Undercloak: Part Twenty Two

by queenB

"We're here again with the beloved.
This air, a shout. These meadowsounds,
An astonishing myth."

"Meadowsounds" by Rumi, as translated by Coleman Barks

Ororo Monroe flies high in the quickly darkening sky. As the last tendrils of light left by the departing sun dwindle on the horizon, she bends a rush of warm air to her will and it envelops her in a gusty embrace, its winds providing solace and reassurance where none existed before, showing Storm the beauty of nature and the harsh reality of existence. She takes a deep, pure breath and thinks how the sky has always been a comfort to her, so free and open with barely a constraint to burden her soul. The only worries she carries into the sky are the ones she takes with her. Tonight her worries have a name and even a face. Elizabeth Braddock, Psylocke.

As she adjusts the air temperature around her and starts a gentle descent back to the ground, Ororo shakes her head. How much her teammate, her friend has changed physically and mentally. As many faces as Storm has seen of Psylocke over the years, the one she saw yesterday has frightened her the most. Jean did her best to reassure her that behind the red tattoo and the shadow- manipulating powers is still the same Betsy. She is still the iron rose they all know and rely on, still noble of soul and intent. And while she trusts Jean's opinion, she can't help but worry and hope the goddess is with her tonight in her time of need, that she stays true to herself and to her heart, conquering the demons within and without.

Dew is beginning to form on the lawn of the Xavier Institute and crickets chirp a monotonous, yet soothing mantra as Ororo walks barefoot toward the inviting lights of the mansion. Only a small portion was left habitable in Onslaught's wake, but no matter what the condition, this grand old house will always be home to her. As her feet fall lightly on the path near the back veranda, Ororo hears, "A little time in the sky cure what ails ya?"

Ororo squints from the glare of one of the mansion's many floodlights as she retrieves her sandals from the patio. "A sunset from any elevation is a beauty to behold, Rogue."

Rogue steps out of the shadows and nods as she appraises her teammate with cool, green eyes. Slipping on her sandals and catching her concerned visage, Ororo releases a quiet sigh and says, "A little, yes."

Standing next to Rogue, Storm folds her arms over her chest and looks out over the wide, dark lawn. If it were still light she would be able to catch a glimpse of Breakstone Lake and the boathouse. Instead, all that is visible is the grass illuminated by the artificial lights and a thick encroaching darkness. Ororo looks up at the horizon as Rogue says as if she had read her thoughts, "Sure is dark out tonight."

Ororo nods. "Yes, the moon is hidden from our view. It is a new moon. The beginning of its cycle... or the end, depending on how one looks at it."

Beside her, Rogue smiles. "Well, I tend to be one of those glass half-full types myself."

"The moon has no care for pessimism or optimism, Rogue."

"Nah. But we do." After a long pause, Storm feels a gloved hand on her shoulder as Rogue says quietly and reassuringly, "She's gonna be alright, Storm."

Ororo opens her mouth to speak, but no words come. Turning her head to look at her friend, she notices how much she has aged since she came to know her, how old they must have all become inside since they became X-Men. "She's Betsy," says Rogue. "No matter what life throws at her, she always lands on her feet. She's an X-Man, 'Ro."

Looking back up at the dark sky, lit only by the small pinpoints of stars, Ororo takes a deep breath and says quietly, "That she is. That we all are. That in some way, we shall forever remain."

Betsy breathes a deep sigh as she wraps her arms around the torso of her lover and rests her head on his chest. He smells like a man, she thinks... juniper, perspiration and musk. She wouldn't trade this moment for all of eternity as her head rises and falls with each breath he takes and their rapport tingles with warmth and contentment. At this moment, the world seems bathed in a soft glow and her shared thoughts with the man she loves are as light as a butterfly. A smile escapes her lips as his hand gently brushes the side of her face and trails through her hair.

"What are you thinking, love?" he asks.

She giggles and cranes her neck to meet his wondering glance. "What a silly question, Warren. You know exactly what I'm thinking."

He smirks lazily as he whispers, "That I do."

Running a finger casually across his outstretched wing, Betsy grins as he smiles in appreciation of her attentions and she whispers in return, "Then why did you ask?"

Warren closes his eyes as he pulls her tightly against him and he breathes, "Because I like asking."

Relaxing in his embrace, Betsy sighs, "Oh." After a few moments of silence, she asks quietly, "Why are we whispering?"

Warren's lips curl into a contented smile as he says, "I don't know. Maybe we're trying to keep from spoiling the moment."

A hearty laugh forms in Betsy's throat as she turns in his embrace and grasps his hands in her own. "Nothing you could say or do could ruin this moment."

As a chuckling wave of amusement and half-hatched scenarios spill across the bridge between their minds, Warren raises an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm sure I could think of a few."

Betsy glares at him, though an expression of glee is apparent on her face. "Don't even think it."

"I wouldn't dare."

"Of course you wouldn't."

Warren flashes her a boyish grin and her heart pounds in her chest. She never imagined that through all the torments they've endured and all the recent crises he could still make her feel as giddy as a schoolgirl. He's always had such a hold over her, a way of making her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. He is her winter rose, her solace, her everything. Her light- headedness spreads through their psychic link, glowing rosy pink and purple. If bliss were a color, it would be this precise shade. And for a moment, she loses herself in her love and her desire and all she cares to know is the touch of the man who shares her soul.

Then, she feels Warren stir underneath her and she is jarred back into the world by the chiming of the doorbell. It's too soon she thinks, it can't be time already. Just one more moment, just one more breath. She looks down at Warren and then presses her lips against his, trying her best to capture an eternity with her kiss, package their love into one solitary, unyielding memory. As her lips linger and the door chimes again, she knows that she must tear herself away and face her fate once and for all. If only time were not such a harsh master.

"That's them."

Betsy reluctantly stands and rearranges her disheveled garments. "I know."

Warren looks up at her with eyes as blue as a mountain spring and as pleading as a hungry kitten. "I love you so much it hurts inside."

She freezes for a moment and turns to look at him, the longing and passion she feels through their rapport shockingly apparent on his face. "Don't say that."

He closes his eyes and drops his head, allowing a shock of blond hair to fall across his face. "But it's true."

Reaching out to squeeze his hand, she opens her mouth to speak but instead says nothing. She knows he will be strong in the coming trial. He knows that no matter what, he will be what she needs him to be, even if it breaks his heart. And for that she loves him more than she can ever say.

The bell rings once more and she says, "I had better get that before Logan breaks down the door."

As she turns to go, Warren grips her by the wrist and pulls her once more to him, kissing her passionately, almost fiercely. Just as she begins to feel she could drown in the moment, he ends the kiss almost as suddenly as he initiated it and lets go of her hand. Nodding to her, he motions for her leave the room and as she reluctantly departs, she can feel his eyes on her, his heart screaming at him to never let her go, to never beat again without remembering her touch. But he does let her go and as she turns her back on him as she descends the stairs to the main living area, she can feel his pulse pound in her ears through their rapport. She shakes the feeling, pulls herself together and swings open the front door of their apartment.

"Took ya long enough."

Betsy smirks, genuine amusement completely absent from her features. "It's good to see you as well, Logan."

As Logan brushes past her and into the living area, Betsy catches sight of Jean and Scott in the hallway. Scott's expression is as unreadable as ever, though Psylocke suspects that he feels rather uncomfortable at the moment. She then looks to Jean who rests a hand lightly on Betsy's shoulder and asks, "How are you holding up?"

Squeezing her friend's hand and managing to produce a tiny smile, Betsy says, "Much better."

Jean and Scott join Logan in the den and the three stand awkwardly, not sure if they should sit down and make themselves comfortable or get right to business. Finally, Scott breaks the silence. "Where's Warren?"

Betsy probes Warren's thoughts and finds him struggling with his wings and a suit of unstable molecules, uneasily assuming his battle-ready persona and trying to convince himself this is just another mission. She answers simply, "He's upstairs suiting up."

After another long silence, Betsy looks at her three teammates who are looking at her expectantly. Then she remembers this is her show, her time in the limelight. Not Scott's or Logan's or even Jean's. Tonight, for once, she is calling the shots. "There's a guest room down the hall and a washroom if you want to change and freshen up."

Jean thanks Betsy and disappears into the guest room as Logan sits on the large leather sofa as he removes his worn cowboy boots and Scott stands silently by the mantle. Betsy watches him as he examines the pictures and trinkets over the fireplace: a set of antique candlesticks, a wood-framed clock and several picture frames. He picks up a small picture of Betsy's family from her youth and asks somewhat timidly, "Is this your family?"

Betsy walks to stand by him and looks over his shoulder. "Yes. It is. There's mother, father, Jamie and Brian and myself."

He sets it back down on the shelf, though he continues to examine it. "You look very happy."

"We were. For a time."

Scott smirks. "Funny, Brian doesn't look so intimidating at this age."

Betsy smiles. "No. I guess he doesn't. Then again, I've never been intimidated by him."

"I guess you wouldn't have been." After a long pause, Scott continues, "He sounds like a fine man. Kitty and Kurt speak so highly of him."

Breathing a deep sigh and remembering the time spent with her brother the night before, she says, "He is a wonderful person. I'm pleased to be related to him."

He finally dares to look in Betsy's direction and she looks straight into the unreadable visage of his red-lensed visor. She's always wondered what his eyes looked like, whether they were as stern and focused as his practiced persona. As she turns her attentions away from the puzzle that is Scott Summers, she continues, "He is after all the only family I have left alive and sane."

Smiling a sincere but awkward smile, he says, "Except for the X- Men."

"Yes. Except for them."

Behind her he hears Logan stir on the couch and a door shut upstairs and she says quickly but earnestly, hoping to crack a little of the stoic Cyclops's shell before their mission, "Count yourself lucky, Cyclops. You've had a second chance to know your family. Don't waste what's right in front of you."

Before he has a chance to respond, she departs the room in order to change into more battle-ready clothing and she hears Scott ask Logan as she takes to the stairs, "What was that?"

"Just Betsy tryin' to be helpful. She's not much on tact, but always seems to carry a whole heap of truth."

As she reaches the top of the stairs, she can't help but smile to herself and take Logan's words as a compliment.

Upstairs, Warren stares at his reflection in the mirror, practicing a placid smile and attempting to calm the fire raging in the pit of his stomach. He didn't think it would be this hard. After all the years of battle nerves and Danger Room sessions, he never though preparing for one mission could make him so frightened. But that's exactly what he is this evening. He is utterly terrified.

He has no idea what to expect, the power or nature of their foe, and what's worse is the fact that he is attending as a mere observer. Betsy explained his role to him well. He must only watch and be their for moral support, unless she seeks his aid, unless the proctor decides to break the rules... rules neither of them are quite sure of. Damn this Gomurr and his half-truths, damn Tar and his blasted society of dark secrets, he thinks. Damn himself for ever getting her involved in this to begin with!

He shakes off his anger and glares piercingly at himself in the mirror. Though by all outward appearances he seems a serene and even divine Angel, he feels as pure and heavenly as the polluted sky above New York City. As his frustration threatens to consume him, he resists the urge to smash the glass and break the lies he sees in front of him. For all his bluster and facade, he knows he is nothing more than a spoiled child afraid of losing his favorite plaything. But Betsy is no toy, he reminds himself. She is more than he thinks he can ever say. She is his salvation and he's not sure if he can go on alone if he loses her. Alone, he sighs. Something he had always been until he met her. What would he be without her?

Behind him, he hears the door creak open and then he sees her standing behind him in the mirror. Her face is as placid and serene as he would expect, her thoughts poised and composed. But her eyes? He eyes give her fear away. She is just as afraid as he.

As she places a hand on each of his shoulders and gazes at both their faces in the glass, framed by the white plumage of his wings, she says, "You know what you would be, Warren. You would be you. You will always be you."

"But who am I, Betts?"

"You are Warren Worthington, the most beautiful man I know." Betsy places a hand on his chest, right over his heart. "Inside. And out."

He smiles and thanks her as he puts his hand over hers and watches her intently in the mirror. She rests her head on his shoulder and smiles. "Don't blame yourself for my fate, Warren. I understand why you did what you did. I wouldn't have been able to let you go either. But know this now. The fate I make tonight is my own. It is mine and mine alone to endure. I love you too much to ruin you."

Closing his eyes, he nods his head in response as she continues. "I want you to promise me something."

"Anything for you, Betts. Anything."

He feels her breath warm on his neck and her grip tight on his hand, "Promise me that no matter what happens, you won't do anything foolish."

Intertwining his fingers through hers, he breathes slowly, trying his best to swallow his fear and be brave for her. He can't bring himself to answer her, his own voice drowning in his throat. He feels her anxiety breaking through her calm veneer, and she says quickly, "Promise me, Warren. Promise!"

He opens his eyes and looks deep into the reflection of her face in the mirror. There isn't anything he wouldn't do for her. "I promise."

"Good."

He watches her walk away from him and begin pulling garments out from drawers, preparing herself once again for what is waiting. Turning away from the mirror, he watches her for a few moments in silence, admiring her fortitude and graceful beauty. She is definitely one of a kind, he thinks. He is the luckiest man on earth.

His thoughts broadcast across their rapport and Betsy looks up at him with a smile as she jokes, "And don't you ever forget it, Mr. Worthington."

Returning her smile, he says, "You know I never will."

As Betsy goes back to rummaging, he asks, "Are they downstairs?"

"Sure are."

He walks to her and gives her a kiss on the cheek as he says quietly, "See you down there."

As he departs the room, he feels her presence warm and beautiful in his thoughts as she fills his mind with a sense of serenity and optimism, pressing radiance and light into every portion of his consciousness. After her welcome telepathic embrace, he feels as if he could face anything that the Crimson Dawn might throw at them, as if he could take on a legion of Undercloaks himself and win. He breathes a deep sigh and descends the stairs, wondering how he would ever manage this evening without her strength.

[next part]

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