this argument too many times, always ending in a stalemate. He takes a deep breath and then says, "And if she wins her challenge? Will you break another of your sacred rules and take her anyway?"

Tar narrows his eyes and says nothing, his red robes shining orange in the glow of the Heart of the Dawn. Gomurr then lowers himself to the ground and walks away from his rival toward the large, ornate doors that he entered only minutes before. As he walks he says, "I will be here with her, Tar. I won't let you break the trust. By the Dawn, I will hold you to your contract. No matter the consequences."

Behind him, Gomurr hears the low laugh of Tar and the ticking of tiny, neon claws. "I would expect nothing less of the great Gomurr. No, nothing less."

Warren has always admired Betsy's beauty. To him, she is as radiant as the moon in a dark sky, as exotic as a butterfly in winter and as perfect as a hot-house orchid. But as he stands silently in the doorway of their bedroom and watches her dress with her back to him, something is different about her. Over the last night, she has somehow become something more. Or maybe it is just the way he perceives her now... after all the drama, after all the fear and then reconciliation, somehow she has become larger than life, more real than she has ever been before. And as he drinks in each of her graceful movements as she slips into a lavender-hued silk blouse and slowly fastens each button, his new perception of her frightens him. In the bright light of day, he now knows exactly how much he would have missed her if she had truly been lost to the shadows.

He knows she knows he is there and somehow that makes the delight he takes in watching her all the more alluring. As she slides her feet into a pair of leather mules and tosses her long purple hair over her shoulder to grin at him, she asks, "Enjoying the show?"

He fights the urge to run to her, swoop her up in his arms and never let her go, lock her away some place where Tar and his Undercloaks will never find her. Some place safe, some place warm, some place where they can be happy forever. He knows he can never cage her, though. He could never do that to her. She is a free spirit and always will be. Even if death himself knocked at her door, she would simply smile and laugh, celebrating a life well-lived. Besides, he can hardly guess at the arcane limits of Tar and his minions. For all he knows, they can find her anywhere she might hide. No, she cannot hide from her fate, whatever that might be. So he attempts to swallow his fears for the time being, though they gnaw at his stomach like a wild beast and penetrate every cell of his body like a cancer. Masking his anxieties from their psychic rapport and assuming an expression of amused mirth, he leans a shoulder against the door frame and runs a hand through his hair as he smirks, "But of course."

Fastening a delicate white-gold watch around her wrist as she walks toward him, she grins, "Then maybe I should start charging admission?"

She wraps her arms around him and rests her head on his chest, the flowery fragrance of her hair making him almost giddy. "I would give you my fortune, fair lady."

Lifting her head to smile at him, all the fear and anger she woke with apparently left far behind, she says, "Of course you would, dear. And I'm sorry about this morning. That dream was just so real and I..."

Warren places a finger on her lips. "Shh. It's okay. If you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to. Let's just appreciate the day, okay?"

She kisses his finger and holds his hand in her own. "Okay. What's for breakfast?"

"Eggs Florentine, croissant and coffee."

She smirks knowingly at Warren. "Oh! You're so sweet. You got breakfast from La Lorraine!"

La Lorraine is a French and Continental restaurant only a block away from their apartment and has quickly become one of Betsy's favorite restaurants. Over the last year she developed a rapport with the staff and Warren always stood idly by when she would converse in almost perfect French with the owner. He always seemed to give Betsy a little extra attention... a bottle of wine on the house, a taste of something new he was concocting. Although the special treatment did make him a bit jealous at times, he thought it was worth it if he could get a fine meal occasionally delivered to his door, though he was sure a hefty tip didn't hurt matters. As she darts out of his arms and down the stairs, he calls out after her, "As if I couldn't make that myself!"

"Don't be silly, Warren. I've lived with you long enough to know better!"

He walks down the wide stairs and enters the kitchen to find her already sitting out on the balcony, happily nibbling on a croissant. He pours them both a cup of coffee and walks to the bistro-style table arranged between two small, but well-cushioned chairs. Handing a cup to Betsy, he remarks, "I did make this all on my own, though."

She looks at him warily and takes a timid sip, then nods agreeably and takes another, surer swallow. He watches her reaction as she smiles and places the cup on the table. "Pierre brought this blend with him, didn't he?"

Warren rolls his eyes as he confesses, convinced that both her familiarity with his culinary blunders and their reestablished psychic-rapport has already given him away. "Yes. But I ground the beans myself. I'm not completely incompetent."

She grins. "No. Not completely."

He sits forward in his chair, his wings draping over the low back and watches her eat with relish as he picks idly at his food, tearing his croissant to nervous shreds. They eat in silence, Betsy cleaning her plate and Warren only managing half his pastry. As she tucks her napkin under her plate and stretches in the warm morning sunshine, he says, "I've never seen you eat like that before."

Smiling demurely, she sighs with satisfaction and then says, "I don't think you've ever seen me that hungry before. I guess shadow-hopping all over the globe will do that to a person."

He drops his napkin to his plate and then says distractedly, "I guess it would."

"And what about you? You barely touched yours."

Lifting his coffee mug with both hands, he says, "I guess I just wasn't hungry."

Because of his metabolism and the great amount of energy flying expends, Warren normally must eat more than an average man his size. Betsy frowns at him. "Something's bothering you."

As he looks at her from across the table, a sudden, white-hot anger fills his mind. He wants to scream, to rage at the world for almost taking her away from him, to shake her and ask her how she can be so casual despite the fact that she must battle who knows what dangers in less than twenty four hours. But he knows he needs to be whatever she wants him to be at the moment and if what she wants is a casual breakfast companion, that is what she will get. He just wishes that she would talk to him. Through their rapport, he can feel her fear and anger linger just beyond her conscious thoughts. Warren sighs deeply and tries to ignore the sadness forming deep in the pit of his stomach, pushing it far into the back of his mind, deep enough to hide it from Betsy. "No nothing's wrong. Nothing that can't wait."

She pulls her feet under her as she looks through him with an unblinking glare. From that look he knows he didn't hide his own fears well enough. As they stare at one another, their psychic rapport buzzing like white noise, the door bell chimes. He watches her stand as she moves to answer the door and says over her shoulder, "We'll talk about this later."

He collects the breakfast dishes and takes them to the kitchen sink as he hears Betsy greet their guests. He had forgotten all about Jean. She had said on the phone the night before that she'd be coming by. He just didn't think it would be so soon. He rinses off the plates with shaky hands, head still aching slightly from the battle of wits he and Betsy are subconsciously engaged in and loads them into the dishwasher as he takes another deep sigh. He loves Jean to pieces. Always has. But today? Today, he just doesn't need this. With her keen instincts and telepathic prowess, she'll know exactly what's going on and being psychoanalyzed by anyone, much less a good friend, is the last thing he needs right now.

As he closes the dishwasher door, he hears someone enter the kitchen behind him. He turns to face his guest, fully expecting the friendly, yet concerned visage of Jean. He is shocked to find someone else standing in her place.

Logan leans against the large, arcing doorway and smirks. "Don't look so surprised to see me, Wings. I ain't that ugly."

Warren suppresses the rueful remarks simmering at the back of his mind and instead asks, "What are you doing here, Wolverine?"

"Came up with Jeannie to make sure ya kids are doin' okay. Now go to the bathroom and primp or whatever ya pretty boys do, we're goin' out."

"Out?"

Glaring unblinkingly at Warren, Logan grins menacingly yet somehow casually. "Yeah. Jean and Betts got some things to talk over. Figured we'd make ourselves scarce for a few hours."

Scratching his head and putting away the dishtowel, Warren feels a hard knot grow in the pit of his stomach. Just him and Logan? Alone? For a few hours? He mutely speaks a quick prayer, hoping neither one of them will end up in the emergency room by the morning's end.

[next part]

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