Disclaimer: All characters from X-Men, Excalibur, Generation X et al belong to Marvel, though I consider this story mine. Call off your goons -- I'm not making any money off this.

This is my answer to Alara's Elseworld challenge... one of them, anyway. The other one is still percolating at the back of my brain while my other stories take a back seat. <looks meaningfully at Alara> All feedback are very much welcome, but flames will be immediately mauled. I'm still in a bad mood from the Kelly-Seagle debacle -- don't try my temper.

"Bloody 'ell."

The knight was standing in the midst of a quiet forest, with only his horse and the occasional oblivious bird as company. His worn chainmail gleamed dully in the late afternoon sun as he consulting the faded map for the fifty-third time in the six days since he first started on his journey. Squinting at the cramped writing, he thought he could make out the word "Auolon" beside the sketching of a walled city. Unfortunately, he knew that it was not the name of the city. More unfortunately, the place was at the end of a long road still ahead. And even more unfortunately, he was now facing a crossroad intead of a fork as the map insisted.

A sour expression creased his scarred face. It was not nearly as ugly as he thought it was, and had the ladies of the court worked up the nerve they would have told him that he would look almost -- here they would pause -- dashing if he smiled, or laughed, more often. But many of them were frightened of his constant cynicism and bitterness, thus leaving him ignorant and lonely. The few who did tell him, he ignored.

He swore again, this time about the dubious parentage of the mapmaker and how the cheating plonker's skill could be significantly improved with the judicious application of a blunt spear to a certain orifice.

The horse fixed him with a level, knowing look. Against his reticent nature, he felt compelled to answer.

"I'm not lost."

It snorted disapprovingly.

"I'm just temp'rily displaced."

He walked a few steps forward, ignoring the suspiciously laugh-like neighing of his horse. Surveying the roads carefully, he concluded that none of them were often used. He paused, crouching down to study the ground. The left one looked as if a small party, probably two persons, travelled on it recently. Good news but for the fact that the road through the forest was usually used only by thieves and brigands. The knight made his decision, and walked back to his horse.

Pulling back the reins, Sir Jonothon urged his horse into a canter down the left road.

"So you thought you could escape, slave?" A thud reverbated through the forest. "Your kin is all but dead. Who would you run to? The High King?"

Sir Jonothon stopped, and listened.

The speaker laughed, a harsh dry laugh that hinted at a kind of evil usually associated with screams in a moonless night. "Do you think I will let you join them soon? You are the sweetest meal I have ever had, girl... and you will live for a long, long time," he mocked.

The knight sighed and climbed noiselessly off the saddle, resigned to the inevitable. Another damsel in distress. The last time he rescued a woman, she broke his heart and married his best friend. Although it wasn't all that bad compared to the one before her, who tried to murder him, it had left him with even more self-hatred. Yet his code of honour would not let him abandon them to death.

Jonothon shook off the memories, drawing his sword as he moved through the trees towards the source of the sound. His scars tingled slightly, as they always did just before he faced a mage in battle. To put it mildly, it was not a good thing. Mages never made him uneasy, but he disliked using his own magick. Unconsciously, he touched the scars. It was his magick that caused them, and he had no wish to add to the collection.

The captive never even let out a sob, which worried him. Jonothon glided forward, hidden by the bushes and shadows. He was thankful that the mage Frost had taught him to shield his thoughts -- the other things she taught him was best left for another time -- for if his suspicions were correct, mind-reading was the least of the skills of the mage he was about to face.

He peered through a convenient bush to find a chilling tableau. A slow stream ran through the small clearing, brackish with mud and half-rotten leaves. The malevolent figure of a man dressed in a dark blue cloak was standing over it, hands stretched forward. The arcane symbols on the soiled and torn cloth confirmed Jonothon's guess, much to his regret. He caught glimpses of spiky dark hair, but was unable to ascertain the mage's face, let alone that of the captive. Warily, the knight moved closer...

... and inhaled sharply. The "slave" was a slim girl with long red hair, cowering in the soupy water of the stream. Mud covered her from head to toe, save where tears marked a trail from her bright blue eyes down to her cheeks. Like a skittish kitten, she flinched away as the mage reached for her. Impatiently he seized her face, placing his palms against her thin cheeks. Her face clenched, eyes closed tightly. She stiffened, only to shudder as the man's palms began to glow. But even with the pain she was obviously suffering from, she never made so much as a whimper.

Sir Jonothon leapt into the clearing, his sword held at guard. "Step away from 'er," he commanded. Inside, he grimaced and cursed his vows, which forbade him from attacking a person from behind without warning.

The mage turned, revealing a mask painted purple. Black, fathomless eyes stared incredulously at him through the tawdry facade. "Do you know who I am?" he hissed. The girl he was holding had gone horrifyingly slack, and Jonothon prayed that she was not dead.

"I see a mage 'olding a girl 'gainst 'er will," the knight replied evenly. "Where I come from some plonker of a knight usually comes ridin' to th'rescue or somesuch. An' th'mage gets killed. D'you know who I am?" he growled.

Jonothon had the distinct and unpleasant impression that the other man was grinning behind his mask. "Sir Knight, wiser warriors than you have tried and failed to kill Marius the mage. Leave me to my supper, and perhaps you will leave alive," he taunted.

The knight fought the urge to roll his eyes. Referring to oneself in the third person was a sure sign of an insane mind, the Avalon Castle's alchemist had always maintained. After facing more than a score of megalomaniacs, he was only too familiar with the truth of the statement.

"Life's about takin' risks, mate," he answered laconically, and charged.

Marius, surprised, barely had time to throw a hail of fireballs before Jonothon's sword cleaved the air where his head was. Hissing, he let go of the red-haired girl and immediately launched an offensive against the knight. "Fool!" he screamed. "You know not what you face!"

The next wave of fireballs dissipated harmlessly against the blade of Jonothon's sword. His eyes smiled a mocking triumph at the mage's disbelieving expression.

"Yer not th' only mage in th' kingdom, Marius." Deliberately, he saluted with the sword. The blade was immediately aflame, gouts of golden fire dancing energetically on the metal. Jonothon moved into a guard position, watching his opponent's eyes track the enchanted weapon.

"Way I see it, you 'ave two choices: leave th' girl an' run, or I kill you," said the knight casually. He hoped he was speaking the truth.

"What makes you so sure that you'll win, Sir Knight?" Marius snapped, his eyes twin orbs of rage.

"This."

The flames of his blade seemed to roar like a waking dragon, coiling forward and consuming all in their path -- which at the moment consisted solely of Marius. Gritting his teeth, the knight directed all the might of the fey fire towards the mage, who screamed horribly as his mask and cloak began to burn. With a flash of light, he disappeared, leaving behind only smoke and ashes.

"'ope yer burns fester," Jonothon muttered. He had been lucky, for the mage was overconfident and easily rattled. Had Marius known the full scale of the knight's power, the fight would not have been decided as easily. And the next time they faced each other, the bastard would undoubtedly try to salve his damaged pride, as well as getting the gir--

"Shite!"

The girl was nowhere to be seen.