Sorry I took so long, but my brother needed the computer for his final papers and with my poor laptop being out of commission, I couldn't write anything more until last night. This story is really difficult. I've never been all that great with angst and torture and pain. I'm trying my best, though! I've got a plan to make Kurt better, and I must carry it out or else that comic will bother me forever!
There's angst in buckets in this one. I might have to write something fluffy before I can continue.
Chapter Three
Bundled in tattered blankets, all but invisible among the deep shadows of the dusty, crumbling spire of the old cathedral, a man woke from a restless sleep. He sat up, crying out into the darkness—a strangled, anguished sound that tore painfully from his throat. He was trembling, sobbing, the hot tears streaming down his narrow face—but as he slowly rose to full consciousness, the memory of whatever horrors had haunted his dreams faded, leaving only blankness and a cold, lingering fear.
Disoriented and confused, the man stumbled awkwardly to his feet, stepping into his worn, leather boots and walking slowly to the small, open window on the far side of the cramped, cobwebby space. Climbing up onto a pile of dusty, cloth-draped crates, he slipped out the window with practiced ease and caught hold of the edge of the roof, hauling himself up onto the moss-covered slates with his one arm.
The brisk night air helped to revive him as he crouched on the sloped roof, still and silent as a protective gargoyle. His long, spade-tipped tail was wrapped securely around the long pole that supported the large cross which marked this place out as holy ground.
Lowering his head slightly, he noticed his hand was trembling. He clenched his fist tightly, taking in a deep, calming breath as he strove to slow his racing heartbeat. Without thinking, he reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out two long strips of cloth. With the help of his teeth, he quickly and securely bound his fingers into a tridactal shape. For some unfathomable reason, that made him feel safer somehow, more grounded.
Shaking his head in something close to disgust, the man tore his newly bandaged fingers through his short, crimson hair. Ridiculous. That’s what he was. He was letting this place get to him, and such weakness was unacceptable.
He snarled, glaring down at the graffiti covered buildings and torn-up pavement far below. What madness had made him decide to take up residence in the spire of a cathedral anyway? True, it was the best vantage point for viewing the squalid, corrupt swath of crumbling city streets he had chosen to make his home, but by all rights, he shouldn’t even be able to
stand there. Even now, he half expected to see his booted feet burst into flame where they touched the mossy slate roof. He was almost disappointed when it didn’t happen. After all, a church was no place for a demon.
But
was he a demon? That was the question that had been causing him to loose sleep for almost a year, ever since he had traveled back to the ruin on the mountain and seen what appeared to be his own body encased in ice. The ancient, frozen corpse was standing in exactly the right spot, in exactly the same position where he remembered fighting that fateful duel against his best friend so many years ago. Dante had won that fight; severing Belasco’s arm and slicing through the duct above him, releasing the gas that had frozen the demon instantly in place. However, despite his heroic actions, the poet had been unable to save the life of his beloved Beatrice, the woman Belasco had abducted and ultimately murdered as he strove to do the will of the Elder Gods.
The russet-skinned man shuddered deeply at the dark memories—real or implanted, he didn’t know. Hesitantly, he reached up to touch the two sharp horns that protruded from his smooth forehead. The realization that he might in fact be the mutant Kurt Wagner terrified him even more than the idea of being a demon. After all, if he was truly a demon the evil he had worked over the centuries was just a manifestation of his true nature and he had nothing to feel guilt or fear over. However, if he really was Kurt Wagner, how could he possibly begin to atone for his many sins? How could he continue to live with the knowledge of the horrors he had performed, the lives he had ruined, and the lives he had taken?
He sighed deeply and turned his glowing gaze to the twinkling stars. The tempting thought of suicide had been flitting across his tormented mind since long before the nightmares began. It would be so easy to put an end to his pain once and for all. All he had to do was to loosen his grip on the pole. He would roll down the slanted roof, gaining speed as he went, until that wonderfully liberating moment when he suddenly found himself in free fall. He would spread his arm out to its full length, welcoming the chill breeze that whipped his hair back and caused his cloak to billow out behind him as he spun towards the ground.
Then, the impact.
He had to admit, it would be a fitting end for an acrobat who had lost his balance.
He had no idea if the impact would hurt, or if the shock would last long enough for him to leave his malformed, disfigured body without pain or regret. Either way, he knew a swift, easy end like that was far less than he deserved. He deserved to suffer, to hurt. He deserved a long, drawn out, painful death at the hands of those he had so gravely and repeatedly wronged. Unfortunately, he knew all too well that such an end was something the X-Men could never give him.
Surprisingly, the only part of him that kept his tail wrapped securely around the pole, the only part that kept him from pressing his chest against the pointed end of his sword when the nightmares became too much to bear, was the same part that cried out from the depths of his shredded psyche that he was, indeed, Kurt Wagner. This soft, accented voice that rattled around in his head like a ghost he could not see or touch was also the part that demanded he take full responsibility for kidnapping and corrupting little Illyana Rasputin, the sister of the X-Man known as Colossus, and for repeatedly manipulating and torturing the X-Men who had tried so valiantly to come to her rescue. Kurt Wagner, ever the wide-eyed optimist, honestly believed that if he truly accepted his guilt, if he was truly willing to make amends for what he had done, if he was truly penitent, he could seek absolution for his crimes, no matter how sadistic they had been. Only suicide could never be forgiven, and suicide, the ghostly voice argued, was the coward's way out. And if there was one thing Kurt Wagner had never been and would never be, it was a coward.
The russet skinned man sat back on his heels, his darkly swirling thoughts unearthing a shadowy memory of a time when he wouldn't have needed to hold himself in place by his tail. Once, his feet would have stuck to the moldy surface of the roof as easily and securely as a magnet sticks to a refrigerator door. That's how it had been back when there were no boots that could fit his feet and his heels were little more than a third toe. He remembered walking up walls and crawling across ceilings, giving rather less thought to this extraordinary ability than a spider would have done.
He reached out a tentative hand and gingerly touched the roof, waiting for the familiar feeling of attraction to run across his skin, raising his short, velvety fur like static electricity. When it didn't come, he looked down at his red, furless, five-fingered hand with some confusion, not recognizing it for a moment.
"Idiot," he muttered, snatching his fingers from the slate tile and tucking his hand securely into his lap. "You are
not a mutant." Casting his bitter, yellow gaze over the darkened streets he sighed, hanging his head. "I don't know
what you are. Or even
who."
A soft breeze ruffled his crimson hair as an even softer voice responded with confidence and firm self-assurance. "You are Kurt Wagner, the best and most honorable man I know no matter what has been done to you."
The russet-skinned man turned to face the apparition that had addressed him, his golden eyes widening in shock and fear as a lithe, female figure dressed all in white floated over to him on a cloud of sparkling mist. For a long moment, his muddled mind couldn't shake the bizarre impression that she was an angel, sent at last to redeem him of his past sins and welcome him to eternal bliss. As she alighted next to him, surefooted on the slippery moss, a single, reverent word managed to slip past his painfully tightening throat.
"...Beatrice..."
The woman seemed confused, her dark head tilting to one side as she crouched down on the slate tiles before him, brushing her fine, snowy hair from her luminous blue eyes with an elegantly careless flick of her mocha wrist.
"Kurt?" she asked, her deep, soothing voice laced with concern. "Are you all right?"
He couldn't breathe, he couldn't speak. The angel was reaching out to him, actually taking his hideously clawed red fingers in her own warm, perfect hands. Her dark lips were moving, revealing her straight, white teeth. She was speaking, saying something--it was so hard to hear her words above the pounding of his heart...
"How did this happen?" she was asking, referring to the bandages that forcibly kept his hand in a tridactal shape.
He could only stare at her dumbly, uncomprehending.
"Your fingers, Kurt," she elaborated, her eyes openly displaying her worry. "Are you hurt?"
Kurt--no, Belasco--yes,
Belasco--shook his head, forcing himself to take deep, calming breaths to slow his racing pulse. "No, my lady," he answered, his voice soft with reverence. "It's just that there are times when it seems more natural for me to grip things with three fingers than with five. I cannot explain it."
The woman was staring at him, a new look of cautious concern growing in her large eyes.
"Kurt," she said, her words now slow and deliberate as though she were speaking to a child. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Do you recognize me?"
Belasco--or was it Kurt?--rose gracefully to his booted feet, causing her to rise with him as he took her hand in his and lifted it gently to his crimson lips for a brief, courtly kiss. This simple action reminded her so strongly of the light-hearted flirt she had known that her breath caught painfully in her throat. Perhaps he did remember after all…
"You are my soul, my heart, my redeeming angel," he sighed, hardly daring to look into her eyes. "You are my beloved, my lady fair. You are Beatrice."
Ororo could almost hear her hopes crumbling as he spoke those words. Releasing her hand, he fell into low genuflect at her feet, his one arm draped over his raised knee, his glowing eyes lowered humbly to the mossy slate below her feet. "Please, tell me what it is you wish of your humble servant and it will be done."
Confused and frightened and not sure how to deal with this truly bizarre turn of events, Ororo did the only thing that came to mind. She strode forward and grasped the horned man's shoulders, giving him a gentle, though firm, shake.
"Kurt, look at me," she demanded. "Look at me! You are not Belasco and I am certainly not Beatrice.”
She fell to her knees beside him, cupping his narrow chin in her hands as she forced him to look into her eyes.
“My name is Ororo Munroe,” she told him, using all her control to keep her voice from breaking. "We’ve been friends, teammates, for years. Please, Kurt, tell me you remember me? Tell me you’re still in there somewhere.”
For a moment, an instant, really, his golden eyes lit up with a flash of wondrous recognition. His ruddy features softened into a familiar expression of befuddlement, and suddenly, Ororo could see the ghost of her old friend’s handsome face blinking out at her from behind the demonic mask of Belasco’s russet skin.
“…Storm…?”
This stunning transformation lasted barely long enough for Ororo to draw in an astonished breath. Before she even had time to form a coherent thought in response to what she had just seen, the horned man had leapt to his feet, pulling her up roughly by the elbow and holding her at arm’s length. His grip was like a painful vice, and his pupilless yellow eyes burned with such dark emotions that the very sight of them terrified the brave woman straight through to her marrow.
“What do you want here?” he growled through clenched teeth, his sharp, pointed fangs gleaming wickedly in the moonlight. “Why did you come?”
At that moment, Ororo was unsure of the answer herself. She stared at the monster before her, desperately willing herself to overcome the terror that was freezing her body and threatening to overwhelm her thoughts. Calling on her link with the elements, Storm began to gather the stray zaps of electricity that were streaking unnoticed through the air around them.
Belasco snarled in fury as her deep, blue eyes began to whiten. With a vicious shake, he leaned his narrow face in close to hers, his eyes gleaming with deadly intent. “Don’t even consider it, witch,” he spat. “I know all your devious little tricks. I knew this day would come sooner or later. I knew you X-Freaks would try to finish me off once you realized that I have lost my link with Limbo.”
He sneered, the look in his golden eyes causing her to shudder. “I must admit, disguising yourself as Beatrice was a new low I would not have expected even of you,” he said darkly, his tail twitching behind him like a snake. “But now you have revealed yourself, I will make your death all the more unpleasant.”
Ororo glared at him, preparing to twist out of his grip and come back with a flash of lighting so powerful it just might bring him to his senses. However, Belasco anticipated her movements, ensnaring her neck with his long, powerful tail and slowly beginning to squeeze.
“Very well,” he said with a flippant, careless air. “Death by strangulation, so be it. Pity though,” he smirked, fixing her with another malevolent glare. “I was so looking forward to hearing you scream.”
“Kurt!” Ororo gasped, desperately struggling to use what little breath remained her to save her friend from committing a crime she knew he would torture himself over for the rest of his life. “Kurt, I know you’re in there! I know you’re angry! But, Kurt, you must take control now. You cannot let Belasco continue to use you like this!” She choked as Belasco’s grip tightened, watching with detached interest as blurry spots began to swim before her eyes. She squeezed her eyes shut, putting all her remaining strength into forcing her constricting throat to form words. Even so, when she spoke, her voice was a barely audible croak, “No matter what you do to me, I will always love you, Kurt Wagner...my dearest...friend…..”
And the nighttime world slowly faded to black.
*******
Belasco looked down at the unconscious woman at his feet, the cold satisfaction he had felt twisting and curdling in his gut until he had to turn away, his glowing eyes burning with horrified shame at what he had just done.
“You fool,” he hissed, grinding his teeth, his sharp nails digging painfully into the flesh of his palm. “She came. After all this time, after all the waiting, the hoping, the ranting at the silent moon, one of the X-Men finally found the courage to reach out to you. And how do you respond?”
He turned back to face Ororo, his hard expression crumbling as he knelt down beside her.
“Ach, meine Liebling,” he whispered, slowly reaching out with trembling fingers to brush a stray strand of silvery hair from her mocha forehead. “What have I done?”
*******
Ororo slowly rose back to foggy consciousness, only to find she was lying sprawled on a cold, flat, stone floor. Her throat ached so much it was all she could do to emit a weak cough. As she did, she became aware of a presence looming over her, barely visible in the shadow of an arched, stone doorway. She struggled to sit up, to remember how she had gotten inside the cathedral, but a deep voice as chilling as death itself stopped her in mid-motion.
“I don’t want your pity, Ororo,” the shadow said, the faintest hint of an accent clinging like a ghost to his vowels. She could have sworn it hadn’t been there when he was speaking to her on the roof.
Ororo struggled to her feet, opening her mouth to protest. To her shock, nothing came out. Her damaged vocal chords would not allow her to speak. The dark figure before her averted his glowing eyes from the expression on her face.
“Leave this place now,” he said quietly, his voice burning with a bitter anger tinged with shame. “Go back to your friends.”
Ororo made no move to leave, wondering who it was that was speaking to her now. Was it still Belasco, deciding to let her go for some devious reason of his own—perhaps to lure the other X-Men into a trap of some sort after she’d returned home? Or could it possibly be….Kurt?
“I told you to go!” the cloaked figure snarled, stepping forward into the light. Her eyes widened as she saw he was now brandishing a long, gleaming sword in his single, powerful hand. Ororo stiffened in shock.
“GO!” the horned man roared, advancing on her like a monster out of her darkest childhood nightmares. “Go now, or I swear I will run you through in return for all the times you and your precious teammates have taken advantage of me, betrayed me, and abandoned me without a thought for my feelings! You are none of you worth my time or concern.”
“P…please…” Ororo managed to whisper--
“GO!” he screamed in a voice so full of rage and hurt that it broke Ororo’s heart to hear it. But, it was just what was needed to free her from her frozen stupor. As she ran for the heavy, wooden door, the anguished, bitter voice stabbed at her heels, giving her an added burst of speed.
“Go now! And never come back!”
As the thick door slammed behind her, she found she knew beyond all doubt who that voice had belonged to. For the first time since she’d known him, she realized she could never again expect forgiveness from Kurt Wagner.
"Sweet Goddess,” she sobbed painfully, her hoarse voice barely more than a whispered croak. “What have we done to you, my friend? What have we allowed to happen?"
Swiftly, Ororo called up a burst of wind and used it to lift herself into the air, unconsciously summoning a cold, drizzling rain to trail her all the way back to the mansion.
To Be Continued...
:clapBRAVO!!! SEZZY HOT BELASCO WHO IS AT WAR WITH 'IMSELF *faints* I love it, you must write more. Belasco is one of my favorite evil characters and when Kurt is put in the mix it makes for a good show!:D
:respectnc
why for you stop at that part? that's not right! you better finish this up right this instant missy! this is a great story so far!
That was heart breaking. I do hope she does not give up on him. Kurt needs hug, even if he tries to cut my head off.
