MENDING FENCES

(This story is dedicated to Gambit and Rogue - the real ones - not the whiny people who have taken their place in something out of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.)


'Here's much to do with hate, but more with love.'
- Romeo in Romeo and Juliet, Act I, scenne II.


Prologue:

The stars are still bright on this most beautiful of evenings. Early cultures believed them to be the souls of the dead, or, maybe even, bridges between two separated lovers. Science has since proven them to be little more than balls of flaming gas - an interplay of hydrogen atoms in a coonstant fusion reaction - but the romanticism still remains. The sense of mystery and intrigue.

Of still believing that they may have been placed in the sky by a giant, unknown hand; a creator who sprinkled the heavens with diamonds.

Even to those who have been to the stars, they are still incredibly beautiful and incredibly distant. A symbol of hope and of the enduring human spirit. Of things that never die.

Gambit watches the stars from the rooftop of the Westchester mansion and remembers.

There had been many such star-studded nights in this young thief's life - many nights when the stars were forgotten for the sake of the pinch. For the thrill of the steal. Yet, it is not those nights he remembers, merely a single night. A night when one bright star had shone over the Antarctic in a show of reflected brilliance. However, it was not the star he watched, but the woman he loved as she flew away into the night.

Even though they had reconciled, had bridged the gap between them, the slight undercurrent of hurt remains. The bitter taste that mars the sweetness. The rancor of betrayal.

And who was it that was the real traitor?The man who had done something which he had always regretted and for which he had tried so desperately to atone? Or the woman who had not forgiven him as she had been?

The question still hangs unanswered between them, despite his promises of honesty and hers of trust. The two things which neither them had ever known how to do.

What hope is there then? What star governs such a situation? Can the human spirit endure?

Gambit watches the stars and wonders.

Nietzche believed in the concept of an ubermensch - a perfect being gifted in every capacity. Central to this concept was the belief that what did not kill you made you stronger. That you grow from past errors and pains. That you are constantly evolving. That tragedy is the catalyst which propels your personal development forward. The young thief is not so sure of that.

He has had more than his fair share of tragedy.

Orphaned at an early age and left to the tender mercies of the street, life for Remy leBeau was little more than an exercise in survival. Everything he has done and everything that he is stems from that central principle. Do what you must to survive.

Why, then, did he choose to chase the impossible? What star was it that motivated that decision? Was it hope? Hope that you can leave your past behind, shed it like star-dust?

That, perhaps, you deserve to love as much as be loved. That life is more than survival. That life can have beauty and joy as well. That there is a greater difference between living and surviving than most would imagine.

So Gambit watches the stars and remembers. The curve of her lips as she leant towards him and then pulled away. Her subtle, rare smile. The pressure of her gloved hand in his. The pain and hurt in her deep green eyes as she pronounced judgement upon him. Her kiss, as sweet and sad as tears.

"Ah love you unconditionally."

The words blur into his hesitant ones. He had never spoken them to another woman before this one with her haunting eyes and face.

"But . . . I love you."

"You're honest with those you love . . . ."

"How could I be when ya weren't?" He says out loud to the stars.

They wink at him, seeming to hold the answer just out of his reach, laughing at him and at his doubts. Gambit suddenly knows what he must do. It is a simple choice, but infinitely hard to execute. He must forgive, for how can he be forgiven if he will not do the same?

He had not wanted to hear her explanations the night before, had not wanted to spoil the beauty of their reconciliation with clumsy words that explained nothing, so he had told her that everything would be all right. That he understood even when he did not. The joy on her face had told him he had made the right decision. She did not want to question her decision any more than he did, because she knew she had been wrong. They will move on, he knows, but things will never be the same. It still remains to be seen whether they will be better or worse.


Fluidity and grace, Rogue moves with both these things in the Danger Room. A born warrior with fists of steel and a will to match, she is a formidable opponent for anyone.

She has fought the X-Men singlehandedly and won. Taken on crazed assassins and defeated them.

Struggled against countless foes, both good and evil.

It is late at night and yet she still trains, as if desperately seeking some control of the powers which control her. The powers which have stripped her of any semblance of a normal life.

She counts the strokes in her head, "Left cross. Right jab. Leftrightleftrightleft. Upp-per cut."

Nearby, in the observation booth, a man stands. His hair is white, although his face looks little more than twenty-two, and his eyes are a startling blue in his bleached face.

He has stood here for every night, watching her train. He often wondered why before realising that it is because he loves her. That he cares about her well-being. Now he watches vicariously, scared that someone will catch him and ask him why.

He often wonders about her opponents as well - they do not seem fit for a fighter of her caliber.

Usually, it is a middle-aged man with darkish hair and a paunch to match his male-pattern baldness. Sometimes, a blond man with sad eyes. Sometimes, a woman with blue skin and red hair.

Always the result is the same, she falls to the floor in tears, sobbing as if it will exorcise her pain.

Always . . . . The simulation fades, dispersing into the air with a slight smell of ozone, and the cathartic process begins anew. But this time Joseph cannot bear to watch, cannot stand silent witness to her pain, and so he makes what some might consider a compassionate move. What others might even more simply call a mistake. He enters the room, his footsteps loud against the steel floor, wincing with each beat.

Rogue turns around, arms clutched around herself in a gesture of defence. She does not look beautiful then with her swollen eyes, lank hair and blood-stained uniform. The wound inflicted by Marrow has opened again and she limps as she walks towards him.

"Here. Let me help you."

The words are spoken before he can check them. Her answer is unequivocal, she lifts her hand and slaps him hard on the face, not bothering to moderate the force used. His face snaps round, his neck is wrenched by a few degrees, and he clutches his injured cheek-bone - half-conscious.

"Don't you dare spy on me again." Her voice is hard, rough, furious.

"I wanted to help." He whispers through the blood in his mouth.

"Then stay outta mah life." She plants her fists on her hips, "You've screwed it up enough already, mon cher."

"Rogue?"

Her eyes clear, become horrified.

"Ah don't . . . Ah'm sorry . . . Ah . . . Ah've gotta go . . . ."

Joseph nods, before relinquishing his grip on consciousness at last.


"They thought they could hide me away. Push me aside like an unwanted gift." Marrow mutters to herself as she stands by the wall. "They accept the traitor and they reject me, the betrayed. I'll show them. I'll make them pay."

She pulls a shard of metal out from her pocket, leaning closer towards the plaster, etching the words into the wall: "Blood-sacrifice shall appease the slaughtered. . . ."


Part 1: Splinter


Rogue runs. Her feet pound against the cold wood of the floor. She wants to escape, but she knows
it is impossible. You cannot escape from yourself, no matter how far you run. She has made that
mistake before . . . .
Yet this time it is not herself she is running from, merely a new splinter of her already schismatic
personality. A splinter made all the more strange that it is one that she knew intimately already.
Why, then, is it exerting such control over her? Is it because it is the second time she has tasted it?
Been controlled by it? She does not know, but she does know where to find the answers. The origin
of the splinter. Its source and hopefully, its end. She punches the door open, caring little that the wood splinters beneath her fists, that the hinges wrench out of the wood, that the door crashes to the floor. Gambit is a silent figure, lying in the tangle of blankets and sheets on the
floor that make up his bed. He has not heard her entrance, being accustomed to gun-shots at
midnight and fist-fights at dawn, a result of growing up in the middle of a war between assassins and
thieves.

"Sugah." She bends over him, seeing the childlike innocence of his face in the pale light.

Knows that this may be the only time that he truly is free of his past. Of his shame. She hates to wake him, but she knows she must before she loses her nerve. Before she lets the truth slip away yet again. Rogue shakes him a little roughly, trying to jolt him awake. One red eye
opens and regards her suspiciously.

"Not dat dis ain't a pleasant surprise an' all, chere, but what are ya doin' in m'room?"

She swallows, trying to steel herself. Why is it that it so hard to tell the man she loves how she
feels?

"Rogue?"

He sits up, revealing a pair of ridiculously domestic flannel pyjamas. He looks so normal. So
average with the blankets around his knees and the twisted sheets.

"Ah . . . Ah need ta talk ta you."

She knows she must look a mess with her swollen eyes and tangled hair. With
the blood from her freshly reopened wound running down her leg and staining the sheet. Why is
she so weak at the very moment she must be strong?

" Bout?"

"Ah decked Joseph. Knocked him out. He's lyin' unconscious on th' Danger Room floor right now."

The humor rises in Gambit's eyes but fades as he sees how obviously distraught she is.

"Ya be bleeding."

"Doesn't matter. Ah can't put this off any longer, else Ah'll be too scared ta tell y'all."

"Tell me what?"

"That you're still inside mah head."

He nods, "I t'ought so. It begs de question whether ya f'rgave me or I f'rgave m'self last night."

"Ah wish Ah could give you an answer, Remy, but Ah can't. Not one Ah'm certain of."

"Dat's why Marrow was able t'hurt ya."

"Yeah . . . you don't want ta hurt her. Ta fight her. You held me back, kept mah powers in check."

"Desoles, chere. I never wanted ya t'become involved in dis mess."

"Nor did Ah." She sighs, "But Ah am now. There ain't no turnin' back from where Ah've found
mahself."

"Entre l'enclume et le marteau?" He asks, "Between de devil an' de deep, blue sea."

"By your side. In bettah an' worse."

He laughs, "Ya little river rat . . . . Ya were de greatest challenge o' m'life. Ya still are, truth be
told."

"Ah wouldn't have it any other way, lovahbayou."

"What about Joe? Shouldn' we get him t'de Beast? Or dat Doctor?"

"Cecilia? No, he'll be fine when he wakes up. Bruised, but fine." She pauses, "This ain't exactly
why Ah came ta speak ta y'all."

"Why den?"

"Ah'm worried bout you."

"Ha! Ya come into m'room at midnight, bleedin' an' in tears, b'cause ya be worried bout me?
Seems like I should be worried bout *ya*."

"No. Marrow's a killer. Ah've faced her before an' there ain't a merciful bone in her body."

"So?"

"You don't want ta hurt her - that much Ah know foh certain. She wants ta kill you." She takes his
hand in hers, "You have ta fight her back. You have ta be as ruthless as she is. Else y'all will die."

"Rogue. I won' fight her unless I have to."

"That's what Ah'm afraid of, lovah. That you will have ta an' you won't."

He has no answer for her doubts. No words which can allay her fears, because
he has none for himself. She nods slowly, eyes filled with a new resolution.

"Ah thought so." She stands, "Then it's up ta me ta protect you. Ta make sure th' need doesn't
arise."

"I won' hide behind ya skirts, belle. I'll fight her if I have to, but I pray dat I won'."

"Sugah, you've protected me from your past an' look where that led. Let me
face it with you, help you through it, protect *you* foh a little while."

"Chere, dere are some t'ings which I have t'face on m'own. Wit'out ya help."

"Like you let me do with Cody?"

"Dat was different."

"How? B'cause you're a man an' feel some sense o' chivalry towards me? B'cause Ah'm meant
ta be a helpless Southern belle?" Her voice rises, "Hon, Ah've nevah been comfortable with th'
role o' damsel-in-distress. Ah ain't a child - Ah can stand on mah own two feet."

"I've never doubted dat, Rogue. But Cody isn't Marrow. He not be a psychopathic killer wit' a
grudge gainst ya."

"Like th' Phalanx weren't? Like you *didn't* risk your life foh me by goin' against them?"

"Petite . . . ."

"What are you afraid of? That lettin' me help y'all would make you less o' a man?"

"Non . . . ."

"Darlin', if Marrow gets a hold o' you, that certainly will be th' case."

"Dis ain't your fight."

"Nor was Cody yours. But you followed me." She states simply, "Darlin', we're both battle-scarred. It isn't exactly like Ah'm Lois Lane an' you're Superman. I don't need rescuin' any more
than th' next superhero-cum-ex-villain," She smiles, "Ah'm invulnerable. Marrow can't hurt me
unless Ah let her."

"I suppose it wouldn' help t'say dat dis is a personal affair? Dat it has t'be settled b'tween me an'
Marrow?"

"Not at all." Her mouth sets in a line, "No mattah what Ah used ta be, Ah'm a hero now. Heroes
protect those who need them. Y'all need me. Th' way Ah see it, Ah don't got no choice. "

"Bien." He holds up his hands in surrender before letting them drop to his sides, "I don't suppose
ya picked up any o' m'charm as well?"

"Wouldn't need ta use it. You know Ah'm right."

"I also know dat ya need some rest. Ya look exhausted."

"Ah'll be fine." She runs a hand through her hair, smoothing it into place. "Fine."

"Mebbe f'r one minute ya stop bein' strong an' let me take care o' ya."

Rogue smiles at his concern, preparing a suitable riposte, but she is too tired. Too weak. Too
grateful.

"Sure."

Gambit separates the bed-clothes into two neat piles, making no suppositions, no insinuations.

Rogue laughs, "Ah do have a room o' mah own. With a bed. With a mattress an' sheets."

"Ya don' like campin'?" He grins at her, "I t'ought it would bring back memories."

"All Ah remember is bein' so scared that Belle would have gotten ta y'all first. That Ah would
be too late an' you'd be dead."

"I c'n handle Belle."

"You wouldn't have. Like Marrow - you felt guilty bout what happened ta her, you didn't want
ta hurt her any more."

"Merci, mademoiselle psychologist. Next t'ing ya'll be tellin' me dat I'm attracted t'strong women
b'cause I grew up wit'out a mother and am seekin' a replacement."

"Actually . . . ."

He throws a pillow at her, hitting her in her face. She holds it, hugging it to her chest.

"Let me look at dat wound."

Rogue stretches out her leg for inspection, "Ah told you - Ah'm fine."

"Ya should bandage dat."

"Since when did y'all become Beast?"

"Since I grew up in de Big Easy where learnin' medicine was a practical subject." He turns from
her and walks to the pile of clothes in the corner.

"Hmmp. Wasn't much of a life foh a kid by th' sounds of things."

"It wasn't all bad. Ya made a lot of friends when ya survival depended on how many ya had."
He tears off a strip of cloth and returns to where she is sitting on her pile of blankets.

"Me? Ah grew up learnin' that if you were a freak, you either could destroy
th' world or be destroyed yourself."

"Ya ain't a freak." His hands are firm on her leg as he wraps the cloth around her quadraceps.

"Ah know, but that wasn't what Ah was told by everyone else. Daddy seemed ta think he could
beat th' wickedness out o' me. Mystique had a similar philosophy, but she tried ta break mah spirit
instead o' mah body."

"Mon dieu - remind me t'not attend ya family reunion."

"Ah wouldn't want ta either." She sighs, "Daddy wouldn't approve o' you."

"Why?"

"You've got two strikes against you in his book. You're a mutant an' . . . ."

"A turpentine n*****."

"Ah was going ta say cajun."

"Oui, but ya daddy wouldn'."

"Yeah, he wouldn't." She grimaces, "Let's hope that th' magnolia falls far from th' tree in mah
case."

"Dere." He ties the fabric with a neat knot, finishing off the bandage.

"Thanks." She climbs into the make-shift bed, pulling the blanket over her
as she does so. She hears his footsteps across the floor and the soft swish as the curtains
are drawn. All comfortable late-night noises dating from before she discovered she was a
mutant. She burrows deeper into the pillow - it smells faintly of cologne, smoke and sweat. All
comfortable smells dating from her childhood when she climbed into bed between her father and
mother in the early morning. The rustle of blankets and sheets from across the room. His
breathing a strange lullaby in its regularity.

"Night, lovah."

"Night, cherie." His voice is muffled by his pillow, "Ya sure bout leavin' Joe on de Danger Room floor?"

"Yeah. Ah can't face him right now."

"Ya want me t'find him?"

"Ah wouldn't ask you ta do that." She replies, "He should be fine."

"Night, Rogue."

"Mmmighfffemy."

"An' I wouldn' worry, ya be not'ing like ya father."

"Mgmmffow? Mmoo mmffevah mmet hffim."

"What did ya say?"

She raises her head from the pillow, "How do you know? You nevah met him."

"I know. Bonne nuit."

"Good night."

The moon is bright above the mansion on this most beautiful of nights,
coming through the chink in the curtains, making silver the bright tears on the woman's cheeks.



"The poor chile . . . ." The middle-aged african-american woman smoothes her black, curls back
into neat waves, "Why won't she let him in?"

"You know the answer, Mattie. She's too pig-headed." The other ebony woman laughs, her rich Jamaican accent amused. "Like you."

"Marie. . . . It is good to have you back with me."

"Likewise."

"You do not think we can help her then?"

"I did not say that. I merely think that it would be more difficult than usual."

"You, then, will try? Will go against your vows of keeping the mind sacrosanct?"

"I made no such vows, Marie. Mine are simply not to hurt." Marie shrugs, a sinuous motion like the rippling of a panther, "The child is already hurting and my heart goes out to her."

"And your mind." Mattie adds.

"Soon. Not yet." Marie replies, "There are more pieces to fall into place before I can restore the
jigsaw puzzle of her mind to completeness. More moves to be played before I can intervene."

"How do you know? Do we have a right to prolong her suffering when we know we can end it?"

"No right - a responsibility to ensure that the future is as true as it can be."

"There is no such thing as truth."

"No, Mattie. There is always such a thing - you simply have spent too long among those who hide
from it. Those who turn away from the light in order to evade their own darkness."

"You know why I chose to come here."

"For the children's sake, I know." She clasps Mattie's hands with her own slim ones, "You could
always leave with me - you know the children no longer have need of you."

"They do. Now more than ever. You of all people should know that, Marie."

"I do, but I hate to leave you in this nest of vipers and scorpions."

"I will be fine, my friend. The Good Lord will see to that."

"Hold on tight to your rosary, Mattie. I have a feeling you will need all the help you can from the
Pee-Tee-Bees." She moves slowly out of the door, "May the light be with you."

"And with you."



The floor is cold metal beneath his cheek and his head aches with the throbbing echo of her blow.
Joseph props himself up with one hand, checking that all his appendages are in place. How long
has he been lying here? The room is dark, save for the ghostly readouts scrolling up the walls.
Night. He shivers, more from cold than fear.

"Computer - open door."

"Error. All commands suspended from designate: Magneto."

Joseph swears silently. This system is obviously an old one, quickly rigged back into functionality
after Bastion's plunder of all the mansion electronics. A back-up system designed by Forge for just
such an eventuality. A back-up system designed when he was still the enemy of humankind and all
who protect its rights. A back-up system which will not recognize or accept his commands.
He hunches over his knees. Someone has to come soon, right? He visualizes the scene. The door
slowly opens, spilling light into the room, and Rogue walks through, apologetic. Sweet. She tells
him that she made a huge mistake - that she loves him and wants to spend the rest of her life with
him. That she has always loved him and always will love him. Memories as hazy and unsubstantial
as stardust drift in his mind. At one time, she said she cared deeply for him. That she was his
dearest and only friend. That she believed in him when no-one else did. When no-one else had a
reason to. However, he asks himself, is this a fantasy or a memory? Because, after all, what can
a mind remember that has forgotten itself?
The door opens for real and he looks up, shielding his eyes against the brilliance that surrounds
the figure.

"Get up, Joe."

He unsteadily wobbles to his feet, propping himself against the wall for
support. The voice is familiar, slightly cold.

"Gambit."

"Oui, who'd ya expect? De Easter Bunny?"

The other crosses his arms across his chest, looking at Joseph with a mixture of pity and dislike.
It is a look of which Joseph is not overly fond.

"Why did you come? I thought you would be the last X-Man who wanted to help me."

"Dis isn't f'r ya, mon ami." The tone of the last word contradicts it, "Dis is f'r Rogue."

"Why couldn't she come herself?"

"Ya know, f'r someone whose just been rescued from a night o' sleeping on a cold, metal floor,
ya sound distinctly ungrateful." He says, "Sure, I'm not as cute as Rogue, but m'personality makes
up f'r it."

"You know what I mean . . . ."

"She's asleep. Doesn' know I'm here." His voice becomes cold, "She feels pretty bad bout
deckin' ya an' doesn' want t'face ya. I don' blame her."

"I didn't mean to . . . ."

"Upset her? Well, ya have."

"Can I speak to her? Explain what I was doing?"

"Non. She's asleep. It's probably best if ya avoid her f'r a few days."

"I won't do that.*I'm* not a coward who sneaks around and hides who they really are."

"So ya say." He shrugs, unperturbed by Joseph's intended slight, "Trust me on dis one. Let Rogue
come t'ya when she's good an' ready. Don' push her into a corner an' demand explanations."

"What would you know?" Joseph sneers.

"More dan ya would bout her."

Joseph clenches his fists, nails biting into his palms, knuckles white as his lips.
"Which is why your relationship is so perfect. Built on a foundation of mutual trust." He enunciates
the last word slowly and carefully. "You've never had any doubts about each other, have you?"

"What would ya know bout us, Magneto?" His mouth curves in a cruel smile, "When ya don' even
know who ya are yaself."

"Shut up."

"Ya asked Rogue a hundred times bout de truth an' never got an' answer. She couldn't tell it t'ya -
she doesn' want t'hurt ya. Par contre, I have no such qualms."

"Then tell me the truth. Tell me who I really was."

"Ya were a tyrant wit'out mercy an' de X-Men's greatest enemy." Gambit pauses, seeing the effect
of each word on the other man, "Ya killed men f'r de simple reason dat dey threatened ya power.
Dat dey got in ya way. Dat ya felt dey deserved t'die."

"Wh . . . ."

"Ya stripped Wolverine of his adamantium when he tried t'stop ya from near destroying de
world."

"But . . . ."

"Ya brainwashed de X-Men into fightin' each other an' followin' ya."

"I . . . ."

"Worse, ya betrayed Rogue's trust time'n'time again." He shakes his head, eyes intent, "She
looked up t'ya - treated ya like de father she never had - an' like everyone else, ya let her down.
Inevitably."

"I always knew she cared for me." Joseph whispers, "But I always hoped . . . ."

"Dat she loved ya? Non." He shrugs, "She worshipped ya. Dere be a difference."

"Are you being honest with me?"

Gambit grins, a fleeting throwback to his past days of crime, "Ya'll never know, but ya'll always
believe me."

Joseph nods, "Then, for your sake, you had better have been telling the truth."

"As ma tante always used t'say, dere is no such t'ing as truth." Gambit turns, "Ya better exit de
room before I do. Might decide dat a night in de Danger Room would be good f'r ya."

Joseph walks out, head bowed, hands clenched into fists, eyes haunted. He does not want to
believe Gambit, knows that he could be lying but also *knows* that every word spoken was the
truth.

"Bonne nuit. Sweet dreams."

Again, the wolfish smile that leaves Joseph feeling uncomfortable. Again, the red eyes flash with
something akin to resentment and hate, something that is beyond humor. The two men walk on in silence down the darkened hallways, feet beating a soft rhythm in time with their breathing. Gambit stops before a door, hand resting on the door knob.

"Remember what I said bout Rogue. . . . De femme's been t'rough enough. If ya truly love her,
ya'll know dat an' stay away until she's calmed down a bit."

He turns the knob and opens the door. A brief chink of light is cast across the wooden floor, across the sleeping figure whose chest rises and falls beneath the sheets and blankets. The door closes, leaving Joseph alone with his memories and fears. . . .


Part 2: Miracles
The sunlight through the open window refracts off the dust-motes in rays of red and green. A wind blows the 'curtains' - two sheets nailed to the wall - out over the sleeping couple like two great bird's wings. Rogue murmurs into her damp pillow, clasped in her arms for comfort. Nearby, in another pile of bedding on the wooden floor, her lover is lying asleep, snoring inelegantly every few seconds in time with the rise and fall of his chest. Far from being disturbing, the sound soothes her - it is so normal. If Rogue ever though about it, this is the reason that she fell in love with Remy leBeau. His own extraordinariness aside, he has always treated her like every other woman. And, while not the stuff that plays like Romeo and Juliet are written about, it is something that this woman appreciates. She has always been her powers to everyone else - to herself. Rogue awakens, squinting against the light which floods in through the chink in the 'curtains'. She stretches, painfully self-conscious of mussed hair and torn uniform. Fortunately, for her sartorial confidence, Gambit is still asleep, a worried furrow in his forehead. Rogue stands, wincing as the stiff muscles in her stomach and leg stretch to their full length. The loose bandage, that Gambit tied on her last night, is stiff and black with blood.

"Gawd. This is nasty." She whispers, untying it and praying that the wound has healed enough to not bleed again. She had said similar prayers in her childhood when drink had made her father cruel. When she had hoped desperately for the bruises and cuts to fade before Monday, before any embarrassing questions were asked. They usually did, or, if they had not, she would feign sickness to be kept home from school.

"Time ta rise an' shine." She tells herself in a desperate attempt to inject levity into her somber mood.

She picks up Gambit's comb from the floor where it lies scattered among cards and clothes. Slowly, methodically, she runs it through her hair, smoothing out the kinks and wilder curls that formed in the night. Tiny sparks fly out as she braids it, tying it back with an elastic band.

Rogue walks over to the small mirror in the corner of the room, almost hidden by the rest of the clutter, almost as if the owner does not wish to see his own reflection. Her eyes are puffy and red-rimmed but she smiles at herself.

"Remy'd say y'all look gorgeous even if'n th' Bride o' Frankenstein would beat you at Miss America." She laughs, "In fact, even Ah'd say you're quite pretty, sugah."

Walking to the door, Rogue opens it.

"D'ya make a habit o' leavin' b'fore I wake up?" Remy asks teasingly from his bed, "Dis be de second time now."

"Ah didn't want ta wake y'all," She explains, "Bad enough that Ah did it last night."

"Don' worry," He throws the covers off of himself, "I be awake now. Ya want t'get breakfast? I'll cook."

"What? Granola au Coco Krispies?"

"Better dan Boysenberry Pie."

She laughs then sobers, "Actually, Ah think Ah'd like ta go out today. Might be easier foh you."

Gambit looks at her carefully, at the nervous anticipation written over her features. She needs him to say yes, but for her sake.

"Ah'll pay?" She adds, smiling apprehensively.

"Well when ya put it dat way . . . where d'ya want t'go?"

"Don't mind."Rogue shrugs, "Actually . . . anywhere as long as it isn't that Cajun place or even *mentions* gumbo in th' menu."

"Bien," he grins, "Ya pay. Ya choose."

"Ummm . . . when in doubt, go ta Harry's?"

"Give me a few minutes t'get dressed."

"Don't worry - I need some time as well."

"More dan some time, cherie," he teases.

"Ha! Y'all ain't exactly Prince Charmin' at seven o'clock in th' mornin'," Rogue opens the door and exits. A few minutes later, Gambit follows suite, dressed in some of the few clothes that he could afford to buy with the remainder of his money. They are clothes - a Saints' Jersey and black jeans - which hark back to a past before he met Sinister. A past which he cannot fully forget. Or if he could, would not be allowed to.

"A gift, traitor." Marrow's voice rasps from where she is perched on the windowsill, like a bird of prey or a vulture. She drops something on the floor where it lies in harsh relief to the wood.

It is a tattered Tarot Card - the Queen of Swords, but it has been sliced in half and combined with another card - the Queen of Cups - in horrible synergy. On it is scrawled in thick black print - 'We all have two faces.'

Marrow laughs and is gone.


We all have two faces. Joseph knows this more than most - once the greatest enemy of humankind, amnesia is a blessing to him. It has allowed him to live his life, unencumbered by his past sins, free without atonement. This may be why Gambit hates him so much - that it stems from something much deeper than the petty jealousy that arose over Rogue. Joseph was given his chance for free, Gambit paid for it with the trust and love of Rogue. And, while everything turned out for the best, Gambit resents all for which Joseph stands. The hypocrisy of his team-mates. The ability to be given another chance by simply forgetting. Joseph sighs, his mind confused. Had Remy told him the truth or were his words those of a bitter man designed to wound and hurt? Designed to pour salt into raw wounds? Joseph is not sure. If he was such a megalomanic and despot, why would Rogue take pity on him? Why would she try and help him? Perhaps she is the only one who really knows the truth. The young man with the white hair walks to the door with new purpose. He must confront Rogue, must find out the truth, for good or evil.


The air is crisp ribbon of blue over the green valley. In the distance, the perfect sky is torn by the New York skyline, by a gathering storm approaching over the horizon. Storm soars in this blue wasteland, a white speck of ash blown by the wind. She can feel the rain in the air, its presence soaks into her bones.

"There will be a storm soon," she says, "Of what nature is still doubtful."

The tension had been mounting in the mansion ever since Gambit's return. Marrow had slunk away into the shadows after her initial outburst as had Warren. Joseph had been walking around like a man before an execution who had been denied his last cigar. Rogue's whole manner had been too manic and too brittle, almost as if she was scared of standing still and thinking. Gambit seemed not to have noticed. Or had he?

Storm rises in the air, letting the gentle upper currents tickle her face. She, like the sky, is torn between vastly differing emotions. Remy had always been like a brother to her. Now the brother had betrayed her, had turned out to be everything which she had always detested. How could she reconcile such vastly differing emotions? She does not know the answer, but she will try. . . .

Storm plunges from the heavens to earth.


Harry's Hideaway has witnessed several turning points in the lives of the X-Men - some more important than others, some more dramatic than others. And, always, there has been Harry - a sturdy, New Yorker with the accent to prove it. A wise, grizzled man who has watched the lives of his patrons unfold. Sometimes Harry is witness to triumph - the birth of a child, a wedding anniversary, a birthday. Sometimes he is witness to sorrow - lover's quarrels, funerals, divorces. Always he has carried on with his life, wiping the counter clean and serving drinks with a smile and a few words. Harry is a philosopher. But unlike Plato or Socrates, Harry's forum is his bar.

"Go serve the two over there." He whispers in the ear of a peroxided waitress.

She is young and no philosopher. Her guru is the editor of Vogue. Today, however, she will witness a miracle. She will not recognize it and will carry on with her life unchanged. Her drawl is bored as she asks the young couple what they would like for breakfast, tapping her pad with her stubby pencil.

"So?" Tap tap tap. "What's it going to be?"

The man regards her through dark sunglasses and a shiver passes up her spine. There is something different about him - something more than the exterior to him.

"Ya choose, cherie." he says to his companion, a gorgeous woman with eyes like twin emeralds and a white streak in her dark hair.

"Gawd. You're the culinary expert in our relationship, Remy."

"F'rgot ya came from somewhere where 'fried' is a food group," he grins, "C'n we have a menu, mademoiselle?"

The waitress hands two from beneath her arm, other hand resting on her ample hip.

"So . . . are you two new in town?"

"It's the accent, isn't it?" the woman laughs, "No, sugah. Been here a while now. Ah'm from Mississippi. Remy here is from Louisiana."

"N'Awlins."

"Wow. Whereabout in Mississippi do you come from? I have family there."

"Ya'll not have heard o' it. It's a small town . . . ."

"Town, chere?"

The woman laughs, "Fine. It's 'bout th' size o' a suburb really."

"Maybe I've heard of it anyway."

"Caldecott."

"You're kidding! That's where my family comes from as well."

"Name?"

"Dieu. She'll go on f'r hours now. It be some sort of inbred Southern trait."

"Robbins."

E="">The woman went pale, "As in Cody Robbins?"

"Poor guy. Some heartless mutie witch killed him." The waitress sniffs, "He was my cousin. Did you know him?"

The man called Remy tightens his hand protectively over his companion's one. Slowly, she nods.

"Maybe it wasn't her fault. Maybe she didn't know what she was doing."

"Schyeah, right. Tell that to someone who didn't visit him every day while he was lying in a coma."

Tears gather in the beautiful woman's eyes.

"Don't ya think she feels bad enough already? That she has ta live with the consequences of her actions every day?"

"No. She didn't go through the hell that I went through, wondering if Cody would live or die. She never even came to visit him."

Remy regards her with dislike on his handsome features.

"Mebbe she did, but didn' want t'be seen by people like ya who'd judge her."

"Whatever." The waitress flippantly raises a shoulder, "Anyway, can I take your order?"

"Pancakes wit' maple syrup."

"Ah'll have th' same."

"Café latté. An' f'r ya, belle?"

"OJ. Ah need th' vitamin C," her voice is falsely bright.

"Sure. Hold on and I'll bring your order in a few minutes." The waitress sashays off into the kitchen, notepad in hand.

Remy looks sympathetically at the woman sitting in front of him. She is trying to keep a smile on her face, despite the fact that her bottom lip is trembling with repressed emotion.

"I'm sorry, Roguey."

"It ain't your fault." She looks down at the wooden floor, "Ah sometimes think that someone up there must really hate me. I thought Ah left mah past behind me when Ah left Mississippi, but ta meet Cody's cousin here . . . . "

"Ya know as well as I do dat dere's no escapin' our pasts. We have t'live wit' dem. Have t'accept dem."

"Ah'd like ta think that Ah can," Rogue sighs, "But Ah know Ah'm just foolin' mahself."

"Ya need t'talk?"

"You know how you asked me in Antarctica ta trust you just foh a little while?"

"Oui."

"Can you do th' same foh me?"

"Ya know I will. I always have trusted ya."

"An' Ah've always betrayed that trust."

"Chere - ya said dat self-pity doesn't really suit me back dere in Mag's citadel. It suits ya even worse."

"Ah said a lot of things then. Didn't mean all of them."

"I know." He leans over the table and rests a hand on her shoulder, "Said a lot of t'ings I didn't mean m'self."

"Maybe we should put it behind us. Forget about it."

"Non, can't do dat."

"Why not?"

"Chere. We've tried doin' dat before an' it jus' tore us apart again. We have t'deal wit' it."

"Y'all said it didn't matter a few night ago."

"It didn' then - it does now."

"What's changed?"

"I wasn' sure if we had a chance then - I know we do now. Dis means t'much t'me jus' t'sabotage it again before it even really gets started."

"You're right. We do need ta talk." She looks somber, "Put our cards on th' table so ta speak."

"I'll start wit' mine," he delves into his pocket and pulls out the Ace of Spades, hitting it onto the table.

"Th' card o' death?"

"Or hope. Depends which way it is."

"So?"

"So . . . ."

And thus, without any fireworks or grand parades, the miracle begins . . . .


He walks through the tunnels, oppressed as much by memories as by the slimy, close walls. His feet squelch through the combination of water and mud. His mind maps out the pathway - taking left and right turns almost as if he is hypnotized. In a sense, he is. At last, he bends to pass through a particularly low tunnel, cursing as his wings scrape the stone. There before him is an altar to a dark god. A self-created deity who believed that he had the right to decide who could live and die. The rack where he lost his wings. The rope, though rotten, remains on the hooks - stiff and black with dried blood. Fear still permeates the humid air. But something is different . . . something changed from when he last came. A box has been set up before the rack with scattered implements and items on top of it. A bone knife. A pack of Tarot cards. A small, wax candle. A doll of an angel. A tattered photograph of a young girl. He walks closer, seeing a glimmer of metal from the muddy floor. He bends and picks it up, shaking off the encrusted mud. He drops it almost as soon as he sees what it is: a metal flechette from his old wings. . . .


Part 3: Child


Rogue stands in the cool air of the Danger Room. It is scented with metal and the perfume which she is wearing - an expensive, elusive fragrance that defies description. She has not bothered to change since returning home from her date with Gambit - she is still wearing the long, green dress that she changed into that morning. The skirt is folded concertina-style and falls down from her mid-section in pleats. Her hair is upswept in a loose bun and strands escape around the nape of her neck. Around her neck is an old silver locket, battered and worn with time.

"Forget me not," she whispers as she reads the inscription, "Cody."

She had not expected to see Cody's cousin, nor to be reminded of her own guilty past. A past which she is in the process of exorcizing through blood and sweat and tears.

"Load sim: Caldecott," she says in a trembling voice, clasping the amulet as if it will protect her.

"Loading . . . ."

The harsh metal of the Danger Room disappears to be replaced by a verdant field, bisected by a river - the Mississippi. Flowers are blown gently by a spring wind, tousled heads of yellow midst long grass. The air is sweet with their scent.

"Sabrina. It's been so long," the blond haired man opens his arms to embrace her, but she stands still, unmoved and unmoving.

"Cody . . . Ah . . . ."

"You've betrayed me, haven't you?"

"No . . . ."

"You love another now an' have forgotten all about me. Me. The man you killed."

She nods slowly, "Ah do love another. But Ah haven't forgotten. How could Ah?" She holds out the silver locket to him. "Forget me not, remember?."

"What must Ah say, Sabby? What will make it right between us?"

"Nothin' now. Ah'm here ta be punished, not ta reconcile."

"Sugah, you don't deserve that. We were kids - it was as much mah fault as yours."

"Don't say that! It was mah powers that drained your life away . . . ."
"It was me who kissed you."

"An' it was me who led you on."

Cody's face fades away with her anger to be replaced by a much older, crueller face. A face which has haunted her nightmares ever since she made her escape from her nightmare life.

"So. Mah baby girl has returned . . . ."

"Daddy."

"You lost all right ta call me that when you turned out ta be a freak."

"Daddy."

"Shut up, freak."

He draws his hand back and hits her across her cheek. Physically, it does nothing, but, psychologically, it smarts. Again and again, he strikes while she stands passively and lets the demons attack.

"Ah deserve this . . . Ah-deserve-this . . . oh-lawd-please-help-me-someone . . .
daddy-no-not-again . . . ." The confusion in her mind clarifies to a single, crystal thought, "Remy . . . Ah need you."

The door to the Danger Room opens, throwing light over the rapidly dissipating scene. Green meadows become steel once more. Flowers disappear abruptly to be replaced by the petals of scrolling LCD read-outs.

"What de hell . . . ."

Rogue is kneeling in the middle of the Danger Room in supplication or in prayer, tears streaming freely down her pale cheeks. Gambit bites back his hasty words of accusation. Her mind-scream had torn through his psyche, leaving him both worried and in pain.

"You came . . . . How?"

"Shhh. Oui . . . . I heard ya," Gambit bends down and takes her into his arms.

"Ohgawdohgawdohgawd," she sobs against his shoulder, repeating the words over and over again.

"Let it all out, girl. No-one has t'see dis."

"'Cept you."

"I c'n go if ya want me to."



"No . . . no . . . . Need you here. With me," she sniffed, "Please . . . don't tell anyone."

"It be our secret."

"Ha!" Rogue laughs weakly, "Got enough o' those between us."

"So we do, m'love. Don' t'ink dis one will hurt anyone though."

Time will prove him wrong as a third-party is privy to her pain. A pair of malevolent yellow eyes watches over them like a dark angel. An avenging angel. Marrow smiles and slips away from the observation booth.



"Hey!" Joseph exclaims as Marrow bumps into him as she flees down the passage.

"Out of my way, white-hair."

"Where have you come from?"

"The Danger Room. Not that that is any of your business," she smiles thinnly, considering something, "Skunkhead is in there with Traitor. They're pretty cosy."

"Skunkhead . . . . Rogue?"

"Yeah. Traitor-lover was upset by a boy with golden hair. A boy whose life she stole."

"I don't . . . ."

"Traitor heard her call him in her mind and came like a knight in shining armor."

"I need . . . ."

"Now that golden boy is going to steal both their lives."

"How?"

Marrow smiles enigmatically, "Why would I tell you, white-head? You love the one who Traitor loves. You would tell her and she would tell him."

"I . . . ." Joseph thinks desperately, "I hate . . . ."

"Don't try to lie, boy. You don't have the intelligence required," Marrow strokes his cheek with a bony forefinger, "Ta ta."

"But . . . ."

Marrow disappears, taking with her her pain and her secrets.



Angel bends over the altar, picking up the photograph. The young girl smiles back, fear in her eyes. It is black-and-white - crumbling at the edges, brittle to the touch. Despite the strangeness of the face, there is something familiar about her as if he has seen her before.

"Why the fear?" he asks himself, "What does she know about terror?"

Angel has known terror - seen it come in the Marauders who flayed and killed and stole his wings. Watched impotently as the Massacre unfolded before his eyes. Listened to the screams and could do nothing.

"And how did one of my flechettes come to be here?"

There is a mystery to be solved in this choice of implements. A ritual to be unraveled. Why the candle and the angel? The girl and the cards? The bone knife and the flechette? Footsteps echo hollowly down the tunnels and Angel swiftly hides behind the rack. Tuneless singing crooning an ancient lullaby accompanies the footsteps. Marrow emerges from darkness into gloom.

"Here, my angel, is another offering. Another gift to ease your years of torment."

Angel could hear something new being placed on the altar.

"A photograph of the two people whose blood will be poured out in offering to you."

The child then thought that he was some kind of god to be worshiped?

"You who live again must give me new life. Beauty for my ugliness. I am unworthy to be called your servant."
More scrabbling on the altar and a sigh.

"Tell you what, Angela. I would give anything to be you. To have your beauty."

Soft sobs begin as the footsteps fade away into the distance. The child has left, but what of the offering which she seeks to bring to him? Angel picks up the new photograph which is lying face down on the altar. Two people smile out at him, oblivious of the dark future which has been planned for them. Angel drops the photograph - he knows who is to be the sacrifice, but
he does not know whether he wants to prevent it.



"That child is the wild card," Marie turns away in impatience, "The one who will cause the game to be won or lost. I had not foreseen her interference, Mattie."

"Shall we move now or wait?"

"Wait until the future clarifies so that we may better serve them."

"Them?"

"I have seen that the truth of your nephew's actions will soon be revealed and I see that that may cause the most pain of all."

"The truth is seldom easy."

"That it is not. But it will be the fire by which the gold of their love is purified and tested."

"Unless they burn first."

"Have faith, Marie. If not in them, then in the ultimate purpose of the universe."

"Sometimes the universe seems purposeless from where I stand."

"Then you are not looking hard enough. All fits into a greater pattern."

"So we hope."

"So we trust."

"Let us continue in hope - soon will come the time to act."

"Too soon, I fear," Mattie looks very old all of a sudden, "Too soon."



Joseph is slumped outside the locked door of the Danger Room, cursing the archaic system for the millionth time. He has been waiting here for half-an-hour, unsure of whether to go or stay. The door slides open and her subtle, undefinable fragrance fills the air.

"Rogue . . . ." he stands, suddenly aware of how beautiful she is in her green dress with her hair taken up upon her head.

Her eyes are startled, like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, and, like that deer, it seems that she wishes to run. To bolt but is trapped. Gambit stands behind her, solid for all his lean height. His red eyes glow with warning, sending a clear reminder of their earlier conversation.

"Yeah?" her voice is scared.

"You look lovely."

"Glad ta see that you're feelin' better."

"We need to talk. Marrow is . . . is . . . threatening something."

"Next he'll tell us dat de Titanic's sunk."

"Really? I thought . . . . Never mind. She says that she'll use the golden boy to get to you."

Rogue looks up at Gambit in consternation and puzzlement.

"Th' golden boy?"

"Whose life you stole," Joseph adds eagerly.

"Cody," she whispers.

"Mon ami, dere ain't no way Marrow c'n use Cody t'get t'Rogue - Cody be dead. Candra killed him."

"Oh but . . . ."

"Gawd. Why won't he leave me alone?"

"Ya heard de lady, Joe. Allez-vous tout de suite."

"Ah meant Cody, Remy. Seems like he'll haunt me ta mah dyin' day at this rate."

"Non - Marrow can't use him t'get t'ya.Ya said dat ya let him go back dere in N'Awlins. He got no power over ya any more."

"No, he does - th' scene in th' restaurant proved that. He still makes me feel . . . feel dirty an' guilty when Ah think 'bout what Ah did ta him."

Gambit hugs her quickly and Joseph stiffens at the easy, familiar gesture.

"De Massacre has de same effect on me, chere. Jus' need t't'ink o' de looks on de faces o' . . . o' de children an' it makes everyt'ing I've done since seem a pathetic attempt t'do penance."

"Lawd. We've both got our pasts, hon. They still have power over us. We can't deny that - we've gotta accept it an' move on. Why's it so hard ta do so?"

"At least, you can remember your pasts," Joseph blurts out, "They say that a man is the sum of his actions - I can't even remember mine. What does that make me?"

Rogue touches his shoulder gently and cold shivers run parallel to his spine, "A man with a chance ta make a new start."

"A lucky dog wit'out baggage."

"Gawd. Why can't Ah have amnesia? Or at least one o' th' minds inside me."

"Mine, chere?"

"Yes . . . an' no. It's kinda flatterin' ta know what you really think about me," she smiles, a brief flash of sweetness, "Ah nevah woulda guessed that you thought Ah looked cute in spandex."

"Ya don' know . . . ."

"That y'all think that our first child should be named Sabine? Ain't it a bit early ta be thinkin' o' that?"

"It never be too early."

Joseph clears his throat, uncomfortable with their intimacy.

"Ummm . . . what about Marrow?"

"We're dealing with her," Rogue suddenly becomes the hardened fighter again, "We won't let her get ta us. Even if'n she brings on Cody, Belladonna an' the rest o' th' shadows from our pasts."

Joseph nods, satisfied and unsatisfied at the same time. He needs to speak to Rogue alone - to discuss matters of his life and his heart. For now, he turns away and walks slowly down the passage to his room where he will think of what to say when he gets the chance.


Part 4: Grace


Gambit sits, cross-legged, on the floor of his empty room. His attention is focused on a single card - a strange, sick combination of the Queen of Swords and the Queen of Cups. In black, forcible scrawl, the words 'We all have two faces' are written across the woman. Who could have left this here to remind him of Rogue's betrayal? The anger rises up in his chest at the memory and he suppresses it. Her mocking words still have a subtle, undefinable sting that hurts him every time he remembers them. A poison designed to wound and kill, because it was distilled from his own fears and shame. Gambit hates himself for these feelings - for using her as a tool to deliver and carry out the sentence that he felt he deserved. Death. He remembers the words of the old Catholic priest from childhood: 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.' Death for death. Murder for murder. He remembers the look on the face of an unknown Morlock - the anguish and terror. She had caught at his legs and had begged him for mercy. For her child's sake. Sabretooth had known no mercy when he cut her throat while she was on her knees. The child had lain in her dead mother's arms, howling like a little, forgotten animal. He'd had no choice. He'd snatched her up and ran - ran until the blood and screams seemed to be a fever-dream. Ran until his legs gave out and had fallen, whispering over and over again how sorry he was. That it may have meant nothing to her then, but he hoped she could forgive him in time. Tears, as warm and sticky as blood, flow freely down his cheeks at the shame of the memory. For the first time in ten years, Gambit cries for the man he once was.


Rogue opens the door to her room. Weeks have passed since her return from space and she has got it into some semblance of order. Her bed is piled with stuffed toys - teddy bears and clowns, dolls and angels. A white coverlet is spread over it with a matching pillow trimmed with lace. Next to her bed, photographs stand. Fortunately, she had saved the negatives - hidden them under a floorboard where Bastion's Sentinels had not searched - and had had them redeveloped. A desk by the large window admits plenty of light and it is covered with piles of papers and books. Essays by various experts in the field of mutancy and mutant powers. She has been sitting up late at night, reading them. On top of this pile is a small bouquet of blue flowers and she smiles. Gambit must have left them for her. She picks them up and holds them to her nose - their soft scent is as sweet and fresh as childhood. Cody gave her flowers similar to these . . . . Rogue freezes instantly - these are forget-me-nots. A small card falls out from where it has been concealed by the blooms and Rogue stoops and reads it. In forcible, black copperplate, the words 'We cannot forget our pasts' are written on its cream surface. Her past . . . . her private hell of abuse by her step-father . . . . daddy . . . . traitor . . . . Rogue throws the flowers away from her, crushing them with a heel as if she would destroy her history. Angrily, she picks up a doll with blonde hair and a vacuous expression and tears it limb from limb. Stuffing falls out onto the floor, white and puffy as clouds. Not blood like that which seeped from her cuts so long ago. The smug smile is still on the doll's face - holding an unknown and searched for secret to happiness. Next to be dismembered is a pale yellow teddy-bear, then a stuffed puppy, then another doll . . . . The floor is white with stuffing like the snows of Antarctica. Rogue sinks to her knees, utterly spent. Tears spill down her cheeks like they have too often these past few weeks. She wishes that she could escape - could fly so high or run so fast that she could leave who she is behind. Bury it in the cold, wasteland of her heart under Antarctic snows. However, the card states the truth of her whole life: 'We cannot forget our pasts'.


Marrow smiles to herself as she fingers the delicate blooms of the forget-me-nots. They were a nice touch, she decides. The coup de grace. The straw that broke the camel's back. She tosses the flowers onto the soapbox altar and picks up some other implements. She whistles to herself as she whittles the wax of the candle into a shape - a woman with long, wavy hair. Nearby, a man stands in front of an aged photograph - he is also made of wax. Expertly carved by the hands of an angry child whose hate has translated itself into art. The girl in the photograph has such a longing look as she stares blankly forward into space. A tall, severe man in a priest's collar has his hand on her shoulder, tightening in a grip around it. The other figure, a woman, has a nervous smile and eyes that seem to be constantly searching for happiness and never finding it.

"Oh, Angela . . . ." Marrow sighs, "Soon I will be free of my past. Soon their blood will buy me my peace."

The girl's eyes stare back at her with fear and, if she could speak, it looks almost as if she would say: 'We cannot escape our pasts.'


Warren Worthington sits on the rooftops, staring into the stormy horizon. Clouds gather there as they have been gathering for a number of days, threatening, watching, waiting. This fallen angel is undergoing a crisis of conscience - deciding between what he knows is right and what is his right. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, his grand-mother always said. He clenches his hand into a fist, squeezing tight as if the act will provide him strength. Perhaps it does, because he knows what he will do.


Gambit hides the combined tarot card beneath one of the floorboards in the room. He does not want to worry Rogue with its implications - the meaning which he behind the smiles of the half-Queens on the card. The knock on the door is gentle, calm. He quickly replaces the floor-board and wipes his eyes against the sleeve of his shirt.

"Entrez-vous," his voice, when he speaks, is as steady and cocky as always.

The door opens and Storm slips into his denuded room. Her blue eyes are nervous as she looks at him.

"Good afternoon," she greets after a long pause.

"Salut, Stormy. What brings ya t'my corner of de mansion?"

"Shopping."

"Shopping?" he sounds skeptical, "Chere, de only t'ing ya could pick up from m'room is splinters right now."

"That is precisely why I propose an expedition into town. To acquire some furniture and clothes - perhaps some paint as well."

"Hate t'break it t'ya, Stormy. I'm broke."

"Don't call me that," she chides automatically, "And as for you being 'broke', I sincerely doubt that a thief of your caliber is without resources."

He laughs, "Ya know me too well, chere."

Lifting up the same floor board, he removes a wallet filled with sundry credit cards.

"Who is goin' t'pay f'r us t'day?"

"Remy . . . you have stolen credit cards?"

"Non. Simply 'nough 'liases t'last a lifetime," he grins, "Should I be Monsieur Alain duPrix? Or jus' plain, ol' James Jones?"

"Is Remy leBeau too poor to pay for his own accouterments?"

"Non," he removes an American Express Platinum card, "Never wanted t'use dis money - got it from pinches. From a couple o' rich men."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Storm answers, "And I would classify these times as desperate."

"Oui, but dere are some t'ings dat money won't buy back," he frowns slightly, "Photos. De garter I caught at Jean and Scott's wedding. Letters. Bastion took more dan our t'ings - he took ev'ryt'ing dat marked us as people."

"That is true, but he could not take the one thing that makes us who we are - that truly makes us human - memories, compassion, love."

"Mais oui," he shrugs, "We going now?"

"Certainly," she opens the door for him, "We can take my car . . . ."


Joseph stands on the threshold of the mansion, watching the clouds drift by the cerulean sky. It is a beautiful day - the air is crisp with the promise of rain and storms. He sees the car pull out from the driveway, watches as the two X-Men leave the premises and knows that if he is to confront Rogue, this would be the perfect time. He also feels the need to protect her and so he wonders if he should not rather leave her be for the moment. Desire and love conflict in this man's heart, tearing him in two. Yet . . . this is his life, the truth of who he is, and how long can he postpone that? Until Rogue's affairs are in order? Is that fair to himself? Or her? How can he love a woman - give his heart to her - if he doesn't know to whom the heart belongs? Joseph watches the sky and hopes for an answer.


Gambit groans as Storm drags him to yet another furniture store. They have spent an hour walking from store to store, looking at beds, chairs and desks - all of which have begun to look the same to him.

"Oh, Remy - is this not the most beautiful bed you have ever seen?" Storm stops rapt before a four-poster bed complete with veils and curtains.

"Frankly, chere - way I'm feelin', any bed would be beautiful 'long as I could sleep in it," he answers, "But, non, dat bed be more f'r Sleepin' Beauty dan me.

"Then this one?" she points to a simple bed with a wooden base and headboard.

"Bien."

"Let us buy it then!" Storm claps her hands together like a child on her birthday, "Assistant!"

An obsequious looking man arrives on the scene, clutching a notepad. His hair is greased back in such a way as to make John Travolta proud and he rubs his bony hands together.

"Sir, Ma'am?"

"I'd like t'buy dis bed."

"An excellent choice - are you sure you would not prefer a double model?"

"Us?" Storm looks horrified, "No, we are simply friends. I came shopping with him because his *girlfriend* was busy."

"Charge or cash? We have an excellent credit plan if you wish to pay in installments."

"Non - charge it," Gambit hands him his credit card, "Ya need me t'sign anyt'ing?"

"Simply this slip," he gives the cajun a print-out and he signs it, "Would you like it delivered?"

"S'il vous plait. To 1407 Graymalkin Lane in Westchester."

"Thank you, sir. You will not regret it."

"Let's hope not," Storm replies, "Thank you very much."

"Merci," Gambit takes his credit card back from the man, "Where to now, mon amie?"

"Clothes."

"Dieu me sauve," he whispers as they walk in the direction of an upmarket men's outfitter.

[God save me]


Tears have given way to sleep in one room at 1407 Graymalkin Lane. In the middle of the snowy field of batting, Rogue dreams.

Her mother was wearing a white dress. Her tawny hair, her one beauty, had been swept up upon her hair and fixed with a silver clip. She had looked like an angel, the child had thought as she had watched her with huge, green eyes. And her soon-to-be father was both charming and handsome, a Baptist minister, to boot, with an adoring congregation. People came from as far as Natchez to hear him speak. He stood at his podium, night after night, and expounded their sins to them, revealed God to their empty hearts, led them in worship to the Most High. (The child would only realise much later that his favorite verse of scripture was 'spare the rod and spoil the child'.) The congregation was elated at the match between the beautiful Gloria Butler and the handsome William Parker. There was, of course, the resurrection of the old, old rumor of Gloria's indiscretion as evidenced by the little girl, but most people forgot that in the joy of the ceremony. The first few weeks were something out of Cinderella - the poor girl marrying a handsome prince and living happily ever after. Ever after lasted a month. The cracks started showing in their marriage - the holy Reverend Parker had a taste for stronger alcohol than the communion wine and turned their home into a hell of abuse when he was drunk, purged their sin through beatings.

The child bore the brunt of his anger because she served as a constant reminder of his wife's indiscretion. He prayed as he hit her - begged God to forgive her father's sins - told her that this was the only way to heaven for an illegitimate child such as herself. The girl cried and begged and pleaded, but he never showed mercy. Often, her slender body was so bruised that she couldn't lie or sit but had to stand. . . .

Rogue whimpers softly, as the belt comes down hard once more, lost in her nightmare past.


"Remy . . . I wish to talk to you," Storm says as she helps him load the parcels into the car.

"I'm not stoppin' ya," Gambit answers, his eyes probing her with nervous anticipation in their burning depths .

"I do not know if you have noticed, but Rogue is acting strangely."

"Oui, I've noticed," he replies curtly.

"What is the cause of her distress?"

"It's private - she wouldn' want me t'tell."

"I am her best friend," she reminds him.

"Bien - but I didn' tell ya dis," he removes a cigarette from his pocket and lights it, ignoring Storm's disapproving looks, "It be about Cody."

"Cody?"

"She hasn' told ya, has she? Cody was de name of de boy she kissed an' put into a coma - de boy dat Candra killed."

"And why has the memory of this Cody suddenly returned to haunt her?"

"Ya know de time we went t'breakfast de other day at Harry's? She saw Cody's cousin dere - she brought back all de old feelings o' guilt an' remorse. Found Rogue in the Danger Room, letting herself get beat up by a man."

"Cody?"

"Non - older. Probably her père."

"Why her father?"

"Mon dieu - f'r someone who claims t'be her best-friend, she hasn' told ya a lot."

"You know how close-lipped Rogue can be," Storm defers, "But please elucidate me."

"Her father was abusive - used t'beat her up."

Anger flares in Gambit's eyes as he speaks.

"Could explain why she was so scared of havin' a relationship. Between Cody and Daddy, her experiences wit' men haven't been too good."

"Goddess - the poor child . . . ."

"Ya c'n say that again," Gambit crushes the stub of his cigarette out beneath his feet where it smoulders and slams the trunk of the car shut, "My childhood wasn' easy, but at least I had a family who cared about me."

"Jean-Luc?"

"He loved me, Stormy. An' I let him down."

"I doubt that, Remy. You took the Elixir to save Belle's life because it was the only choice. Jean-Luc sent you away for the same reason."

"Still don't make it easier t'accept," he smiles wryly, "C'n ya wait while I pick one last t'ing up?"

"Certainly," Storm leans against the car and watches his progress.

Gambit walks a few feet away to where a woman is selling flowers on the pavement. Her body is thin with hunger and her hollow eyes look at him hopefully. She is wearing a tattered, print dress that once must have had daffodils on it and her hair is long and matted.

"Would you like some flowers, sir?"

"What d'ya have?" he asks, looking at the pitiful selection of daisies and violets. Forget-me-nots and roses.

"Everything that you see, sir."

He selects the least withered of the withered roses. They once must have been deep red, the color of heart blood.

"Dese'll do jus' fine," he takes them, "How much do I owe ya?"

"A dollar."

Gambit removes his wallet and takes out a ten dollar bill and hands it to the woman.

"Keep de change," he stands and turns away, replacing his wallet in his pocket.

"Wait . . . ." the flower-seller calls him back, "I mean . . . give the roses back to me."

"Quoi?" he hands them to her, perplexed.

A smile touches the weathered face of the woman and she caresses the petals of the flowers. Beneath her hands, they unfurl, rejuvenate, become whole again. Crinkled, dried blooms become velvety and smooth. The color deepens, becoming a rich, deep burgundy. Etiolated leaves are green once more.

"Consider this your own personal, post-Christmas miracle."

"Ya be a mutant?"

"A wife and a mother as well. Until my family was killed in a car accident and my husband's clan took everything he had," her eyes are lonely, "We cannot change our pasts. . . ."

"Madame - je suis très . . . ."

"Shhh . . . ." an impish, infectious smile crosses her face, "But we can take control of our futures."

"Oui . . . we can," he takes the roses from her again, "Merci . . . Madame?"

"Sunset Grace," she stands, "I hope these bring a smile to the face of your love, Charley-child."

"How d'ya know 'bout . . . ."

"There are more miracles in this world than people care to believe," she answers, "Accept this as one of them. A gift from Marie."

She touches his arm gently, with compassion in her faded blue eyes, and disappears. Gambit stands there for a long time, roses in his hands, and wonders.


Part 5: Dreams and Reality


The nightmares echo through her head when the mansion is quiet. They hunt her as silently as shadows. As callously as velocioraptors. Always in packs. Always going for the jugular. Always tearing her in two between future and past. Rogue descends into the darkness of her subconscious, but the dream is not hers. She is standing on top of a tower near Notre Dame in Paris - the air is cold against her face, heightened by the sweat that trickles icily down her forehead and cheekbones. Nearby, a man-beast stands, holding two ropes to which a man and a woman are tied. She clenches her fists - the pendant that she is holding cuts into her hand but she barely notices. Blood stains the starry brightness of the emerald. L'Etoile de Tricherie.

"Your choice . . . ."

She throws the pendant, watching in horror as it clatters to a stop by the feet of the man-beast.

He smiles and his white fangs gleam pale in the moonlight.

"You've got spunk, girl. I'll give you that," he sneers, "Unfortunately, spunk doesn't make up for having no brains."

He drops the ropes and she dives desperately, snatching at the nearest rope. It chafes against her raw hand and she closes her eyes too scared to see who she saved. And when she does . . . a man looks back at her, disappointment in his dark eyes.

She runs down, down, down into darkness. Until the streets of Paris give way to green fields. To a broad river that is brown with mud. There are two children playing in the river and they motion her to come join them. One has golden hair the color of daisies in the summer, the other has hair as brown as the river with a streak of white.

"Come on . . . don't be afraid . . . ."

She strips out of her uniform, ashamed of the fact that she is unashamed, then looks down and sees that she is dressed in a pale blue costume. She steps into the warm water, allowing her muscles to relax. The little girl looks at her with a smile on her face.

"You sure are pretty. Do you have a boyfriend?"

Rogue hesitates, unsure of whether to tell herself the truth.

"Yeah. Ah do."

"So do Ah. His name is Cody."

"Sabrina," the golden boy splashes her with muddy water, "Gross."

"Shut up. You're mah man, Cody."

"You have cooties," the boy retaliates, "All girls do. Why did momma say Ah have ta play with you?"

"B'cause you're in love with me," the girl's voice rises to a falsetto, "You said Ah was th' prettiest girl you'd ever seen."

"Pfft," Cody sticks his tongue out at the other child, "The homeliest you mean. You couldn't get a boyfriend if'n you caught one with a fishin' pole."

"That's not very nice. Tell him, ma'am," the little girl looks at her with pleading green eyes.

"Don't worry. Ah know that Cody secretly worships th' ground you walk on."

"Told you so."

"She's an adult. She has a . . . ick . . . boyfriend."

"Is he cute?"

"Very," Rogue smiles, feeling like an adolescent all over again.

"Bet he's not as cute as Cody."

"Shut up, Sabrina."

"Sabrina?" a voice calls from the bushes, "Sabrina Celine Parker - if'n you don't come out here right now . . . ."

The little girl shoots a worried look at her older self.

"Daddy. Lawd . . . Ah've done it now."

"Why, sugah?"

"He thinks Ah'll turn out ta be a slut, just like momma was. Run away with Cody or else get inta trouble," she climbs out of the river and Rogue can see the old scars and welts that criss-cross her back as well as the new ones.

"But you're just a kid . . . ."

"Yeah. Tell that ta daddy."

"Maybe Ah will," Rogue climbs out of the river as well, self-conscious of the wet costume that clings to her.

"Sabrina. There you are . . ." her step-father looks at her with dislike, "Come on home."

"She's not goin' with you," Rogue says quietly.

"Who are you ta tell me what ta do, you jezebel?"

The holy Reverend Parker has obviously not missed too many meals. He folds his arms across the paunch that strains his severe black suit. Fat hangs in bags beneath his eyes.

"Your daughter . . . ."

"Jezebel. Lyin' witch," he lifts his hand and strikes her and she cries out in agony.

Her back begins to bleed - old wounds and scars opening to emit fresh blood. It pours in a torrent to her feet.

"Go ta Sheol," he pushes her into the river where she sinks, deeper and deeper into muddy blackness.

She lifts her face to the sky, but only sees bricks and mortar. She is in some sort of tunnel - has fallen asleep with a child in her arms. Bones stick out from the little girl's face and she whimpers as she sleeps.

"Wake up, sugah."

The child opens mad yellow eyes, watches her with intense hate.

"Traitor."

"Ah'm sorry, Sarah. Ah didn't mean ta . . . . Ah didn't know it would be this bad," she finishes lamely.

"Doesn't give me back my life."

"Ah know an' Ah'm sorry."

"That all you can say. All you know how to do."

"Here," she digs in her pocket, surprised at the fact that she is wearing a trenchcoat, and hands a thick wallet to the child.

"Keep your money," the girl dashes it out of her hands, the dollar bills flutter to the floor like leaves from a tree.

"Please. Ah don't have anythin' ta give you 'cept this."

"No. It will make you feel better and I don't want you to. Not until the day you die."

"Can Ah take you to a shelter?"

"No. You've done enough," the girl pushes her away and runs off into darkness. . . .


Gambit whistles tunelessly to himself as he pushes the front door open with his shoulder. His hands are laden with parcels and Storm follows behind him with equally much stuff. He clasps the roses in a sticky hand, ignoring the thorns that prick into him.

"How much further, Remy?"

"Up de stairs, chere, and den left a little way. Pourquoi?"

"I believe I am going to drop everything in a few seconds," Storm says from between clenched teeth.

Gambit laughs, "C'n I take somet'ing else?"

"No . . . I will be fine . . . ." Storm gasps, "I hope . . . goddesspleasehelpme . . . ."

The parcels fall then halt midair, held by an unseen hand. Or mind.

"I am afraid I am no goddess," Jean says with a smile, "But I'll help anyway."

"Merci, Jeannie."

"Did you feel an urge to buy *all* of Macy's, Remy?"

"Non, jus' a few floors."

"Those roses are lovely."

"Got dem from a femme called Sunset Grace. Old an' weird-lookin'."

"Sunset Grace?" Cyclops asks from behind Jean, "I thought she had returned to her Neverneverland."

"She had," Phoenix lowers the parcels to the floor, "I wonder what compelled her to return."

"Marie," Gambit says wryly, "M'tante's busybody friend."

"I see," Cyclops rubs his chin, "Can we help carry things?"

"Merci," Gambit dumps the entire contents of his arms into Scott's, "I'll go back f'r de next load."

"Next load?" Phoenix goes pale, "Remy? Do you really need this much stuff?"

"Not dat much," he protests, "Lot of it is f'r redecoratin' de mansion. Stormy talked me into buyin' it."

Storm shrugs, "He seems to have more money than any of us."

"Den dere's de year's supply o' playin' cards. I'm out, save f'r one which I wouldn' t'row away if m'life depended on it."

"Which one?"

"Queen o' Hearts," he grins, "Actually m'life probably does depend on it. Rogue'd kill me if I got rid o' it."

"You know how I asked you all that time ago exactly what it was that you had with Rogue?" Cylcops says after a momentary pause.

"Oui. I remember sayin' dat it depended on what day of de week it was."

"What is it now?"

Gambit laughs, "Fear, mon ami. Fear."

Jean echoes his laughter, "Why can't I get my hubby to be equally terrified?"

"Simple, cherie. Ya don' bench-press triple ya own body weight f'r a light work-out."

"Hmmm . . . ." Jean says teasingly, "Perhaps I should get out those Jane Fonda tapes again."

Cyclops laughs and begins walking up the stairs.

"Just as long as you don't think that it's my conjugal duty to exercise with you."

Jean smiles, "You looked cute in spandex."

"Ha. Ha.. Ha," Scott says sarcastically, "It obviously didn't work. My arms are falling off - this stuff weighs a ton."

"Come on, oh whiny husband," Jean walks up the stairs, keeping the parcels steady with her mind as she does so, "Or else I will decide that you need five hours of Jane Fonda's particular skills."

Storm smiles at Gambit as the married couple departs, teasing each other as they do so.

"I don' t'ink dey realize how lucky dey are."

"People who are completely happy rarely do."

"Oui," he says quietly, "Wouldn' wish what happened t'me an' Rogue on dem, even if it did help dem appreciate what dey've got."

"At least you two still are together," Storm sighs, "No matter how much I deny it, I miss Forge."

"So do I. He was de only person who could set de VCR."

"Remy . . . ." Storm cautions, her eyes growing sad, "The strangest thing about it all is that I do not miss the man, I miss the feeling of being in love. Of being loved."

"Know what ya mean," he says, "Let's get de rest o' de parcels, chere."

"I'll do it," she smiles, "With the help of certain new members of the team . . . ."

Maggott, who has just walked into the room, pauses in horror.

"'Certain members', skatjie?"

[darling - literally means, little treasure.]

"You are an X-Man. We help each other."

"Met bagasie ook?"

Storm and Gambit exchange a look of complete confusion.

"Ain't no language I ever heard."

"I believe it is Afrikaans."

"Ag . . . ." Maggott throws up his hands in defeat, "I said . . . with baggage as well?"

"Yes," Storm grasps his arm and pulls him in the direction of the door.

"Actually, liefling, this could be better than I thought," Maggott grins as they exit, leaving Gambit alone to climb the stairs with the roses in his gloved hand.


Darkness. Deep, impenetrable darkness like a black hole, sucking in all the light. It surrounds her, caging her in from all sides. She feels so small, so weak and helpless against this all consuming blackness. Suddenly, pale gray light fills the landscape, revealing scrubby bushes and interminable sand. On a twisted sign, where the words blur into dancing shadows, sits a raven.

"Where am Ah?"

"At the cross-roads," the bird replies, "You may go in any direction."

"But Ah can't read th' sign. Ah don't know where to go."

The bird laughs, hoarsely and mockingly.

"What makes you think that I will tell you?"

"Please . . . ."

"Very well."

The words in the sign become clear like crisp dagger-strokes in the wood. Written on them are two unfamiliar names - Scylla and Charybdis.

"Ah still don't understand."

"Maybe this will be more familiar."

The words shift again, phasing in and out like beating birds' wings. The devil and the deep Blue Sea. L'Enclume et le marteau. A rock and a hard place.

"There's no way ta win," she says.

"Well done."

The ground gives way and she falls into blackness. When she looks up again, she is standing in a deserted alleyway. A wind blows old candy wrappers across the cobblestones and she bends and picks one up. The words on it are clear - "Forget-me-not Chocolates." She flings the box away from her and runs until her legs give out, hides in the darkest corner of the darkness.

"Come out . . . ." The little girl is once more standing there, holding out a hand, "I'll not let you go."

She takes the child's hand and as she does so, the girl shimmers and is replaced by a woman. An older one with bitterness in her emerald green eyes. Her lips curve in a secretive smile and she holds a card out to Rogue.

"Take it . . . ."

Hands shake as she does so and she drops it, watching as it flips it over. Ace of Spades that trembles and is replaced by the Queen of Hearts. A voice fills the alleyway.

"What has come to pass is what I have always wanted, we are one. I am you and you are me."

"What?"

"I am the traitor betrayed by his love. The traitor becomes the betrayed. The betrayed, the traitor. The circle is complete."

"Show yourself," she picks up the card and charges it with kinetic energy. The alleyway is filled with sickly red light.

A young man steps out, shrouded by darkness, wearing it like a cloak. He drops the darkness, filling the alley with coruscating light. Rogue covers her eyes, scared to be blinded yet again as she was once by Strobe.

"No need to be afraid. I love you. Unconditionally."

The mocking echo of the words which she had spoken in Antarctica tear through her heart.

"Get away."

"I can't. I am you and you are me."

"We are not th' same."

"Yes, we are," the light dims, leaving behind a slender man with eyes that remember the color of blood.

"Remy . . . ." she whispers, "Please don't do this."

"Ya be afraid, ma cherie. No need. I won' hurt ya."

"You won't?"

"Non. But I won' save ya either. It's up t'you whether you live or die. I don' care anymore."

"No . . . no . . . ."

The cobblestones vanish, becoming silver snow. Rogue sinks, clawing desperately, fighting her way up to the surface. She cannot fly. The snow closes above her head. Something touches her shoulder and she looks up and sees the raven.

"Wake up . . ." it says.


"Wake up . . . ." Gambit shakes Rogue more than a little roughly, worried by the words which pour out in a meaningless stream from her mouth. The tears that still stain her cheeks. Green eyes open and look at him with an ancient weariness in their depths.

"Ya were asleep," he explains, "Havin' a bad dream."

"Mmmm . . . a dream," she echoes, not properly awake yet.

"Ya look - an' ya'll excuse m'honesty - like hell. Ya been gettin' enough sleep, girl?"

She shakes her head, "No . . . not really."

"An' it doesn' seem like all de warm milk in de world will help, henh?"

"Don't know," she props herself up, picking stuffing out of her hair.

"Ya should go see Beast. Get a sleeping pill."

"That won't help. Ah'm scared . . . . so scared, sugah."

"Would it help if I spent de night?"

Rogue laughs, "Any excuse, huh?"

Gambit grins at her in return, glad to see that she has finally snapped out of her somber mood.

"Dese are f'r ya."

He hands her the roses, wrapped in a torn brown paper bag. Rogue takes them, lifts them to her face and inhales the sweet, velvety fragrance.

"These are beautiful," she leans forward and quickly hugs him, "Ah love you so much."

"Glad ya like dem."

"Ah'll go get a vase."

"Are ya goin' t'be okay?"

"Fine," she smiles, "Ah think everythin' is goin' ta turn out just fine."


Marrow smiles as she hears Rogue's last words, stroking the knife which she holds in her hand.

"Yes, traitor-lover, everything is going to turn out just fine . . . ."


Part 6: The Angel of Death


Down here in the basement, it is dank and dark. Cobwebs festoon the ceiling in silken drapery, the floor is hard concrete. A pallet of old rags lies in one corner, musty and unwashed. Angel supresses the bile that rises up in his throat at the stench, at the fear and guilt which he feels. The flashlight which he grips in one sweaty palm does not seem to be proof against the shadows. Light from it plays over the walls, revealing dire carvings. "Blood sacrifice shall appease the slaughtered." "Darkness breeds strength." "Monsters rise from souls." And, finally, strangely, "Light shall dispel all fear." Angel runs his fingers along the jagged letters, tears running down his cheeks. Tears of pity both for himself and the child who carved it. Sadness gives way to rage - bitter like gall in his tight throat - and he thinks of the man who caused it. The traitor to them all.

"Why couldn't you have died in Antarctica, Remy? Why did you have to come back and make me remember?"

"Because then we couldn't slay him," her voice is like the scraping of nails on a chalkboard.

"Marrow? Is that you?"

"Yes, bright Angel. It is me," she steps into the small circle of light, shielding her yellow eyes.

"Heaven have mercy on my soul," he whispers to himself and then more loudly, "I am here to help you, Marrow."

"Good," she nods curtly, professionally, "Two hands are always better than one."

"What must I do?"

Marrow smiles madly, the detachment gone from her face.

"You know, Angel."


Cinema images play themselves over and over again in the space of her head. Black and white, color, it makes no difference. Shadows, rainbows, dance on the wall of her heart. Of her memory. Some of these images are not even her own - seem to have been cut in by some unskilled editor, tragicomic by nature. She sees them in her head - the moon and stars over the Mississippi, the excitement of a new G . I . Joe Figurine on her birthday (No, not her birthday, Cody's), the heart-wrenching agony of a brother killed by a few hour's husband, the softness of a mother's touch on blonde hair ("Sweet dreams, Carol"), the mad excitement of snatching a garter and fulfilling a superstition. All these she knows and wants to forget. Rogue looks around her room as she lies in her narrow bed - the mess of earlier has been cleaned up and the floor-boards gleam dully in the moonlight. Her life may yet regain some semblance of order. A knock sounds softly in the silence, hanging in the air, and she climbs out of bed, straightening her white nightshirt as she does so.

"Who's there?"

Silence is her answer and she cautiously opens the door. A note is pinned to the wood. Rogue snatches it, tearing the elegant white writing paper in her haste.

"Meet me in the basement - Remy."

She crumples it up and tosses it in the trash can.

'Why can't he speak ta me like a normal guy? Ask me ta come with him?' she complains, walking back to her room and getting a flannel robe, 'Why so late? Why th' basement?'

Rogue pads silently down the stairs in her slippers, clutching the robe around her for warmth. The door to the basement is ajar and she slips in.

"This had better be good, cajun," she drawls impatiently, "It's cold an' Ah'm tired."

"Oh, it is, sweet Rogue," the voice from behind her is familiar, a slow southern accent, "It's very good."

"Who are you?" Rogue snaps, "Step out inta th' light so Ah can see you."

The young man enters the light, blinking his blue eyes and running a nervous hand through his golden hair.

"Cody, silly."

Dread causes Rogue's chest to constrict.

"But . . . but . . . you can't be. Cody's dead."

"Candra didn't kill me," he explains, "Ah was just unconscious - woke up after you abandoned me. Left me ta die."

"You said goodbye ta me. Said that Ah should be happy. Said that your time had come."

"Put two and two together, darlin'. Mattie is your boyfriend's aunt an' Ah was th' only thing standin' between you and him. She's got psychic powers . . . ."

"Remy wouldn't do somethin' like that," she stutters, "You didn't have a pulse."

"Mattie supressed it with some herbs. Woman is a healer, remember?"

"Gawd - Ah'm sorry, Cody. Ah . . . Ah'm so sorry."

He smiles, stepping forward and taking her into his arms. Tears, warm and sticky, flow freely down her cheeks and onto his chest.

"All's forgiven, Sabby," he holds her at arm's length, looking at her, "You still wear my locket, don't you?"

She pulls it out of her nightdress, "Yeah - forget-me-not."

"Ah've got something else for you ta wear," he grins, "Somethin' that'll suit you a lot better'n old lockets."

"What?"

"Close your eyes, Sabrina."

Warmth fills her at the sound of her old name spoken by the familiar lips. His gloved hands gently brush her neck to be replaced by the icy bite of metal. As Rogue realizes that something is wrong, it is already too late. The collar is clicked into place. Her green eyes snap open and she wildly claws at her neck; at the thick, iron collar that surrounds it from jugular to clavicle.

"What are you playin' at, whoever you are?"

The image inducer fades and Angel smiles coldly at her.

"Warren . . . what in th' name o' all's holy are you doin'?"

"Revenge," Marrow steps out from behind him.

"Ah should've guessed," Rogue spits, "If you've hurt Gambit, Ah'll . . ."

"Your pwecious paramour is upstairs dreaming. It's just you, me and the Angel of Death," Marrow strokes Rogue's cheek with a bone dagger, "And may I ask what you'll do without your powers?"

The Mississippian kicks out, knocking the dagger out of Marrow's hands. Marrow swears and pulls out another one with a grimace of pain.

"This foh a start."

Warren draws his fist back and punches her in the jaw. Rogue's head snaps back and blood trickles out of her mouth.

"Your choice to allow Gambit to return meant that I have to be reminded of everything that happened to me every time I see him. I've wanted to do that to you for a long time."

"Warren . . . you don't have ta do this," Rogue pleads, "This isn't you."

"Shut up," he kicks her and she falls to the floor, clutching her ribs.

Stars dance before Rogue's eyes and her vision blurs and doubles. She staggers to an upright position and attempts to orient herself.

"You don't leave me any choice, sugah," she wheezes and delivers a leg-sweep to him that knocks him off his feet. 

"So you can fight even without your powers," Marrow laughs, "Good. The hunt is no fun when the prey is weak."

Marrow attacks swiftly from the side, slashing at the woman's arm with her bone knives. Rogue supresses a scream of pain and spins, lashing out wildly. A chance blow connects with Marrow's chin and the younger woman winces and retreats slightly. Rogue breathes a silent sigh of relief which is swallowed as she sees Angel return to the offensive. He has one of Marrow's bone knives in his hand and he smiles unpleasantly as he spins it. Rogue is weak from loss of blood and can barely fend off his blows. When she sees Marrow join him, like a velocioraptor joining its mate, she knows that the battle is over for her. That she has lost. The final blow, therefore, comes as no surprise to her. Marrow connects neatly with her cranium and Rogue collapses to the floor as the pain washes over her.


Gambit sits bolt upright in bed, scared by the scream that he has just felt tear through his mind. The resignation that followed the scream, then the deathly silence. He knows, instinctively, that something has happened to Rogue. That the something is entirely his fault. He climbs out of the bed, feeling sick to the stomach with fear. He runs along the hallway, little caring about the noise that he is making. He stops before the door to her room, knowing he must open the door and dreading it. It opens with a creak and he steps slowly into the cool room, praying to a god in whom he has given up hope that she is there. Her bed lies empty, save for a twisted mass of sheets and a pillow. A small brown teddy-bear with a spray-painted white stripe lies in the middle of the mess. Gambit picks it up, feeling his heart plummet within him as he does so, because a bone dagger is stabbed through its chest. Marrow.


Part 7: Bonds


Rogue wakes with a start as the icy, brackish water hits her face with a splash. Where is she? The floor beneath her hip is made of rough stone and grates against her already painful leg as she scrambles to a sitting position. Her chestnut hair with its distinctive stripe of white is matted with blood and dirt from where she was hit on the head. She looks around her - the walls are made of the same stone as the floor and, in one corner, a rack stands. Dried blood and the remains of ropes cling to the manacles attached to it.

"Get up," Warren Worthington prods her with a foot.

"Ah don't think I can," she croaks from between dry and swollen lips, "Mah leg . . . it's broken."

"Get up," he repeats cruelly, "Like I had to when I lost my wings."

The X-Woman steels herself against the daggers of pain that shoot through her as she gets to her feet. A tiny cry escapes her lips as she puts her weight on her damaged leg.

"Why are you doin' this, Warren?" she asks, tears of agony and terror, welling up in her eyes, "What have Ah done ta you?"

"Let the traitor back into our lives. Given the man who deserved nothing, everything."

"Ah love Remy. Ah had ta . . . ta forgive him."

"I've always thought you had lousy taste in men," his eyes narrow and Rogue feels sudden anger rush through her veins.

"Least he isn't a hypocrite," she retorts, "At least, he takes responsibility foh his crimes, Archangel."

Rogue places emphasis on the first syllable of the last word.

"Shut up," Angel punches her in the jaw, causing fresh torment to blossom behind her eyes in white hot streaks. She falls to the floor, limp as a rag-doll, trying to absorb as much of the shock as possible.

'Warren's gone crazy,' she thinks, 'He'll kill me unless Ah escape. Won't bother him neither. Gotta fight back. Gawd - if'n Ah can only get past him . . . .'

With supreme effort, Rogue battles to her feet, ignoring the pain.

"You like beatin' on helpless women?" she taunts, "Ah bet you did, Archangel. Bet you did everythin' Apocalypse told ya."

"SHUT UP."

As Rogue had anticipated, he flings himself at her. She spins out of the way, letting his momentum carry him into the wall.

'Damn leg . . . .' she swears as it flares up again, 'Won't get another chance though.'

Half-running, half-hopping, Rogue escapes into the dark tunnels. She does not get far. A silent, shadow-draped figure lands in front of her like a velvet-pawed cat.

"Nice try, skunkhead," Marrow grins, "But be a good damsel-in-distress and stay tied up next time?"

Rogue falls to her knees, exhausted, tears streaming down her dirty, raw cheeks. It was all for nothing . . . . She does not resist as Marrow administers her own unique form of anaesthetic again.


Gambit examines the disfigured teddybear further, disgust mixing with fear on his handsome face.

"Mon cher, petit amant - where has she taken ya?"

A small note hangs on a ribbon around the bear's neck and he pulls it off, ripping the thick, cream card.

'The angels watch as the sacrifice is made . . . .'

In annoyance, he crumples it up and throws it into the trash can. It has told him nothing, other than the fact that Rogue is in mortal danger and that he is powerless to prevent it.

"Dieu. Dis be all m'fault. If I had stayed away . . . if I had told her dat it was over f'r good . . . if I had let Joseph have her . . . ." he runs through lists of actions in his mind, the endless self-recrimination that has become his trademark

He can see her face in his mind. See the mocking smile with which she would counter his litany.

"Trash," Rogue would say, "If'n y'all had done any o' those things an' Ah had been forced ta carry on without you, Ah wouldn't have cared if'n Ah was alive or dead. It wouldn't have been much o' a life anyhow."

"At least ya would be *safe*," he argues with her in his head.

"Oh, hon, Ah've spent mah whole life playin' safe. Bein' restrained. Not lettin' mahself get close foh fear of gettin' hurt," she would laugh, "Remember th' diving-board an' how y'all caught me before Ah fell? Never felt so scared an' so *alive* in mah life before. Nope, sugah, better ta live - really live - an' be in danger, than survive."

"Ya will f'rgive dis cajun boy f'r bein' worried about ya?"

"Yeah," she would hug him, "Ah know it's 'cause you love me."

"More dan ya'll ever know."

"It's just that," and here she would smile lopsidedly, "There is a reason Ah didn't fall foh Cyke, Remy."

"'Part from de fact dat he's taken?"

"Ah don't want a man who is scared ta take chances. You ain't," she would argue, "You're a gambler. Ah love that about you."

"Oui, chere, but ya be de one t'ing which I wouldn't gamble wit'," he says to her empty room, "I wonder where ya are . . . where Marrow would take ya."

The words on the strange note come back to him.

"'The angels watch as the sacrifice is made,'" he repeats slowly, "Angels. Warren - he be in on it too. Where would *Warren* take Rogue?"

Gambit smiles slightly as the answer comes to him. He would take her to where it all began - to the Morlock Tunnels. More specifically, to the place where he lost his wings. . . .


"The trap is set," Marrow says to Angel as she straps Rogue's arms to the rack, adjusting the ropes.

Angel sighs, "Why can't I get rid of the feeling that the hero is going to win the day again? Like in every bad Batman movie that I've ever watched?"

The ex-Gene National smiles and tosses him a bone-knife, "Kill her if the traitor gives any problems."

"Where are you going?"

"To deliver a message. . . ."


Joseph prowls the halls by night, unable to sleep. Fevered memories travel through his head in the guise of dreams when he does. Always Rogue is there, leading him by the hand into the deepest of terrors, into the most unthinkable of sins. Always the dream starts the same - he is in a tropical land in the middle of a snowy waste. A beautiful river bisects it, overhung with fruit-bearing trees and lush lianas. A land which man's hand has not yet tamed. A savage land. Rogue is there with him and looks at him with adoration in her green eyes.

"Come on . . ." she pulls him by the hand, leading him further into the tangled jungle. He follows, willingly, laughing as they sprint across the soft undergrowth.

"Where are we going?" he asks.

"You'll see," she smiles at him and he fancies that there is love in that smile.

They emerge at a temple, a crumbling monument of stones and pillars, of carved statues that constant rain has made faceless.

"Are we here yet?" Joseph asks.

"Yeah. We are," Rogue pauses at the threshold, still holding his hand in hers, "If'n you're brave enough ta find out where *here* is."

"With you, my love, I could face anything."

Hand-in-hand, they enter the temple, pushing away the vines that cover the entrance.

"Welcome ta your life," she intones solemnly, her voice becoming fake and harsh.

Joseph looks around the high vaulted room. Paintings in rich, beautiful colors cover the walls. He stops before one - a painting of a woman, her stomach rounded in pregnancy, looking at a figure with terror in her eyes. The figure is dressed in a flowing red cape with a helmet to match.

"Who is that?" he points at the woman.

"Your wife," Rogue replies, "'Course she's dead, so she ain't that important."

"My wife . . . ." he repeats, dumbfounded, "With my children?"

Rogue pulls him on to the next scene. Twins - a man and woman - face the same solitary figure. Their faces are contorted in a expression of loathing and power crackles from their fingertips.

"Are those two people them?"

"Yeah. Th' Scarlet Witch an' Quicksilver - Wanda an' Pietro - ta those who know an' love them."

"They dislike me."

"That's an understatement," Rogue remarks wryly, "Can't stand th' sight o' you."

"Oh sweet heaven," he whispers softly, "Who was I?"

"Hon, if Ah knew th' answer, Ah would tell you," her face twists, "As is, you're nothin'. A man without a past. Without a name o' his own. Without pride or dignity."

"No . . . ."

She laughs, pointing at him.

"Without me. . . ."

It is at this point that Joseph wakes in a cold sweat. He walks to the bathroom and splashes water over his face, cleansing mind as well as body. He can never go back to sleep - too much afraid of dreaming again, of reliving the terror. So he walks through the empty corridors or sits on the roof, watching the moon and stars. Tonight, though, he watches late-night televison, all the sensational talk shows that air for those who remain awake, wanting to escape the bitter truth of their dreams, their sins. Footsteps sound behind him and he turns, startled at being discovered.

"Gambit?"

The cajun looks at him and Joseph sees fear in his unusual, demonic eyes. Something is wrong, he knows that much from the expression on the other man's face as the loudness of his steps. Trained as a thief, Gambit was normally as silent as a shadow.

"What is wrong?" Joseph asks, more out of curosity than any need to alleviate Remy's fears.

"Not'ing. Go back t'bed," the mutant replies absently, "I jus' came t'get some water."

"The kitchen is through there," the amnesiac points in the opposite direction from where the cajun was walking.

"Oui?" he snaps, "Den I need some air."

"What is wrong?"

"Listen, pup . . . ." leBeau turns on him, eyes blazing, "Stay outta dis or ya'll get hurt."

"It's Rogue, isn't it?"

Horror rises like bile in his throat, choking him. Gambit laughs hollowly in response, tears brimming in his eyes.

"Go back t'sleep. Ya still have dat choice."

"Something has happened to her, hasn't it?"

"Dieu de dieu, Joe. Ya can't take a hint, can ya?"

"Not when it concerns the woman I love."

"Guess we have dat much in common," he wipes his eyes disgustedly, "Damn New York cold."

"Please, tell me . . . ."

"Non, it wouldn' be fair t'involve ya," Remy refuses, "If I'm not back by mornin', mail dis f'r me."

He hands Joseph a crumpled envelope with a New Orleans address on it. The name on the envelope says Mathilde de la Croix.

"Who is this for?" he asks suspiciously, "A lover? Are you cheating on Rogue with her?"

"Es-tu fou?" the pride and anger is back in his eyes, "Are ya mad? Tante Mattie be de closest t'ing dat I have to a mother. Promise me dat ya'll send it ta her if . . . if I don' return?"

"I swear."

"Merci," he smiles briefly, an empty smile that speaks of unbearable sorrow then disappears out the door into the cold night.


Part 8: 'Anything of Nothing First Created'



Gambit walks through the tunnels, his every step seeming like something out of the past. His heart beats a staccato rhythm in his chest, drumming the same words through his head: 'please, don't let me be too late.'

Where he was once the villain of the Morlock Massacre, he is now the victim.

He stands to lose everything that night - Rogue, his love, and even his own life. "Played'n'lost, leBeau," he says to himself, "Gambled away everyt'ing for de sake of not'ing."

Nothing. A few years ago he would not have admitted that that was how much Belladonna really meant to him. That the only reason he loved her was to stick his thumb in the eye of the assassins. To go against years of hatred and feuding.

"An' now . . . now ya mistake - ya blindness - could cost ya Rogue."

No. He refuses to accept it. Marrow is insane with hatred, but she would never kill an innocent. Never hurt Rogue . . . . The memory of the second, fair trial a few days ago comes back to him. Marrow had stood facing Rogue, a bone-knife drawn and ready.

"And as for you, traitor-lover, round one was a blast. Can't wait until round two," she had sneered.
Gambit shakes his head, clearing the ominous image from his mind.

"Mazette, Remy. Ya'd better hurry."



Angel looks at the unconscious woman strapped to the rack. Her injured arm is a bloody mess of muscle and skin, of tendons and bone. A cut runs parallel to her cheekbone, seeping a pale yellow fluid. Her once-elegant white nightdress is ripped and blood-spattered, coming up to her knees. Her
left leg is at an odd angle, strangely crooked, and a huge, blue bruises spreads up its length. Rogue whimpers every few seconds like a small, wounded animal. Angel tightens his lips, picks up the pail of water from the floor and throws it across her face. She splutters and gasps, coming back to
consciousness. Her normally animated green eyes are dull and lifeless as she stares at him.

"Yeah?"

"We need you awake."

"Sure," she whispers drowsily, lids already lowering.

Viciously, Warren aims a kick at her broken leg. Rogue cries out, tears spilling down her cheeks.

"Stay awake," he warns, "After all, it wouldn't be proper to sleep through your own rescue. . . ."


'When this is ovah . . .' Rogue thinks desperately through the pain, 'Ah'm goin' ta have a long, hot bath. . . . with bath oils an' enough soap ta scrub me clean once an' foh all. Then . . . then Ah'm goin' ta go out ta dinner with Remy. Some place nice . . . some place that isn't cajun . . . where they have linen napkins an' silver spoons. Then we'll go dancin' at . . . heaven's help me . . . that club that Bobby's always ravin' about an' he'll put his arms around me an' . . . an' he'll kiss me.'

This is not the first time that she has played this game. She used to play it every Friday evening when her stepfather came home smelling of cheap brandy. When he stood in the middle of their den, a Bible clutched under his arm, and preached to her about her sins.

"Sabrina . . . you are an abomination in th' eyes o' th' Lawd. You know what th' Good Book says about illegitimate children?"

"No, daddy," she would whimper, "Ah don't."

"That they shall go down ta Sheol with th'wicked. Th' sins of their fathers shall mark them foh life."

"No . . . ."

The beating would then begin as her father interceded on her behalf with God.

"Save mah daughter, Lawd! Foh she is innocent, save foh th' error o' her birth. Save her!"

The girl would retreat into the private corner of her mind where everything was silent and still.

'When Ah get past this, Ah'll go fishin' with Cody an' we'll catch trout! When Ah get past this, Ah'll go have an icecream sundae at the Drug Store with lotsa caramel and sprinkles. When Ah get past this, Ah'll become a famous movie-star. . . . "

Rogue has played this game before. It was the only thing that kept her sane through her childhood. The only thing that prevented her from curling up in a little ball and dying.

"When Ah get past this," she murmurs, "Ah'll be free."


Marrow lands on feet of velvet in the Recreation Room. Joseph sits sprawled in front of the television, seemingly engrossed in reruns of 'I Love Lucy!'. Marrow smirks to herself.

"Boo," she says out loud as she creeps up behind him.

Joseph turns around, eyes blazing with fury, hands crackling with magnetic power.

"What have you done with Rogue?"

"Now, now . . . ." she waggles a finger at him, "You didn't say please and even a mangy terrorist like myself knows that that is rude."

"Please," he says between gritted teeth, "What have you done with Rogue?"

"Sacrificed her for my own freedom," Marrow replies nonchalantly, "Just like the Traitor will be. Where is he?"

"Gone after Rogue."

"Into the tunnels?" Marrow sounds surprised, "He's got more moxie than I thought."

"The tunnels? The Morlock tunnels?"

Marrow smiles enigmatically.

"'Night, Joe. May your dreamtime be happy."

"Tell me, darn it!"

"There are some things which it is better not to know," she calls back as she walks away, "Who you are, the state of your soul and the pain that your loved one feels."

"Marrow . . . ."

She is gone into the night, like a cat that disappears without a trace across rooftops and through darkened alleyways, searching for a home.



"Cyclops . . . Cyclops, wake up . . . ."

The insistent banging on the door of the boathouse pounds through Scott Summers' head. He climbs out of bed, replacing the ruby quartz glasses which control his powers, and walks to the door. Jean stirs at the motion but then falls asleep once more, snoring slightly.

"Cyclops . . . Scott . . . please . . . ."

Cyclops opens the door, yawning. There were times in his life when he wished that he had been an accountant, an ornithologist, a waiter at McDonalds, *anything* but an X-Man. Joseph is standing on his doorstep, looking more worried than Cyclops has ever seen before. Something is horribly wrong.

"What's wrong, Joseph?" he asks with his usual directness.

"Gambit . . . Rogue . . . they're . . . they're . . . ." the young man pants.

"They've eloped?" Cyclops guesses, "They're really brother and sister? Engaged? Lost in space?"

Joseph shakes his head, trying to catch his breath.

"In terrible danger."

"Come in," Cyclops opens the door to admit the reformed villain, "What kind of danger?"

"Marrow," he stutters, "She's taken Rogue and Gambit has gone after them. She said something about a sacrifice."

Cyclops swears under his breath.

"Heck . . . why didn't you call me earlier, Joe?"

"Remy said I shouldn't. He said it would be dangerous."

"All the more reason to go with him," Cyclops pulls on a jacket over his tracksuit, "I'll get Jean, you wake the others. Tell Hank and Reyes to prepare a medilab. Heaven's help us all, I think we're going to need it tonight."


Part 9: Hard-bought Freedom


'Freedom is a hard bought thing

A gift that no man can give,

for some a way of dying,

for most a way to live.



Freedom is a hard bought thing

A massacre, a bloody rout,

The candles lit at nightfall

and the night shut out.'



Song of the Settlers, verses one and three, by Jessamyn West


Marrow strikes a match and lights the candle, laughing gleefully like a child on her birthday. Next to her, Angel hunkers, placing the lit ones into holders on the altar. It throws the objects into sharp relief - a bone-knife, a flechette, wax figures and a photograph. An angel stands between the candles, smiling down at the floor. Angel pauses, noticing something that he had not seen before in the dim light - the skin of the icon is blue . . . but . . . .

"Oh, skunkhead," Marrow taunts, breaking into his thoughts even though she is not speaking to him.

Rogue regards her without passion, her face a bland mask of indifference. Her wounds have drained her of all energy or spirit.

"She's beyond caring. You're wasting your breath," Angel says curtly.

"Not so beautiful now, are we?" Marrow continues, like a cat playing with a fieldmouse.

"Please . . ." the captive whispers hoarsely, "May Ah have some water?"

The former Gene National laughs, "Water? Beg for it, pretty-pretty, like I'm going to make Traitor beg for your life."

Rogue closes her eyes, a single tear trickling from beneath a swollen lid, and Angel feels pity stab through him.

'She looks so tired, scared. She doesn't deserve . . . ' he stops hastily, hot anger replacing the pity, 'But she does. She was the one who let Gambit back into our lives. She deserves everything she gets and more.'

"I wouldn't worry, Rogue," Angel sneers, "You'll be dead within an hour."

"So'll you, Warren," she replies, "Ah wouldn't be you foh th' world."

"What a coincidence," Marrow comments lazily as she sharpens her knife, "I wouldn't be a pretty-pretty traitor lover for all the world either."

Rogue smiles, but it does not extend beyond her lips, "Nor would I, sugah."

Fury blazes in Marrow's yellow eyes and she steps closer to her hostage, placing the bone-dagger at her throat. To the Southerner's credit, Rogue doesn't flinch, being too disheartened or tired to care.

"Repeat that . . . ." the Morlock hisses.

Angel places a restraining hand on Marrow's ridged arm. In all his fantasies of revenge, he had never considered the reality of the situation. The color of blood. The terrible crunching of bone. The whimpering of the victim.

"You can kill her later, but she's no use to us dead right now."

"I . . . ." the terrorist drops her arm, "You're right, but I'm going to enjoy slicing her throat open."

"All in good time," Angel says, then repeats himself uncertainly, "All in good time."


The tunnels stretch for miles beneath the surface -a deadly labyrinth of slime and putrid air that would rival even Crete and its Minotaur. Twisting passageways lead to vertiginous drops, slippery with slime and encrusted dirt. The sewers were not built according to a plan, so much as evolved of their own free will. As the city grew and expanded, its underground equivalent did the same. However, this rotting, lethal place was home to some. Scraps of domesticity can still be found if the seeker is patient enough: an eyeless doll, a cooking pan, rusted tins and a soggy diary. All relics of the past. There are other relics, though, less cheerful ones - reminders of one of the darkest chapters in mutancy's bloody history, the Morlock Massacre. Skeletons, grinning aimlessly, still bear witness to the deed. Metal shards, glinting like the Reaper's sickle, are buried beneath layers of decay. Incongruously, a playing card - yellowed and torn - lies next to a bundle of rotten cloth. The Joker.

Gambit splashes through the ankle-deep sludge, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the pinprick of light in the distance. He cannot look down, see the evidence of his crime, so he looks ahead into the brilliance, although it hurts his preternaturally photosensitive eyes. Carefully, he removes a deck of cards from his pocket and strips it of plastic, adding yet another stratum to the layers of history as he tosses it aside. Three cards fall into his hands and he charges them, noting with horror what they are - the Queen of Spades, the Joker and the Queen of Hearts. It is in this way that, exuding an aurora of his own, he enters the light.


Wolverine lifts his head from the ground outside the tunnels.

"They've been this way," he confirms, "Three scents then a fresher one - Gambit's."

"Three?" Cyclops asks in consternation, "Marrow, Rogue and . . . ?"

The Canadian looks at Psylocke before continuing, "Angel."

Elisabeth lets out a gasp, "Warren? That's impossible."

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Phoenix soothes, "He could very well have followed them in order to stop them."

"Or he could be in cahoots with Marrow," Wolverine continues brusquely, "But that ain't important right now. There's blood on the air - someone's injured."

"Rogue!" Joseph squeaks, "If that madwoman's hurt her . . . ."

"That makes two of us then," Wolverine smiles grimly, extruding his claws, "Kid's a friend and I've lost too many of them already."

"Let's spread out, people," Cyclops commands, "Search the tunnels and report back when you find them."

"Goddess be merciful," Storm whispers, "I hoped never to return to this place of death."

Phoenix gives her a brief, wry smile, "Let's hope that we're more successful than we were last time, Ororo."

With those words still echoing in their ears, they descend into darkness.


The candles watch him with winking eyes, malevolent twisted shapes out of some gothic horror. Dracula's lair must have looked like this. Gambit's eyes gradually adjust to the brilliance and he is able to see again. He wishes instantly that he could not. A rack stands in the center of the room, a solid iron structure constructed to confine, to humiliate. An all too familiar relic of the Massacre. Rogue is attached to it where once Angel was. Nausea rises to his throat in a hot flood of bile as he sees how battered she is. The bruises and cuts that speak of unendurable pain.

'Why had she not fought back?', Gambit wonders, then sees his answer in the thick, iron collar that surrounds her neck. An inhibitor. The one thing which Rogue always had refused to wear.

She lifts her head, lips mouthing silent words of warning.

"Behind you . . . ."

He spins, prompted as much by his own uncanny sixth sense as by her words. Marrow drops to the floor in front of him and smiles - a smile that is like the baring of fangs.

"So Traitor came," she purrs, "How noble."

"Let Rogue go," Gambit says, keeping his voice as steady as possible, "Ya know she's innocent."

"No-one is innocent," someone states from behind him, "Not even an Angel, but you knew that already, didn't you?"

"Warren," the young thief puts a name to the voice, "Ya be mad if ya t'ink dat dis will solve anyt'ing."

"It will make me feel better. Reason enough, I believe," Angel continues emotionlessly.

"An' den what?" Remy asks, "After I'm dead an' ya hands are stained wit' blood. What den, War?"

"Then I'll be at peace."

"Ya believe dat?" the cajun lets out a short, bitter laugh, "Non - I'll tell ya what happens den. Ya wonder what coulda possessed ya t'kill, what ya coulda done differently. Ya drive yaself crazy t'inkin' o' how ya coulda refused de stinkin' deal, but didn'. Ya always see de look in ya victims' eyes in ya dreams an' ya know . . . ." His voice breaks, "Dat ya are a murderer."

"Pretty words," Marrow's voice rasps, "Distracting words. I've had enough of words - I want revenge."

The bone knife whistles through the air almost before the X-Man is aware of it. Instincts, thief instincts honed on the streets of New Orleans, take over, compensating for rational thought. Easily, Gambit dodges the knife and releases a kinetically charged salvo in return. Marrow dives, rolls, drawing more knives, and scrambles to her feet.

"Warren," Marrow gasps as she parries Gambit's staff with a dagger, "Are you going to help?"

Angel seems to ignore her, staring at Rogue, haunted by some remembered pain. His wings tremble on his back, an integrated part of his physiology instead of a necessary burden.

"Warren," Marrow repeats stridently, "Are you going to help?"

"No use, chere," Gambit grunts as he essays a thrust, "'Tween you an' me now. Ya ange de mort isn' gonna save ya."

"I don't need saving," she spits, shearing his staff in two with a clean stroke.

The two pieces fall uselessly to the floor and the cajun dodges the consequent knife thrust, retaliating with a kick of his own to her jaw. Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth and her yellow eyes become wild.

"My people's blood will not be spilled again," Marrow shrieks, then flings herself at him, death gripped in each hand.

Gambit whirls away as in an intricate dance, leaving her to fall helplessly to the hard floor, swearing. Leaving her to rise again with more hate in her heart as she has so often.

"Enough games," she smiles unpleasantly, "Time to pay the price for my people's deaths. . . . Time to wash away my pain with your blood. Time to die, Traitor. . . ."


Angel is not sure if it is the tears which blur his vision, or some higher power, that makes Rogue look so much like him. That makes her become his echo. She glances up at Angel from beneath blood-matted hair as much a victim of his deeds as he was one of the Marauders'.

"Warren - this ain't like you," she says softly, "You're an X-Man, sugah, which means acceptin' that people make mistakes an' that they deserve a second chance. It's why we're in this gig aftah all - ta give th' whole word another chance ta rethink their ways, ta *try* again."

The effort that it took her to speak is evident on her face. Exhausted and weak from loss of blood, he knows that she will die unless she gets treatment soon. The conflict rages within him - hate against love, selfishness against selflessness, past against future - adding another dimension to his already troubled thoughts.

"Rogue . . . I . . . ." he pauses, "It's too late now."

"No. It's nevah too late," she argues, "Free me an' Ah promise you that it'll end here."

Angel nods, walking over to her, giving her his silent promise. His hand touches her bare one as he attempts to untie the thick ropes and she smiles encouragingly at him.

'Her skin feels so . . . normal,' he thinks in strange abstraction, 'I suppose I always thought it would feel different.'

The ropes refuse stubbornly to come loose and he looks around for some implement with which to cut them. A flechette lies on the altar - a symbol of everything that he was and has rejected - and he hesitates before taking it. He has not got the luxury of qualms any more.

"Warren?" Marrow sneers as she glimpses him out of the corner of her eye, "What has the witch told you to make you turn against me - the victim?"

Angel pauses then carries on walking towards Rogue, step by slow step.

'This child is insane,' he realizes, 'And it is partially my fault for listening to her, for the simple reason that she told me what I wanted to hear. That I was a victim. That Gambit was the villain. That my hatred was just.'

"Warren," Marrow bares her teeth, "If you are not with me, then you are against me."

Before Angel can defend himself against her, before Gambit can act to prevent her, the Gene National dives at him, stabbing him through his chest with a hard thrust. Warren crumples to the floor, like a limp ragdoll, falling into darkness. Marrow pauses, exuding horror from every pore, looking at her bloody hands, like Lady Macbeth once did.

"My Angel . . . are you?" she whispers, "But . . . gods can't die."

"Warren wasn't a god," Gambit says, feeling sympathy for her despite himself, "Jus' a man like anyone else."

"And what would you know about being a man, Traitor?" Marrow snarls, "His death is on your conscience. For Angel and for all my people, you must die."

She attacks, then, without reason or restraint, redoubling her previous onslaught. Gambit blocks her wild jabs and catches her across the stomach with a hard blow of his own. Marrow skids across the floor, knocking the altar over with a crash. The candles topple, catching the two photographs, eating the past hungrily with tongues of crimson flame.

"Angela!" Marrow yells and snatches at the burning papers.

The child smiles back at her from the yellowed picture, her eyes speaking of unbearable pain. Her father stands next to her with his hand on her shoulder, until he too is devoured by the spreading black ash, leaving only the child. The other, newer photograph is relatively intact - a portrait of two people evidently in love. Rogue and Gambit. Her sacrifice. Marrow lifts the two photographs to the sky, seeing them with new eyes. Angela . . . Rogue . . . Angela . . . Rogue.

"By the first one," Marrow whispers, "They are the same. What have I done?"

She drops her knife and runs into the darkness, into the cool of the shadowy tunnels. Gambit does not follow, knowing that she will return and when she does she might be a little different. There is always hope. He has more pressing concerns. Angel is in that strange place between life and death, poised on the brink of his flame's extinction, and he needs a doctor badly. So does Rogue; her face is flushed and sweaty despite the chill of the tunnels, her teeth gritted against incredible agony.

"Gotta make a choice," he says to himself, even though he knows that he has already made it.

Remy removes the metal flechette from Angel's limp hand and cuts the thick ropes, freeing the woman. He has no other choice - her chance of survival is greater than Angel's and it decreases with every second that he delays. Carefully, he wraps Rogue in his trenchcoat, realizing the importance of keeping her warm, and picks her up, grunting slightly at the strain.

"I'll be back, mon ami," he tells the prostrate figure on the floor, "Jus' hold on."

Rogue rests her head against his chest, settling more comfortably into his arms, eyes closed like a feverish child in sleep.

"Am Ah free?" she asks, her voice almost below hearing.

"As a bird, chere."

"Good," she murmurs weakly, "Flyin' always was mah favorite power."

"Hush, now, 'tite. Ya need t'save ya strength. We'll be outta dese tunnels soon."

He walks towards the light. . . .


Part 10: Hours and Seconds


1:01 AM

The scent of blood is on the air. The unmistakable coppery tang cannot be disguised by the miasma of the tunnels. Wolverine sniffs, attempting to pinpoint the exact direction from whence it came. No success. There are too many other conflicting scents - the musky, penetrating reek of a raccoon; the unpleasant odor of decay; the incongruous, fresh fragrance of his companion's perfume. He turns to look at Storm and shakes his head. Her crystal-blue eyes fill with tears - hopeless tears - and he is moved to comfort her.

"'Ro," Logan says gruffly, touching her shoulder with a hand, "The kid's all right. They *both* are all right."

"How do you know?" Ororo's normally serene voice borders on hysterical, "Logan, *how* do you know?"

He takes her into his arms, letting her sob into his chest, because he has no answer to give her.




1:15 AM

Marrow knows the tunnels intimately. Knows every twist and turn; every precipice and hollow; every nook and cranny. She sprints along the cool, dark underpass that leads to her most secret place. To the one place where they will never find her, will never punish her. She stops, knowing that she has arrived by the almost imperceptible scratch on the wall. Arms aching, Marrow heaves herself up onto the platform that is built into the roof of the tunnels. They may search, but they will always miss this place. A pallet, moldy and disgusting, provides some relief from the hard stone of the floor and she sprawls upon it. Bioluminescent fungi allows her to see the dried, dark blood with which her arms are encrusted. Angel's blood that should, by all rights, be ichor.

"By the first one," she whispers for the second time that night, "What have I done?"




1:30 AM

Cannonball hurtles along the tunnel, feeling the freedom of supercharged flight. He is invulnerable when he blasts, in both body and mind. Concerns fall away like shed skin. Past and future disappear, leaving only *now* - a thrilling, exhilarating, endorphin rush.

"Mistuh leBeau? Miss Rogue?" he calls, hearing the echo of his own words as he speeds ahead of them, "Mistuh Worthington? . . . Marrow?"

Yet, only the echoes reply, mocking him with their intangible presence.

"Row. Row. Row."


1:33 AM

"Rogue . . . we're almost dere. Few more turns an' we'll be out of dis tunnel. Dis whole nightmare will be behind us f'r good," Gambit pauses, catches his breath, "We'll be free o' de epouvantail. De bogey-man."

Her breath is so light on his arms, barely ruffling the fabric of his thin shirt. The trench-coat in which he wrapped her is soaked with blood, drenched with her life's fluid. She shifts slightly in his arms, trying to get more comfortable in spite of her injuries. Remy knows she is dying, gasp by painful gasp.

"Tu vas bien? Mais . . . silence . . . ne reponds pas."

[Are you all right? But . . . shhh . . . don't answer.]

In his concern, he slips into his native Cajun, hoping and knowing that Rogue understands him.

"Quand . . . quand j'etais petit, j'avais peur de l'epouvantail. C'etait des chimeres, je sais, mais,

[When I was young, I used to be scared of the bogey-man. It's foolishness, I know, but . . . .]

quand tu n'avais que dix ans, tu l'as *cru*."

[When you were only ten, you believed in it.]

Remy clears his throat, trying to get rid of the hard lump that has formed just above his Adam's Apple. An anatomical reminder to all mankind never to give in to temptation.

"Je . . . je crois que c'est plus epouvantable de porter le epouvantail avec toi. Parce que quand

[I believe that it is more terrible to carry the bogey-man with you. Because when]

tes recollections et reves deviennent le monstre, quand tu deviennent le monstre . . . tu ne peut jamais echapper. Jamais."

[Memories and dreams become the monster . . . you become the monster you can never escape. Never.]

"Mon amant," Rogue's voice is soft, tired, lilting; the purity of her accent tainted with some of her

[My lover,]

drawl, "Tu n'est pas un monstre. Je . . . je ne peut pas etre amoureuse avec un epouvantail."

[You are no monster. I could not love a bogey-man.]

"Etre en amour," he corrects absently, distractedly, trying to keep his mind off her weakness.

[To be in love with]

"Cajuns," Rogue mutters derisively, "Nevah speak proper French then have th' moxie ta correct a lady when she does."

Gambit laughs, but it is lost in his tears.


1:45 AM

The shadows receive her - Psylocke embraces them, slipping between the two media like a fish through water. Here, where it is dark, lonely and cold, she is able to think. Angel could not be a traitor, a murderer. Every cell in her body protests against it. Every recollection she has of him contradicts it. Yet Wolverine's nose never lied and Logan would never lie to her out of spite. Angel had betrayed her . . . . He had followed the whims of a savage child and attacked Rogue. He had placed his personal vendetta above their love. She is grateful for the darkness that her shadow-space provides, because, here at least, no-one can see her cry.


2:00 AM

"We're here," Jean calls out to Scott, "The place where Angel lost his wings."

Her husband steps forward, blinking owlishly, eyes adjusting to the gloom. The smell of smoke permeates the air - gutted candles that bloom in white and grey clouds are everywhere - and he coughs.

"I don't suppose you could provide some light, sweetheart?" he asks, squinting his eyes.

Jean nods, imperceptible in the darkness, and snaps her fingers. Suddenly, the spluttering candles flare again, casting the scene into sharp focus. The slumped, sprawled figure on the floor. Phoenix clasps her hands over her mouth, fighting the nausea that wells up within her.

"Warren."


2:01 AM

The brilliance calls to Angel and he follows it along a dazzling tunnel of light. He is vaguely aware of voices calling to him from the other side. Jean's voice - his love's voice. She sounds concerned, scared, tremulous. He wants to go to her, to comfort her, yet his feet are leaden. Too much trouble to turn again, to go back beyond the shifting veil. Worlds apart from those he loves best, Warren drifts.


2:05 AM

"Never a dull moment with you people, eh?" Cecilia lifts a sardonic eyebrow as she speaks to Beast, "This place makes No Mercy look like a playground."

Dr McCoy manages a weak smile, "And you thought your days of emergency medicine were over when you were unceremoniously booted out of the ER?"

"Yeah," she shifts position slightly, placing left leg over right one, "Except here, there's worse equipment and no pay."

"Save my own edifying and salubrious presence."

Reyes snorts inelegantly, then changes topic, "You know Rogue well?"

"As far as it is possible to know someone as guarded as she is."

'Ah can't talk about this to anyone b'cause they would nevah understand.' Cecilia thinks, remembering her earlier conversation with the Southerner, "And her boyfriend? Freddy? Jemmy?"

"Remy," Beast corrects, "Even more taciturn than she is when it comes to personal matters, although you would not guess it upon meeting him."

"The sort who goes through life with a smile on their face and a grudge in their heart?" Cecilia says knowingly, "Not that there's anything bad about that. My brother, Ricky, has been much the same way since our Dad died."

"No," Beast shakes his head adamantly, "I am not sure how one would classify Monsieur leBeau, but it would not be vengeful."

Dr Reyes nods, "Not vengeful. Not like Ricardo."

Beast senses her reticence to discuss her brother; sees it in the tense set of her lips and the worry-lines that crease her forehead. She needs to talk about it with someone, but not with him. Not now.

"Do we have enough O-Neg in case of transfusion?" he asks, his tone abruptly professional.

Cecilia grimaces at him, "No. Frankly, we're pitifully short on everything from cortisone to suture kits."

"Then we'll have to make do with the advanced Shi'ar pseudoglobin," Beast smiles back at her, removing packets of colorless, viscous liquid from the storage cupboards, "Fortunately, Bastion did not discover our secret cache."

She picks up a pocket and holds it up to the light, suspiciously examining it.

"What *is* this gunk?"

"Shi'ar pseudoglobin."

"In English?"

"A highly advanced blood-substitute that carries oxygen far more effectively to the extremities of the body, while assisting in hemeopoesis and facilitating healing," Beast says with a trace of amusement in his tone, "Beyond the scope of human medical science, of course."

Cecilia grins, matching irony for irony, "Good thing, then, that I'm a mutant."

He nods grimly, suddenly sober, "I just hope we do not have need of these tonight."

Dr Reyes says, "We used to pray that every night in No Mercy. It never came true - always some kid who had been stabbed - the casualty of a gang war - or a younng woman who'd been beaten by her 'loving' boyfriend for the hundredth time. You gave up praying after a while."

"Cecilia. . . ."

"But you also believed - *knew* - that some things could not die - love, hope, strength and

beauty. It may have been naive of us to believe that, but it got us through the night. Through the short hours and long seconds."

Beast murmurs softly to himself, "Because I know that time is always time

And place is always and only place

And what is actual is actual only for one time

And only for one place

I rejoice that things are as they are and

I renounce the blessed face

I renounce the voice

Because I cannot hope to turn again

Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something

upon which to rejoice."


2:15 AM

"This is not supposed to happen," Tante Mattie's voice is angry, broad as she watches the events in the small bowl of water on her table, "That chile was never meant to turn on Rogue. Never meant t'half-kill her at least."

Marie smiles knowingly at her angry friend, "Maybe this is simply the way which the cards have fallen tonight."

The healer for the Guilds stands, impatient, "I have t'go to them."

"As do I," the blind woman replies smoothly, "To comfort Sarah."

"After what she's done to m'nephew?"

"You know the vows as well as I do, my dearest, oldest friend."

"Oui. I do," Mattie muttered, "Never harm but heal. Help those in distress whether worthy or unworthy. Love all humankind unequivocally, without stint or grudge."

"For the lowest killer is in more need of compassion than the holiest saint."

Mattie nods grudgingly, "Oui, but when that killer hurts my little Remy . . . ."

"Then you need to forgive her," Marie places cool hands on Mattie's warm ones, "Or you are no better than she is."

"I know," the old woman sighs, "I know."


2:30 AM

Sabrina is ten and scared. Her father stands in the other room, preaching to her mother. His voice rings out proudly, expounding on the tenets of his religion. Gloria is admiring, applauding each new turn of phrase. Soon it will be her turn . . . . She shivers slightly and clutches the teddy-bear closer to her chest.

"Don' worry, mistuh Fuzzy. Daddy won't hurt us. Daddy loves us even if'n we don't deserve it."

The warm softness of the teddy-bear tickles her, comforting her, loving her unconditionally. Tears trickle down her cheeks, staining the pillow.

"But Ah'm *scared*, Mistuh Fuzzy. So scared."

No. This is no longer true. She is twenty-two and her name is Rogue - an X-Man; and in the past, a member of the unholy Brotherhood of Evil Mutants. She left her name and father behind with his rituals, her expiation, when she took the first train she could get out of Mississippi. Mister Fuzzy belongs to some other child now, forgotten on a railway bench somewhere between stops, mourned with eyes and nose pressed against the cold, breath-misted glass of the compartment window. Someone else loves her unconditionally now with a dynamic passion that scares her at times. Remy holds her as she bleeds, in a way that Mr Fuzzy's powerless arms never could. He shares with her the same cool, self-assurance that has always been his - that the sun will rise tomorrow, no matter how long the night is. That nightmares pass if you have the courage to face them. She opens her eyes slightly, surprised by the crisp night air on her face after the muggy tunnels, and sees that they have left the labyrinthine network behind them. The nightmare is over.


2:29 - 2:35 AM

Maggott leans against the stone archway that frames the entrance to the tunnels and exhales.

"Ag, meisies. Dit lyk asof ons tyd mors."

[Oh, girls. It looks as if we're wasting time.]

The slugs hiss, bridling as they hear footsteps approaching, echoing down the hollow catacombs. Maggott stiffens, picking up the two-by-four that rests by his feet.

"Wie's dit? Who is it?"

The silence of the grave answers him and he shivers, grasping the plank tighter. He nods to the slugs, Eeny and Meeny, to take their positions, and they slither behind the rough scrub, like oily seals.

"Jean? Scott? Storm? Please-let-it-be-Storm."

The figure emerges, ducking a little to get through the low archway, exposing its neck. Japheth raises the plank, holding it high above his head, then brings it down with all his might. Startling red-on-black eyes look up at him and an elegant hand catches the two-by-four, letting half the arm's bundle slip. Remy.

"Dieu, gamin! Does everyone want t'kill me t'night?"

Hot crimson color spreads across Maggott's face and he shuffles his feet in the dusty ground.

"Neejawell . . . sorry, awraht?" he looks more closely at the X-Man's burden, "Is that Rogue?"

With infinite care, the former thief scoops up his team-mate's legs, ensuring that she is settled comfortably before straightening himself. She stirs slightly, opening emerald eyes to look questioningly at the South African and a vague smile curves her lips.

"Uh-huh, sugah. Ah would be walkin' but Remy insisted on practisin' this woman-carryin' thing."

Rogue is lying - Maggott can see that she is badly injured. That she probably could not walk if she needed to.

"Can I take her from you, jong? If I get blue-juiced, she'll be lighter'n'a feather."

"Non. I'll be fine."

Another lie. Gambit is about to collapse beneath her weight, beneath the stress of the evening. Fortunately, Rogue sees through it before he need press the issue further.

"Maybe foh one second you can stop bein' so damn self-reliant, darlin'," her voice is concerned despite her angry tone, "Even Ah can see that you're half-dead with exhaustion."

"Can't ever argue wit' de woman I love, huh?" leBeau nods his agreement and, carefully deposits Rogue in Maggott's arms. She winces as her sore ribs, legs and arm are jolted; as the half-scabbed wounds are opened again by the abrasion of the trenchcoat's cloth.

"Sorry, doll," Japheth whispers.

"No need ta apologize, sugah," Rogue replies through gritted teeth, "Been through worse an' survived."

"There'll be one more jolt then it'll be smooth sailing," the slender youth warns, "Bite your teeth against it, liefling."

Maggott can feel her tension as she waits for him to move. He concentrates, feeling the familiar rush of power through his veins. Concerns fall away like shed skin. Past and future disappear, leaving only *now* - a thrilling, exhilarating, endorphin rush. Brown skin becomes blue; muscles fill out as they become stronger. Rogue gasps in pain at the motion, then is silent, snuggling her head into his chest. Immense tenderness fills him at the simple gesture of trust. No one has trusted him to this extent before or ever will again, save the slugs. His girls.

"I'm goin' back f'r Angel, chere," Gambit bends to her level, speaking gently, "Ya'll be okay. Maggott'll take care o' ya."

"Ja, cherrie. Me an' the girls'll look after you."

"There is no need for any of you to return," Cyclops crawls out of the tunnels, dragging a limp

figure behind him on a makeshift stretcher. Phoenix is with him, her blue eyes dark with fear.

"We have Warren," he continues, "He's alive. Barely."

"I am sustaining him with my telepathic powers," Jean says slowly as if it costs her immense effort even to speak, "But he is slipping away gradually, inevitably."

"How is Rogue?" Cyclops sounds worried, as they carry on along the sluggish trail that leads to where the Blackbird is hidden. Angel jolts along the road, too far gone to gasp in pain.

"Alive," Gambit replies simply, "Dat's all dat matters in de end, non?"

"Yeah," Scott agrees, "In the end, that's all that counts."