Undercloak: Part Twenty Five

by queenB

"When the sun goes down, it writes
a secret name in its own blood for remembrance,
the excess of light
an ardor slow to cool:
and man has time to seek shelter."

Denise Levertov, "Man Alone"

Psylocke narrows her eyes as she looks up to Tar, the temptation of the Crimson Dawn penetrating all of her senses, making her blood run cold. As the whole of her being resists the power the Dawn offers her, a lump forms in her throat and Tar's words echo in her ears. 'As many as it takes.'

As many as it takes?

She reaches out with her astral-self, furtively searching out the dim souls of the undercloaks lurking in the shadows. As her mind darts between the hazy, half-thoughts of the shadow creatures, she feels decay spreading through each one of their souls like a cancer. All their individuality has been erased but not forgotten. They are like blinded persons who have lost their vision in a tragic accident but always remember the last horrific sight witnessed before the darkness. If Betsy were not otherwise distracted, she might actually feel pity for them... their fear, their anguish, their loss. Instead she only thinks, 'But there are hundreds of them!'

As she turns her attention away from the shadows, she studies the proctor's stone-like features and wonders if he has a heart beating inside, if he is mortal, if he can be persuaded by her telepathy. She reaches out toward his mind, her powers flaring strongly and swiftly, attempting to make contact with his subconscious thoughts. As she touches his outermost thoughts, her head pounds as if she has just run headlong into a brick wall. Psionic feedback building in the tentative mind-link, she breaks contact with a quiet whimper as she falls to her knees, her head feeling as if it could burst. Next to her, she senses Warren rushing to her side as Tar chuckles, "Silly, silly girl. Your powers have no effect on me. I have no heart to twist, no soul but what you see around me."

He stands and spreads his large arms, "I am the Crimson Dawn, Psylocke. She is a benevolent mistress and took what was left of my soul long ago."

Before she can say a word of retort as she gets to her feet, the massive doors of the inner chamber burst open. As she turns her head to view the commotion, she hears Gomurr the Ancient shout, "Tar!! You gray-skinned, knobby-kneed baboon! You will pay for what you've done!"

Tar stands slowly from his throne, pursing his lips and rolling his eyes once before he says dryly, "And what have I done, Gomurr? Defended my realm from intruders? Yes. I am so incredibly evil."

Gomurr storms toward the throne not unlike a child throwing a temper tantrum, his short, hurried strides tossing his green robe into disarray as his face flushes red. As Betsy observes their argument coolly, she feels the presence of her friends behind her as a group of Tar's undercloaks keep them removed from her direct presence, serving as a living fence, preventing them from getting close to their master or her and Warren. She can feel their eyes on her, shocked as Warren was of the change in her features. With a brief telepathic message sent to Jean and an even briefer nod to Wolverine, she reassures them that she is okay, that her appearance is just a side effect of being so close to the heart of the Crimson Dawn.

She sighs impatiently as she turns her attentions once again to Tar and Gomurr as they bicker, completely immersed in their verbal tug of war. Neither wants to appear weak to the other and both are scrapping over bits of power in a hidden world of mystery. It is an argument Betsy doesn't care to understand, an argument that is quickly wearing on her already thin nerves. One thing she is sure of is that it is hardly fitting. She sighs tiredly as she shouts, her voice thick and dark in this realm, "Gomurr! Please. Aren't there more appropriate things to attend to at the moment?"

Cutting off his deteriorating debate with Tar, he looks over his shoulder at Betsy while he seethes, "Appropriate? Appropriate? This tyrant dropped me in the middle of the shadows and left a dozen of his undercloaks to tear me apart. Doesn't that strike you as a little inappropriate? Hmm?" He then grins slightly, his humor returning with his pride, "Not that they were a match for me."

Turning his gaze back to Tar, he says coldly, "And I was to be a guest, Tar. Hospitality my foot. Know this now. I will not be slighted so easily. You will play fair from now on."

As Gomurr steps down from the elevated throne and walks toward Betsy, Tar sits back down as he says, "I always play fair, Gomurr. Yes, whatever 'fair' is in the god-forsaken realm." He then points a large, dark finger at Phoenix, Cyclops and Wolverine. "Besides, you are the one who brought these... these miscreants into my realm."

As Wolverine growls from behind a wall of undercloaks, Gomurr narrows his eyes at Tar. "Then I will send them away if it offends you so."

A large smile spreads across the proctor's face. "No. Let them remain. I have always taken a certain pleasure in observing the misery of others."

Next to her, Betsy hears Warren snap, lurching forward once again at the proctor as he says, "You sick, twisted bastard!"

Gomurr easily restrains him in a magical force field, suspending him from the floor as he struggles and Tar seethes at him with unfeeling eyes as his neon pets gather by his feet. "So we've resorted to name calling? Feh. The last resort of the weak. Gomurr, do not make me feed this one to my minions."

As Gomurr releases Warren, Betsy kneels at his side, frantically holding his hands in her own as she whispers to him, "Please, Warren. This is my fight."

Anger fading from his features, Warren reaches out to touch her face, his hand very warm on her clammy skin. She whispers one more time as she hangs her head, the memories of her precognitive vision heavy on her mind, "Please."

He nods once and gets to his feet, steeling himself for the encounter that waits her. She takes a deep breath and stands as she glares at the proctor, swallowing her anger and saving it for her fight. "Let's get this over with, Tar. No more games. Let's finish this."

A smile of satisfaction appears on his face as he snaps his fingers, summoning his undercloaks from the shadows. "Yes. Let's. All this pretense is wearing heavily on my nerves."

As a circle of undercloaks forms around her, Warren looks to her frantically, his eyes wild with fear and dread. She reaches over and squeezes his hand as she whispers, "I love you. Be strong. For me... for both of us."

He closes his eyes and nods quietly as Gomurr floats nearby. "I cannot interfere in the combat, child. But I will tell you this... do not fall to the temptation to join them, do not underestimate their power. Individually, they are weak but together they are strong. Remember that. And do not let Tar's threats scare you. I have faith in you. I wish you strength, focus and good joss."

Betsy nods as she stares hard into Warren's eyes, "Thank you, Gomurr. I will not forget your kindness."

She watches as Gomurr leads Warren to the edge of the room, beyond the encroaching circle of shadows. As her heart pounds in her ears and her breath grows short, she tries to swallow her fears and concentrate all her thoughts on strategy and execution. She's not sure if she could defeat this many human attackers, much less darkling undercloaks. She looks over her shoulder to Jean and the others. Wolverine's eyes are wild with fury as if he can barely contain himself in his own skin. She knows this must be eating him alive, watching her prepare for a battle he thinks he placed her in, but she can't think of that now. "No regrets," she says to herself. "No regrets."

She then feels Jean's thoughts inside her own, giving her confidence and strength. *Trust in yourself, Betsy. Trust your feelings, your instincts. They are your most powerful weapon.*

Taking a deep breath, she looks into the face of a solitary undercloak as it approaches her, attacking with barely a thought or hesitation. From it, she only reads a blind devotion to its master. She deflects its blows easily and propels it from her with a volley of kicks and punches. Letting a fist glow brightly with the power of her psychic knife, she drives her katana through its skull and the shadow-specter hisses on the floor as it disappears into nothingness.

From behind her, she hears Tar's voice boom as he laughs heartily, "One down, more than one hundred to go."

This one was easy. Gomurr was right. Alone, they are weaker than an average human soldier. But she knows this one was just testing her strength, allowing the whole of them to study her techniques and gain a sense of her power. It is going to get more difficult, much more difficult.

As she takes a few more calming breaths, steadying her thoughts and focusing her strength, she positions herself defensively as two more undercloaks approach her. Dodging their cold claws, Betsy uses all of her training to fight them both with a series of leg sweeps and well-timed punches. She strikes at the arm of one of the undercloaks with her katana, slicing off its thin, clawed appendage just above the elbow, but the creature ignores the wound and stares through her with red, devilish eyes as it lunges for her again. Before she can prepare for its attack, a trio of undercloaks ambush her from behind, knocking the sword out of her hand. As it flies across the stone surface of the floor, too far away for her to retrieve it again, she curses silently to herself. Psychic knives extending from both hands, she does her best to forget the lost weapon and concentrate on the battle at hand. As she shuts down their attack, another solitary attacker assaults her from the front, taking her off guard and slicing at her with jagged claws. As it makes contact with her bare arm, its talons wound and then cauterize her flesh with an icy fire and she cries out in surprise and pain.

Sensing a break in the circle of undercloaks, she turns her head to see the blue and white blur of Warren's uniform as he rushes toward her position in reaction to her cry, the flapping of his wings keeping him a few inches above the battle. She panics as a cadre of undercloaks surge toward him and screams as a pair of them grab hold of his ankle and pull him to the floor, "No! Leave him alone!"

As she reaches out to him with her thoughts, a dark ripple-effect forms on the floor and then pulses in an explosion of dark energy below his feet, propelling him away from the circle of hungry undercloaks. For a brief moment, she looks at him in bewilderment as he gets to his feet. Her eyes widen as she realizes it was her actions that pushed him to safety. She looks down at her hands as psionic energy extends from her fingertips, glowing a deep red as her skin becomes shrouded in darkness. Behind her an undercloak launches an attack and she uses her newfound power on it, shoving it to the ground with a muffled thud. 'Such power,' she thinks as she gloats over her foe. Perhaps she can defeat them after all.

As she sends another attacker to the floor with a stream of forcefully directed shadows, she notices how cold she suddenly feels, how the shade of her skin is growing darker and darker. She feels Jean's thoughts in her mind, urging her to pursue caution in the use of her newly discovered power and then looks up to Tar as he sits above the melee, grinning in amusement. It is then she understands that he wants her to use this power, that the more she uses it, the more she becomes his. This is the temptation that Gomurr warned of. Fighting the undercloaks was only one of the battles she must wage.

She narrows her eyes as another wave of attackers fall upon her and she resists the urge to call on the shadows to aid her. She dispatches them after a few minutes, though fatigue starts to gnaw at her, lessening the force of her blows. Her battle is quickly turning into one against herself and her own endurance. If she is to defeat the multitude of attackers still to come, she has to find a weapon besides bare fists and psionic knives. As the last of the group falls to her psychic knife, she represses a smile as she realizes that if they are injured by her psionic blade, then they have minds she can twist as well. It is an eventuality she hadn't thought of, a new tool on her side. Hopefully it is something Tar had overlooked himself.

When the next group descends upon her, she is ready for them and opens up the shadow realm below them, sinking with them into the floor. She eludes them deftly, teleporting quickly between shadows on the throne room floor, hoping to tempt more of the undercloaks into chasing her. With each jump she makes, the Dawn sings louder in her ears, its voice promising pure and cleansing nothingness... an end to the pain, an end to the fighting. For a moment, she thinks how wonderful it would be to stop fighting for once, to finally calm the anger and turbulence inside her soul. But as she feels the last group of undercloaks plunge into the shadows with her, she smiles, knowing the fighter is nothing without the fight and that true happiness only exists in a world where there is pain to compare it to.

Every muscle in his body tenses as Logan peers over the shoulder of a darkly shrouded undercloak. From his vantage point, he can clearly see the floor of the throne room and the battle ensuing within. The environment is alive with the scents of the fight: brimstone, sweat, blood and the acrid yet dank scent of the undercloaks. As he lunges forward in reaction to a blow dealt to Betsy, Jean grabs his arm as she shakes her head at him. He turns to her with a narrow gaze as he once again holds his temper in check and stays behind the line of undercloaks. They all know they could easily fight their way past the mute sentries, but stay removed from the fighting to respect the way of the Dawn as well as Betsy's wishes. If they were to interfere now, who knows what might happen, what it might cost Psylocke. Still, his instincts keep him on edge and barely restrained. Only his guilt and sense of duty prevent him from springing to action.

As he looks up to Tar seated high above the floor, Wolverine growls to himself. He should have torn that gray-skinned bag of wind to bits the first time he met him. Then Betsy wouldn't be in this situation, fighting against a throng of cold, faceless enemies. He swallows hard to keep himself from drowning in 'might haves' and 'should haves'. He knows he is to blame for Betsy's trials, first at the claws of Sabretooth and then at the hands of the Dawn. It's not fair and he knows it, but at the moment he convinces himself that no amount of bellyaching will make it any better. All he can do is watch and wait and stand up for Betsy when she needs him.

He watches her teleport quickly between shadows, obviously learning a great deal from her training session only the day before. At least their time spent yesterday was of some benefit. At least she hasn't entered the battle unprepared. He only hopes the darkening tint of her skin and the new shadow-projecting powers she's utilized are under her control, that they aren't placing her under a magical thrall. As he listens intently to the sounds of the battle, the low hisses of the wounded undercloaks and the fierce battle cries of Psylocke in motion, he casts a quick glance in Warren's direction. His skin has grown pale and ashen as he watches his lover, barely restraining himself from joining the fray once again. Logan can smell fear radiating strongly from him as an unusually quiet Gomurr stands at his side, his regular genial expression faded into one of contemplative concern. If anyone knows how they feel, it is Wolverine. Too many times has he watched helplessly as friends, lovers, fell in battle. Too many times...

He feels Jean's hand once again on his arm as the shadows on the floor coalesce into one giant pool of darkness. It rotates like a funnel, churns like an angry sea, as the entire throng of remaining undercloaks are sucked into its murky depths. Logan briefly looks to Jean, her green eyes reflecting her dismay and confusion as the line of sentries disappear into the darkness before them. Blackness then licks at their feet as they step closer to the room's wall, pressing themselves flat to avoid the ever-encroaching darkness. He turns his head as he prepares to be engulfed once again by the shadow realm of the Crimson Dawn. Next to him, Cyclops wears an expression of both disgust and controlled panic as he grasps his wife's hand and a shadow crawls up his leg. Closing his eyes, Wolverine hopes once he is inside the shadow realm, he can find Betsy, maybe even help her to defeat the throng of dark spirits pursuing her. Maybe then his death won't be in vain. Maybe he can at least take a few of them out as he suffocates in the nauseating blackness. Unsheathing his bone claws, he feels the tight, frozen grip of the shadows around his chest and takes one last breath when... they are gone. The darkness, the shadows, the undercloaks, even Betsy are all gone.

His claws still extended from his hands, Wolverine draws in a deep breath, hunting for Betsy's scent. Besides a lingering hint of jasmine from Warren's garments, not a single trace of her remains in the throne room. Stepping away from the wall, his eyes wide and surveying every inch of the completely intact stone floor, he hears Tar's voice boom loudly from his throne. "Get back here you witch! What do you think you are doing? What do you hope to accomplish?!"

As Tar's neon minions tick quickly around the feet of the proctor and he punts one angrily against the wall, growling as it pops and shatters, Gomurr chuckles brightly, "Looks like this soul has slipped from your clutches, Tar... one way or another."

Yes. One way or another. As the reality of it hits Logan like a ton of bricks, he can't help but shudder.

Inside the black pit of shadows, Betsy narrows her eyes as she slows the beating of her heart. Gomurr's words weigh heavy in her thoughts as she feels the undercloaks swirl around her in confusion, disbelieving her strategy and her sheer stubbornness. The old sorcerer's words come to her lips as she speaks them breathlessly into the nothingness. "Individually, they are weak..."

Reaching out with her telepathy, she lets her astral form loose in the shadows, touching the thoughts of the undercloaks. If she can somehow release them from Tar's hold, make them reclaim their lives again, maybe she can keep them from attacking her, make them switch sides. As she plants the suggestion in one mind and then another, her head pounds, monotonous voices sounding back to her in a cacophony of disjointed, but still unified wails. From their cries, she knows her efforts have failed, that they cannot betray their master even if they wished to, even if they had wishes of their own left to cast.

As she plummets deeper into the self-constructed chasm, she feels their cold grip on her, begging her to join them in their quiet oblivion. She fights off their advances as she drowns in the darkness. Panicking as her skin freezes in the blackness, she opens her mouth to scream as her voice is silenced by the hands of a hundred different terrors. Just as she is about to give up and let the undercloaks tear the last shreds of hope out of her heart, she feels a light glimmering in her mind. A brilliant thread leads the way out of the darkness, shimmering thin but true, pure and bright.

'Warren,' she thinks as she clings tightly to their rapport, to the shining reminder of all that is good about her life, about living. Besides, she had promised Warren victory and she has never been one to break promises. She doesn't intend to start now.

If only she didn't feel so alone.

'Alone. That's it!' thinks Betsy as she garners the last of her strength . 'Individuality makes them weak.'

Reaching out once again with her mind, she targets the entire web of the undercloak's thoughts. In her astral form she can see them all, their droning thoughts, their long-trampled dreams. And it is beautiful, as intricately woven as a spider's web. It would be easy for her to become a fly, so easy just to get trapped. But this is where she is strongest, here she is the spider and the weak undercloaks are the flies. Dressed in astral armor, she reaches out to the web, hacking a large strand free with a psionic katana. As the threads break and tear, she hears them screaming in her thoughts, lost and utterly afraid. The experience won't kill them, but leave them completely devoid of purpose. Once amputated from the whole, the hand serves no purpose on its own.

She shields herself from the ambivalent terror her actions have released into the web and continues to tear her way through their connections, severing as many as she possibly can before she exhausts herself. After a few moments, most of the links between the undercloaks are destroyed and as Betsy surveys the damage and the scared screams of the disjointed spirits, she can't help but feel sorry for them. So much already given willingly away and she had to take the last remaining identity given to them: the invisible but comforting identity of unity, safety in numbers, belonging. If she weren't so exhausted and distraught, she might actually shed tears for them, but instead she concentrates the rest of her energies on returning to the surface world and escaping the darkness that still threatens to consume her.

As she slowly pulls herself from the shadows, the red-lit chamber above seems blinding. Less than a half-hour before she thought it one of the most dreary places she had ever seen, but now it seems as radiant as the light of heaven itself. As she clears the shadows and collapses to her knees, she feels hands she knows can only be Warren's around her, comforting her, holding her close. He braces her silently as she senses Logan and the others nearby, waiting patiently for her to speak, to breathe. As she looks into their faces, she sees exactly how close she came to oblivion, how much they wanted to believe she would win.

Finally Gomurr speaks as he grasps her hand, barely reacting to the coldness of her touch. "How are you, child?"

Betsy smiles and her voice is dimmed by the touch of the Dawn as she says, "I am alive, Gomurr."

Next to her, Warren speaks to the sorcerer, "What happens now? Now that she's won?"

He hangs his head reverently as he says quietly, "Now she must choose."

Looking over to Warren in relief, she sees herself through his eyes. Her skin is as black as ebony and her eyes glow a dim yellow against the blood-red mark of the Crimson Dawn. Her breath catches as she recoils at her own visage and she realizes that if she had been in the shadows only a few minutes more or again used the power of the Dawn, she would have become an undercloak herself. She would have given herself over to Tar without even knowing it.

She grinds her teeth as she seethes to the proctor, "I defeated your undercloaks, Tar. Now give me my prize. Give me my freedom!"

Tar clicks his tongue as he looks down at Psylocke with a sneer. "Defeated?! Prize?! You still understand so little of this realm, child. Reach out with your pitiful little powers and feel how my undercloaks are already licking their wounds, repairing the damage done to the circle that eternally binds them."

Searching the shadows with her telepathy, Betsy feels the web beginning to heal, the undercloaks once again reconstructing the boundaries of their unified consciousness. A small pool of shadows emerges near the foot of the proctor's throne and she stares in revulsion as a skeletal hand reaches for its master, darkness hanging from it like torn flesh. Tar steps from his seat and kneels before the wounded undercloak, whispering soothing words of future revenge and retribution.

As it disappears again into the floor, Tar closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and if Psylocke didn't know better, she would swear that a look of pity crossed his features. Pointing a long finger at her, he seethes, "You cannot so easily break the bonds of this realm, Psylocke. The circle of kinship and servitude is the whole of their existence... an existence only I and the Ebon Vein control. You can only cripple... delay the inevitable. They will hunt you until the end of time. They will pursue you relentlessly until you give yourself to me."

Eyes filled with anger and frustration, she turns to Gomurr as she asks desperately, "Gomurr?! Is this true?"

He nods his head slowly as he says, "Yes. If you do not accept the choice given you. If you do not accept your prize."

Tar laughs as he bellows, "She does not have the stomach to accept her prize, Gomurr! She will never adhere to the conditions."

Next to her, Gomurr's voice raises in intensity as he says, "Tell her the prize. Give her the ultimatum!"

Tar stares at him, unspeaking, unblinking, obviously planning on pursuing Betsy until she is his. Energy surges through Gomurr's limbs as he rises off the floor and bellows, "Tar! You may not respect me, you may think I have no business in the politics of your realm. But there are powers in this world that will destroy you over this, that have always wanted to destroy you. They will hear of this if you do not give her the choice. It is her right! It is her own fate now... not yours!"

Drumming his fingers on the arm of his throne, Tar narrows his green, glowing eyes as he pits his will against Gomurr's. An eternity seems to pass in a matter of seconds before Tar finally throws up his hands and says grudgingly, "Very well then, you insolent worm! I will give her the choice. She shall have her prize."

Betsy sighs, releasing the breath she never knew she was holding as the proctor turns his cold gaze toward her. "Very well, Braddock. Your prize... if you can call it such a thing. By defeating my undercloaks, even if it was only temporarily, your soul once again becomes your own and you regain freedom from the Dawn, if you wish it."

Logan steps forward, his posture relaying every ounce of his mistrust and suspicion. "So yer saying that she can just waltz right on outta here? No more debt?"

Tar strokes his chin and grins at Wolverine and then Psylocke as he concurs, "The ancient laws state that if one completes the challenge without condemning themselves to the ranks of the undercloaks or dying by their hands, they have the choice to be freed from their debt to the order of the Crimson Dawn and live out the remainder of their days free from any gifts they received from the Ebon Vein. Otherwise she can join my undercloaks or spend the rest of her days running from them, only to be taken by them once she passes from this mortal coil."

Furrowing his brow, Warren looks from Betsy to Tar and then back again as he says uneasily, "You mean she walks away, but all the powers she gained from the Dawn are taken from her?"

Tar smiles. "The boy isn't as stupid as he looks! You are correct, pilgrim. Your lover here reverts to the state she was in before you ever exposed her to the Ebon Vein."

Behind her, she hears Jean stir as she whispers, her voice filled with dread, "That can't mean..."

Betsy hangs her head and finishes Jean's thoughts before she can even speak them, "It means my body becomes as it was before Logan and Warren saved me... broken and eviscerated at the hands of Sabretooth. If I accept this gift, my life is as good as over."

[next part]

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