Undercloak: Part Twenty One

by queenB

"So this is Heaven, he thought, and he had to smile at himself. It was hardly respectful to analyze heaven in the very moment that one flies up to enter it."

Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

'Heaven. This must be just like Heaven,' thinks Warren Worthington to himself as he soars above the clouds over New York City, holding the woman he loves close to his chest. Over their heads, the sky is as blue and sparkling as if the underside of an azure jewel. A gentle wind pushes the greasy smog of the city out over the sea and for once the air over Manhattan feels clean and pure. He breathes a deep, contented sigh and wishes time would stop in its tracks as Betsy's hands loop lovingly and securely around his neck and she buries her face in his coat. He looks down at her with a smile as he veers a sharp right and then enters into a tailspin. Laughing as she looks out from his jacket and whoops in elation, he thinks she almost looks like a child, the wonder and joy on her face is so apparent and innocent. It is nice to be close to her like this, nice to make her so happy.

As he pulls out of the descent and they hover over the clouds, Betsy tilts her face up to his and smiles as she asks with a gleam in her eye, "Do it again?"

Warren kisses her on the forehead, his lips lingering for a brief moment to feel the warmth of her skin. Then, squeezing her tightly to him and grinning wickedly, he says, "Okay. But you asked for it."

They skim the clouds for a few seconds, close enough for Betsy to dip a hand in the icy vapor. As he plans his next aerial maneuver and judges the wind speed, he hears through their rapport how she had hoped that the clouds would feel like spun sugar and taste like marshmallows. He smiles to himself as he beats his wings in an upward motion, happy that they can still laugh at the little but fantastical things, about how clouds feel to the touch or how beautiful the sun's rays are as they glint off the clouds from this altitude.

Finally approaching the pinnacle of his ascent, Warren beats his wings one last time and then holds them still at his sides as Betsy clings to him tightly and they both drop like a large stone. Just as they are about to plummet though the clouds, he extends his wings and glides higher in the sky only to drop again into a series of loops and corkscrew turns.

Warren draws a deep, almost icy breath before he breaks through the thin cloud cover and brings himself and Betsy once more into the bustling metropolis of New York City. He beats his wings slowly to cut his wind sheer and slow them down gradually. Taking advantage of the remainder of his speed, he treats Betsy to a few more loops before hovering over the twin towers of the World Trade Center. He then touches down on the large side-fenced roof and Betsy explodes from his arms, shrieking in delight and spinning with open arms in dizzy circles.

Breathless, she turns to him with wide eyes as she declares, "That was fantastic! It was the most amazing... oh, just... Wow!"

He stands back, grinning to himself as he watches her gesticulate wildly, babbling about how gorgeous the clouds were, how crisp the air was, how beautiful the sky was in its stark blueness. He finally speaks after she runs out of breath. "It's been too long since I took you flying."

Smiling at him over her shoulder, she says, "Yes. It has."

As he walks to her and drapes his arms around her as she surveys the city far below, he tells her, "You know, you're one of the few people I've been flying with who isn't completely mortified by the experience. And most of those brave souls had powers that would save them from a high drop if need be. But not you... and you still manage to enjoy it almost as much as I do."

Betsy grabs his hand and pulls it close to her face. "Maybe it's because I've been able to fly before, when I was Captain Britain all those years ago. Maybe it's because I've missed soaring among the clouds so." She kisses his hand, then squeezes it and says, "Or maybe it's because I trust you more than I've ever trusted anyone."

Even though her face is turned away from his own, he can feel her smile through their rapport, her joy as warm and radiant as the sun as she says, "I feel completely safe in your arms. It's like I'm finally... home."

He feels her words catch in her throat as her happiness mixes with sorrow. A torrent of images and emotions swirl through his thoughts like flood waters and all he can think to do is hold her close. Turning her in his arms, he kisses her blindly, enveloped in a mad haze of longing and desperation. His breath mingles with hers, warm and real, and he knows that if this were his last breath in the world, he would gladly give to her, happily pass to the next life with her name on his lips.

After a while, she moves her face away from his and lets her head fall to his chest. He closes his eyes and draws a deep sigh, letting his emotions fall back into place as he steadies his breathing. He looks to the sky for a brief moment, its simple blue backdrop dotted with thin clouds, and he wonders why life can't be as simple as the sky... pure, wide and open. But then he remembers how nature is a cruel mistress, how hurricanes and storms often fill the same sky. The earth's atmosphere is a reflection of the children it nourishes. Life is not always a clear spring afternoon. But for once, just this once, he wishes it did not rain so much in his.

He turns his attention back to Betsy, trailing a hand across her face... that beautiful face, the one he knows he can never forget, and she stirs in his arms as she says quietly, "Warren, I'm scared."

"I know. I am too," he whispers and then swallows hard before he continues. "But I'll be there with you. We'll get through this. Together."

Betsy looks up at him, her eyes suddenly distant as he feels the connection between them thin into a tiny rivulet. Backing away from his embrace, she holds her arms tightly around herself as she says, "I had a vision."

Arms hanging by his sides, Warren stares at the rooftop as a lump forms in his throat. Each step she takes away from him steals a little bit of his soul. As he looks at her, even though she is not five yards away, it feels like miles. "I know. I felt part of it... it was very disjointed. I couldn't make anything out."

She turns away from him to face the city as she says, "It was a flash of what's left of my pre-cognition. It's been years since I felt anything like that. I'm sure it became completely jumbled through the rapport."

He nods. "Probably."

He watches her drop her hands to her side, then clench and unclench her fists. A long while passes before she finally speaks. "You were there, Warren. You were so miserable and angry. I... I don't want you to be like that. I love you too much to let you become like that."

Furrowing his brow, he walks toward her in a few long strides as he asks, unable to read her emotions, "What are you trying to say?"

As he stands in front of her, he sees her take a deep breath as she collects her thoughts. "I'm saying that I don't want you to be there with me tonight."

He can't believe her words, that she would shut him out at a time like this. Can't she see how much he needs to be near her, how his whole universe depends on the outcome of this evening? For a moment, he feels as if he is choking, as if all the words and thoughts over the last few days have collected in his throat and are suffocating him slowly. As he looks at her, shock and sadness apparent on his face, he stammers, "Wh... Why?"

Her eyes are sad and suddenly very, very old. "Because I can't let you become that man, Warren. No matter what happens, I can't do that to you."

"No." He can scarcely believe the word as it leaves his mouth.

"What?"

He grabs her hands in his own and says once again, "No. I will be there with you. Nothing could keep me away and you know it. So just stop being so stubborn. I'm me, after all. I am more stubborn and you know it."

"But..."

"No. You're acting like this because of me, aren't you?"

They look at each other for a few seconds, will pitted against will before Betsy finally says, "Yes."

He sighs and holds her close, letting go all the tension that has built up inside in the span of only a few seconds. "Betsy, I love you. I'll do what you want me to do. But don't do this alone because you're scared it will hurt me. It would hurt me more not to be there for you when you need me the most."

Wrapping her arms around the small of his back, Betsy concedes, "You're right. I... I shouldn't shut you out. That will only make things worse."

Pressing his forehead against hers, he asks quietly, "So do you want me there? For you?"

As the words escape her lips, he feels their rapport becoming stronger and her feelings become more and more visible to him. "Yes. If you'll make me one promise."

He sees himself though her mind's eye: angry, dejected and raging at the world. The image frightens her deeply and he realizes how important this conversation is to her. He has to reassure her that no matter what happens, if she is lost to the shadows and from him forever, that he will survive. "Of course. Anything."

"Promise that no matter what happens, you'll move on. You won't let this destroy you."

Squeezing her hands in his own, he smiles as he says solemnly, "I promise. No matter what."

She looks at him and mouths the words, "Thank you," before she kisses him, her lips tender and soft against his. They hold each other close as they watch the sun set over New York City and they share the unspoken thought, 'Let this not be the last.'

On that rooftop, the highest tower in a city filled with buildings that reach toward the heavens, they do not speak another word. And as the last orange tendril of sunlight disappears over the horizon, Warren takes flight with his love in his arms. It is time to go home, time to spend a few more quiet moments alone before their teammates arrive and they finally face their fate. Together.

Night descends upon New York City and in a realm invisible and unknown to the average mortal, the proctor of the Crimson Dawn's Ebon Vein smiles. It is always dark here, the landscape perpetually bathed in shadows and a dim, unfulfilled half-light. The sky, if it can be called that, is the color of a sickly wound against the gnarled rocks and out-croppings that populate the dimension. Atop it all rests the temple, or fortress of the proctor, a colorless monument to the legions of souls who have passed into this realm. And even though the Crimson Dawn is as bleak as it is joyless, Tar cannot help but be amused at the current turn of events.

A low laugh escapes his chest as he gives into his mirth and his neon minions gather at his feet. Behind him he can feel his undercloaks, waiting in the shadows, ever ready to emerge on his command, ever willing to fulfill his every whim. Their cold, blind devotion sings out to him like a somber dirge, their remaining life-force sustaining both him and the Crimson Dawn itself. Soon he will have the power he needs make his presence known by the outside world, finally, the Dawn will hone its great potential. The world will know magic once more. The world will know fear.

He grins as he surveys his throne room, the very heart of the temple's structure. The pulse of the vein beats a sickly glow from the cracks in the floor. The Vein flows through every room of the fortress, as if it were the circulatory system of a living, breathing being. In the center lies the throne room and the coronary-shaped vessel of the Ebon Vein, the material incarnation of the Dawn's power.

Ascending the stairs to his throne, he releases a contented sigh as his minions skitter close to him. Stroking the tempered, glass spine of one of his pets as it sits on his lap, Tar says almost mirthfully, "Can you believe it? Gomurr himself came here to entreat me for her life. Yes it is a good day, my dear."

He frowns as he shares a one-sided conversation with the voiceless creature. "No. He never did respect me... that little twit. I don't know what he is talking about. Abuse of power? Out stepping my bounds?"

Tar growls under his breath as he places the magical beast on the floor and lets it scurry into a crack in between the stone tiles. "He cannot even fathom what it is like down here! The days of tedium and utter boredom! If he were here, he would know and he would not question my methods. These souls are mine for the taking. Mine! That is how I will achieve balance in this world, not by sitting here and waiting for things to fall apart. Such behavior is for fools."

Many millennia ago, the realm of the Crimson Dawn was built as a physical realization of the meta-physical core to all human beings. The magical beings which have inhabited it since know only that it was constructed as a sacred realm to provide balance and stability to the passions raging within the world. The hidden dimension is a dark mirror of the world most humans inhabit and the whole of human emotions and urges are tempered and contained within its shadowy boundaries. Fire burns cold as ice, winds leave the land hot and dry. It is a prison of contradiction and even the proctor must serve a life sentence, appointed by the proctor before him. And so it has been for longer than Tar can remember. The Dawn just is. The Dawn will always, must always be. This is the one true thing he knows in this life. He's just never thought to ask why.

An undercloak slithers from his place in the shadowy corners of the room and mutely kneels before his master. Tar groans and rolls his eyes. "And you! I cannot even have a decent conversation with the one of you! You haven't even thoughts of your own!"

He stands as he surveys his subject, collecting his thoughts and calming his dark gray features. "Yes, loyal one. It is close to time. Go and observe the Braddock woman. You will be my eyes."

Watching the undercloak bow his head to the floor and then slip into the dark shadow-realm that separates the Dawn from the rest of the world, Tar takes a deep, tired breath and collects his thoughts. He has never owned the soul of a super-human before. Over the last few months, he has convinced himself that Psylocke can change the stagnant state of the Dawn, that adding her power to his legions will somehow change the nature of the Dawn itself. He walks to the heart of the Ebon Vein and reaches out to touch the pulsing magic contained within. He becomes one with the Dawn and for a brief moment wonders if he is doing the right thing... if change can really be more important than ceremony and ritual, if the Dawn is really dying as Gomurr fears. As the image of Betsy Braddock surfaces on the scrying pool beneath the heart, Tar hopes this woman can heal the wounds of his dying realm and he licks his ancient, cracked lips in anticipation, looking forward to adding her power to his own.

[next part]

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