Bones (Part Two)
Written by RatMist.
The mansion was full of decorations for the holidays, and the spare rooms were readied for the loved ones to come and celebrate. Reunite. Rejoice in another year, unconsciously prepare for the next.
Some admittedly only wanted to beat back old, more painful memories. But even the most melancholy eventually found themselves laughing along with everyone else at Bobby’s antics, filling their bellies with the food joyously slaved over by Jean, and surruptitiously stealing kisses underneath the strategically placed mistletoe.
She watched as Remy twirled Rogue in a sweet bit of a dance, his eyes dancing with love and utter contentment. His dark eyes, usually haunted, were soft with joy. Even Rogue had abandoned her usual reserves against touch and was willingly led into his embrace.
Hell, even Betsy took part in the festivities, Marrow observed. She had watched Psylocke, wary of her shadowy ways, and marvelled at how even Betsy eventually enjoyed the holidays. Sneaky witch, Sarah thought, but how sweetly lit in the shelter of Warren’s wings. Beautiful Warren Kenneth Worthington III, who seemed to mock the angel on the tree with his mere presence.
Nevertheless, Sarah sighed. She was incredibly uncomfortable. The holidays had never been a big celebration in the Tunnels. It was hard to celebrate when shivering, starving and so full of resentment towards the Upworld.
It was hard now, too, she realized. There was anger in the realization.
The X-Men had dealt with the Massacre for only a few years. But she self-righteously doubted they felt it as keenly as she did. Anger welled inside her, and she bit back sorrow tightly. She stuffed her sorrow inside, deep down, and turned on her foot to head down to the basement. She could not sit here, and as she saw her Angel’s unusual ease and happiness with his family and friends, she would not ruin the festivities either.
Remy watched Sarah go, and exchanged a glance with Peter Rasputin, and then with Sam Guthrie. Peter shook his head, not a delicate gesture at his bulk, and indicated his worry with only a pained look around his dark eyes.
Sam pursed his lips and then headed after her, keeping his exit as low-key as possible. He didn’t want to have to explain anything to anyone. No one understood her, least of all him, but he was not about to give her away anyway.
Hopefully she won’t gut me, he thought hollowly.
Sarah was sitting on her Blanket in the dark basement, not really thinking of anything. Just sitting. She set her chin on her drawn knees, feeling the shadows wrap around her and comfort her.
Sarah had never been big on self-pity. She had never had that luxury on The Hill. Constant pain, constant rage, constant hate. Those were her companions through the times she couldn’t go on, the times she thought she was ready to die. Times she was willing to beg death for its cold comfort.
Then the wellsprings of hate and rage would taunt her, urge her to fight again. To not only fight, but to mutilate anything that threatened her. Scream with fury and passion and proclaim her dominance over it all, to eat the hearts of her enemies with the shouts of victory.
She didn’t know how to mutilate memories.
So she sat, on her Blanket, felt the coarse linen bury her calcified toes and cushion her rear. Small smile. Good ole Blanket.
It had doubled as strips of gauze whenever her Morlocks had wounds that required immediate assistance. She snorted, thankful for once that most wounds had either been fatal for her people, or they had it taken cared of by a Healer. Otherwise, her beloved Blanket would have not lasted as long as it had.
But it would’ve been given up willingly for any of her people. Eagerly.
She sighed, shifted around until she was more comfortable.
“Sarah?” Sam’s sweet tenor voice lifted through the darkness.
She nearly threw a boneblade at him, he startled her so. Looking at her right hand, she saw a bone dagger already in her hand, and all her muscles were tense in adrenaline ready to throw at the Pretty-Pretty who dared to---STOP!
“Sam,” she said, breathing the adrenaline and immediate fight responses out of her system. For now. “You sneakin’ like that could up ‘n get ya killed.” She was a bit unnerved to hear the threat wasn’t in her voice, however, because she knew why he was there.
Sam sighed. He had so hoped she wouldn’t fight him here, that she would maybe soften a bit and enjoy the holidays.
“Sarah, do you really want me t’ leave? I don’t rightly know how to ask you to come back upstairs and enjoy the holidays, when you’re obviously down here avoidin’ em,” he said quietly. “But I would like for ya t’ come up anyway,”
Sarah stood up and studied him, feeling the shadows pull at her back. She tilted her head to the side a bit, studying him. Her eyes raked over his eyes, holding them to hers. Can you see why? she thought hollowly, knowing he was not a telepath and could not hear her.
Sarah didn’t want to feel the yearning in her heart. She wanted to push him away, as she always did. But his sad expression stopped the words before she could get them out. The Hill had never been so difficult as it was right now, trying to push a beautiful farm-boy out of her shadows and away from her secure darkness.
“I don’t know what I’m doin’, Sam,” she finally said. Her voice had lost the gravally tone it usually had, and her voice was smooth and low. The statement had no vulnerability, and no room for comfort. Just a simple statement with worlds of implications.
“I know, Sarah,” he said replied quietly. His eyes were dark too, Sarah saw, and she vaguely remembered that Sam had lost his father quite early in his life. For once, she admitted it might have been hard for poor, sweet Sam too, who had quietly given her a bit of attention, and comfort.
She didn’t know how to thank him, either, standing on her roughed Blanket.
So she nodded once, briefly. Her lips were still grim as she squared her shoulders like a general, and her eyes narrowed and stung as she climbed the stairwell, into the light.
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Continued in Part Three.