Amities and carpe fabulam,
RogueStar

Rogue lay dying. Her slender body was pockmarked with purple blisters
and, every few seconds, a painful, racking cough tore through her lungs.
She had been bedridden for the past month, too weak to walk, too weak
to fly. Tubes pumped nutrients in and pumped wastes out, running under
her skin like tiny maggots.

"Good morning, New York, on this bright and sunny day . . . ." The
cheerful voice of the DJ greeted from the radio, "I'm Smilin' Stan and I'll
be your host for the rest of this morning."

"Bonjour, cherie. Comment ça va?"

She lifted a weak hand to acknowledge Remy's presence.

"C'n I make ya more comfortable?" He asked.

She shook her head slowly, painfully. Why was he refusing to
acknowledge the fact that she was dying? Why was he not wearing
black?

"Ya want me t'read t'ya?"

She nodded slightly, imperceptibly.

"Bien." He picked up a book from the bedside table - a book of poetry -
and began to read. His voice rolled over the beautiful old verses of love
and death, of spring and winter. Of the interconnectedness of gain and
loss.

Tears slowly gathered in Rogue's eyes and fell onto the white sheet of
the bed, staining it.

"Ya want me t'stop?"

She coughed, clearing her throat.

"Ah . . . ."

Another paroxysm, that died into a rattle in her chest, but she carried on
regardless.

"Dance with me."

"Quoi?"

"Please." She whispered, "One last time."

"Sure," He nodded, "Let's see if dis radio has anyt'ing besides Smilin'
Stan on it."

Remy turned the dial.

"And now for all you lovebirds out there, a special treat . . . ."

Slowly, gently, he slid the tubes out of her fragile arms and abdomen,
letting them hang loose like a noose before an execution.

"May I have dis dance?"

She smiled weakly, but it was lost in another coughing fit. Carefully,
Gambit picked her up, silently railing against God at the lightness of her
body. Rogue's feet touched the cold floor and she instantly slipped,
slumping against Gambit for support. He held her close to him, face
buried in her pale hair because he was crying. Why was someone so
strong - both physically and mentally - so weak? Why could she not
stand on her own feet? The music played on, beautiful verses that spoke
about enduring love that went beyond the grave. Words that meant so
little to him at the moment. Words spoken by some starry-eyed teenager
who had never lost nor ever thought she could. Who really believed that
it was better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. The music
continued, rising and falling. Music that would be played a thousand
times over at discos and weddings. Music that played for the last time for
one slender X-Man, because some time between then and later, the beat
of Rogue's heart stopped.