The girl slowly kicked rocks as she walked
down the country trail through a field of flowers. The tops of the wildflowers
in bloom barely gave way to the top waves of her hair.
If you weren't looking for her, you wouldn't have seen her, but then she
was exactly what he was looking for.
He towered over the field of flowers and stood out in their colorful bounty,
seeing her clearly as his trench blew behind him in the slight summer breeze.
He is Remy LeBeau of the X-Men, known as Gambit. She, she is a figment of
his past, his childhood.
He has had this dream over and over, unable to figure out what it means.
His upbringing taught him to value his dreams, to find the meaning in them;
but this one was a dead end.
This particular dream was a memory of his past. The girl: someone he grew
up with, even before Belle. She was someone he had cared about, and somehow
he knows that, as she does in every dream, as she did in reality: she will
die.
She did die, a senseless, useless death; the death of someone he dearly
missed.
He awoke in a heated sweat, looking around his room in an anxious flurry.
'My room,' he thought, turning on the light. 'Everyt'ing as it should be.'
He picked up his wallet, glancing at the clock beside him. 5:33 a.m. He opened
his wallet to a picture of a younger him, and the raven-haired girl, taken
in a carnival photo booth.
"I'm so sorry there wasn' more I could do for you, petite." His voice was
shaking as he let his wallet drop to the bed. He dropped his head into his
hands, sobbing. "Should've been me, Shey. Should've been me! Damn you!" he
fairly growled, angrily thrusting his fists into the bed.
He threw the blankets back and dressed in a hurry. He left a note, saying
he'd be back later, and took a mini-jet to a small town near Seattle,
Washington.
It was now 10:45 a.m., and he stood outside the cemetery gates. 'Dis is insane,'
he thought as he walked into the graveyard. 'I know she's dead. But de dream?
What she try'n' to tell me?' Those questions kept going through his mind
as he made his way toward the larger headstones.
As he drew closer to his destination, he saw a woman in deep blue, dressed
rather nicely, wearing a veiled, wide-brim hat. She was standing at his friend's
grave. He watched as she knelt, facing him, to lay roses at the base of the
headstone. A large piece of her onyx hair fell over her shoulder. The veil
hid all but her full red lips and ivory skin from his prying eyes as she
faced him. Gracefully, she pressed her gloved fingertips to her lips, then
to the top of the gravestone.
Their eyes locked for an instant, then she gracefully walked to an awaiting
car, where her chauffeur waited, with the door open, to a very old Rols Royce
limousine.
He stared in awe as she got into it and left. He stood in silence for several
minutes after she had gone. "Did I imagine it, or did she have sparkling
green eyes under dat veil?" he wondered. He shook his head. "Lack of sleep,
probably. But dey did seem real familiar." He shrugged his shoulders and
continued on to Shey's grave.
He slowly ran his hand over the headstone, kneeling to set his roses next
to the others. "Fire an' ice, her favorite; an' forgotten love. Both white
an' red. Fire an' ice, white wit' red trim, forgotten, white wit' red splattered
on de petals." His voice was soft and filled with emotion. He caressed her
picture on the slanted stone. It was a portrait taken just before she died.
Beside it was her name and epitaph. Shema Essex. Born April 27, 1974. Died
May 12, 1982.
"A moment in my arms�forever in my heart." A tear slowly made its way
down his cheek as his hand rested on the cold stone. "Just a reality check,
Shema," he whispered. "been real busy as of late. I'm sorry." He shook his
head. "Jus' wish I knew what it was you're tryin' to tell me." He felt a
warmth of reassurance wrap around him like a warm blanket. Even the headstone
felt warm.
He smiled warmly. "T'anks, petite. You always seem to know hot to set t'ings
right wit' me." He pressed his lips to his hand, then to the headstone. "Always
my love."
Hope you mean that, amore. Forever means forever, he heard in the back of
his mind.
"Till we meet again, petite," he said before leaving. Was it her in his mind,
or someone's sick joke? Maybe it was just his conscience and the guilt he
felt for her death, but in some way, it made him feel better. He climbed
into his jet and headed home.
He arrived at the mansion near evening. Jean was waiting for him in the hanger.
"Is everything alright?" she asked as he walked toward her.
"Yeah; just needed to reconfirm somet'ing, dat's all," he replied tiredly.
"If you want to talk...." she began.
"I know, I'll let ya know, chere. For now, I jus' need to sort t'ings out."
He smiled, then walked in behind her.
Later that night, he awoke in a heated sweat, his hands covered in blood.
He sat bolt upright, turning on the light. "Don't you just hate it when you
think you've awakened from a dream to find you're still dreaming?"
It was Betsy's sultry voice that made him realize that he was fully awake
and that there was no blood on his hands. "Hope you don't mind, but I heard
you call out, and couldn't wake you, so I entered your mind. Whose blood
was on your hands?" she asked as she sat beside him. She hadn't moved since
she had entered to room to find him panicked.
"What are you doin' here?" he asked, unsure as to whether it was real or
not.
"As I said, Remy, I heard you call out and couldn't wake you, so I entered
your mind to find you sitting like we are now with blood on your hands."
She turned his face to look into hers. "Whose blood is it, Remy? Whose and
how did it get on your hands?" There was fear in his eyes, and her heart
sank. "Do you even know?"
"Yes an' no," he replied. "I know 'who' but I'm unsure as to de 'how.' "
He pulled away. "You been in my head before, Liz'beth. You know I have secrets,
but tell me, chere.....can you keep one?" He now looked at her, eyebrow raised,
wondering if he could trust her.
"Yeah, Remy, you can," she replied with all honesty. "I stake my honor on
it. Whatever is said here stays here."
He looked at her for a long moment, then reached for his wallet. He opened
it to a picture of him and a young raven-haired girl about eight years old.
"Her name's Shema. She died a few months after dis was taken. I took her
to a carnival; a 'first date', so to speak. She was my first girlfriend,
I guess. She was de first one I saw myself spendin' de rest of my life wit'.
Was my first kiss, date, almost everyt'ing," he explained, handing the picture
to her. "De first time I met Sinister, she died. I held her as de lights
fade from her eyes. Blood was everywhere, my hands, my lap, de floor an'
all over her. He was s'posed to hit me." He was breaking down as he paced
the floor. "I was s'posed to die, not her. She, she jumped in de way. He,
he blasted her in de back, den left her to die. We bury her in Washington,
but de dreams, dey now come back an' I don' know what she try an' tell
me."
She set the wallet down, moving to face him.
"Maybe she's trying to warn you of something. Or maybe, someone who knows
what happened is using it to distract you." She placed her arms around him
in a reassuring embrace. "You didn't kill her, he did. There's nothing you
can do now. Have you said goodbye to her? Let her go?"
He pulled away. "I can't; it not our way." He began to pace again. "Promised
her I never would. Never say goodbye, not even wit' her last breath did she
break dat promise and I never can."
He was angry now, she could feel it. "If you ever need to and want company,
I'll go with you. Help you through it."
"No. I can't, Liz'beth, can't break another promise to her," he replied,
sitting on the edge of his bed. "Broke too many already."
She knelt in front of him. "OK, Remy, OK. But at least let me ease your sleep,
stand as vigil to be sure that it's only a dream and not someone tampering
with your mind." She took his hands in hers. "What I see in there will never
be discussed with another. I will only stand beside you and hope to help
you." She offered this with the deepest sincerity.
"I don' t'ink dat would be good," he whispered. "Don' know when it be back
again."
"Then tell me....how many times does it occur in one night?"
"Not sure; once, sometimes five."
"Then tonight I'll stand as vigil. I'll only enter if I see physical or psychic
stress or torment," she stated. "But not until then."
"Promise?"
"Promise," she replied.
"OK," he spoke softly. "Thank you."
It took him a while to fall back to sleep, but not long for the dream to
return once he did. Everything was the same: the field of flowers, the girl
kicking rocks, everything; only now he didn't stand watching her alone. "Is
that Shema?"
He turned his head to see Psylocke beside him in her psychic form. "Yes,
but you may want to change your appearance, chere. You may frighten her in
dat," he replied.
"You mean you talk to her?" she inquired, mentally changing her outfit to
something more suitable.....jeans and a T-shirt.
"Yeah," he replied as his changed as well, to shirt, jeans and jacket. "I
replace me here, going t'rough dis every time." He paused, watching the girl
again. "Watch. She'll change direction and run to me wit' flowers in her
hand."
Sure enough, the girl did. As she drew nearer, Besty could see bruises littering
her face. "My God," she gasped.
"Her mot'er an' stepfather do dat to her," he whispered. "I promised to take
her away from dat. One of de promises I will break," he explained with sadness
in his face.
Betsy looked to the sky. The sun was setting fast, and soon this child would
be dead. "How much longer?"
"Not much. Jus' after 8 p.m.." He looked at his pocket watch. "It's seven-thirty
now."
"Where're her parents?" she asked as the girl drew nearer.
"Home; dey don' know she gone yet. We plan dis over de phone. I found out
later dat it was tapped by her father."
"But you said Sinister killed her," Betsy stated.
"He did," he replied. "Essex is her father."
"Sinister?!" she quietly exclaimed. "I didn't think he was capable
of�"
"Love, chere? He don' love her mot'er; he made a bargain wit' her an' had
to hold up his end when she come t'rough," he explained as the girl ran up
to him.
He knelt to catch her in a tight embrace. "Remy!" she sounded relieved. "I
didnae think you'd come." She nuzzled her face in his neck.
"Always, petite. Always." He held her tight, lifting her up.
She pulled her head away. "Who's this?" she asked, looking at Psylocke.
'Her eyes', Psylocke thought in shock. They were green-gold cat eyes. 'She's
a mutant. Of course!' It finally fit. Sinister would do anything to achieve
a perfect weapon, and her mother had supplied that, one of the first birth
mutants.
"Dis here is a friend, petite. She come to help us," he explained. "Shema
Essex, Liz'beth Braddock. She one of 'dose people I tell you about."
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Elizabeth," the girl purred, extending
her hand.
"Yes. Yes it is, Shema," Betsy replied, taking the tiny battered hand in
hers. "I need to ask you something, Shema," she began. "This, all of this
is Remy's dream of this day, and what happened that day. Can you tell me
why you've come back after so long?"
The girl let go of Gambit and floated to the ground. "I know. It's the only
way I can be with him." She now spoke proper English with very little Scottish
accent. "It's all I can do now."
"But why dis day, petite?"
"Because, Remy, me amore, you will be meeting someone soon and Essex, he
will interfere once again. I don't want her to die as I did, too. She's special,
like me, maybe older. You have to protect her, Remy; from herself as well
as from him," the girl explained. "He's already hurt her real bad, and is
trying to control her. You have to stop it. You're all grown up now, an X-Man,
a good guy. Only you can help her. Please, Remy. Keep this one promise to
me. Promise you'll help her?"
"What's her name, and what does she look like?" Betsy asked.
"She's big, like you two. Long hair, kinds red, and her name is......" She
stopped, cocking her head. "They're coming, Remy!" She grabbed his hand and
began to run, leaving Betsy behind.
She had been expelled from his mind, not of her own accord; and beside her,
Gambit sat, dumbfounded. "Dat never happen before," he whispered. "She push
me away, stop de pain."
"Where did she leave you?"
"Outside de hiding place where she died. Said she didn' wan' to cause me
anymore pain," he explained. "But I still don' know about dis girl she wan'
me to protect."
"What did she say?"
"Made me promise, dat's all. Den I end up here."
"Red hair, older and Sinister has been in her life. That doesn't give us
a very good lead," Betsy summized. "See if you can reach her and I'll hit
the database, see if there's a mutant that fits her description."
"You do dat, chere, but be sure to check non-mutants as well," he replied.
They both tried the rest of the night to find information, but both came
back empty-handed, with the exception of a few hundred redheads from the
computer ranging in age from 20 years old to 53. Of these, only three had
had involvement with Sinister, and they were no longer in danger of him.
Two were deceased, and one was safely tucked away. "Dis gonna be as hard
as findin' a needle in a haystack," Remy replied, seeing their dilemma. "She
say somet'ing about me meeting her. Maybe she come to me?"
"Maybe," Psylocke agreed. "Maybe."
Let me know what you think about my page. Send mail by clicking here.