Thank-you to my reviewers, as always your response keeps the story alive. I hope this (almost) final instalment is epic enough in scope and a satisfying end to a story that dragged on through-out the year when it was meant to be done and dusted in a couple of months ;) I thank you all for sticking by it and for all the reviews it received; they were truly way above and beyond what I expected.
Standby for the obligatory epilogue...
M’iko, xx
Chapter.8.
... “Ororo?” ...
He tried again to blink the blur from his eyes; the dark blood smear mixed with the acid sting of sweat that made him think perhaps it was a mirage. Was she here with him, in this implausible hell? Or had he joined her? Every ounce of his being hoped and prayed that it was the latter...He just wanted peace. As if it were happening remote from him, Logan was aware of his body falling forwards, in slow motion. He waited, almost patiently for the expected impact with the rock solid ground, but found himself instead caught up against the malleable solidity of a body, her body...She was there...
“I’m here.”
He heard her voice rasp faintly as his wet face became buried, pressed tight against her; his arms flinging up around her narrow waist and hips, his hands forming into tight, unforgiving fists at her back, clutching at her cotton top. “Ororo...” The thin, delicate tendrils of her fingers weaved down into his sticky, dishevelled locks, skimming the warm sensitive scalp beneath like shards of ice. Her touch conformed; he choked on a shallow breath as his heart fairly stopped before erupting back into painful, joyous vitality. His words now sounded equally choked, muffled as they were against her midriff, barely discernable, “I...I thought I’d lost you ‘Ro.” His body shuddered involuntarily, his hands grabbing more, ever more until there was a sound of a small tear. Slowly he inclined his head back, his eyes red rimmed raw, the simultaneous look of relief and unbearable sorrow looking so alien set upon his hard ridged features. He tired to make out her features, skirted either side as they were by red stained white curtains, making her face an almost black blanket, though he could just discern the gleam of her dark orbs, glittering strangely in her stillness, her mute comfort. “I thought I’d killed you...” He eventually confessed in a fragile whisper, not feeling the hot trail that ran over his cheek that still held the gashes sustained; his healing as slow as he’d ever known it. But he neither noticed nor cared.
Ororo tilted her head to the side; her hair falling back and allowing Logan to see for the first time her features in full, lit by the moonlight. A look of almost maternal pity on her face, distressed at such suffering, but through all that her love that shined through everything, and for him, made everything. He was blinded by that for a moment, not seeing the resigned pain that undercoated it all. Her thumb brushed away the salty track carefully, tentatively so as not to disturb his wounds.
“Logan,” she said clearly as mountain air, “don’t feel bad,” she swallowed down hard, concentrating on the way her fingers made a parting through the treacly tufts, “...please...don’t...”
He didn’t take in her words or even attempt to unlock their meaning, he just listened. Listened...listened to a voice that he feared gone forever. Its steady melody, its comforting largo, “I thought I’d lost you...” he sighed again, this time letting the relief flood his tone as he let himself be lost in her again, resting his face against her, not even wincing when the pain from his back wound began to flood him with ever intense waves.
“In a way you have,” Ororo said, stroking still at his hair, imploring Logan to look back up at her, not comprehending, “but you didn’t kill me Logan. Don’t ever feel bad about that.”
“‘Ro, what do’ya mean?” he asked with a shake of his head, his brow creased, “what’re you talkin’ about?”
Ororo closed her eyes, her mask slipping as her lips pursed and trembled. But she did not cry, she swallowed it back but still, she begged in sudden fragility, “Please don’t make me do this.” The prone plea sounded almost as if it were directed at some unseen agent, its name finally, mournfully uttered, “Goddess...”
“Do what ‘Ro?” he blurted, his panic rising.
She cleared her throat loudly, still fighting the onslaught that threatened to tear down from her like the monsoons she could command at will. “You can not kill what is already dead, Logan,” she told him crisply though reluctantly. His confusion only deepened to total bewilderment and Ororo’s look of pity returned at his demeanour of loss; loss and torment...then denial. He began to shake his head, slowly at first, until it gained vigorous moment over a low murmured chorus of ‘no’s’. “Logan, listen to me,” she caught his head between her hands and forced it to be still, the frantic voice too, “Listen to me”you know I am telling you the truth.” Grabbing at his hand, having to forcibly remove one from its steel grip on her clothing she pressed it to her chest. “Feel,” she told him sternly; where there should have been the pounding rhythm of sentience there was an empty hollow like an abandoned church. Where there should have been a radiating heat from the body’s constant flow, there was only an icy cold like a lake thick with winter. Where there were once the pertinent scents of her being, the softness of vanilla, the earth-bound sandalwood, now there was nothing. He held her...he held her as if she was there, but she was not. He had been blinded to the aura of death. But it was there, like a thick linen shroud exactly.
Slowly, awkwardly, Logan raised himself to his feet, never leaving her eyes, those eyes that no matter what the body said still contained her...what was essentially Storm. He creased over suddenly, a furious anguish ripped through; whether it be from his body or mind he wasn’t certain at first.
“Oh goddess, Logan!” Ororo held onto him, trying to stop him from falling back to the floor.
“I’m alright, I’m alright,” he said in a strained voice as he carefully righted himself once more, “It’s not me I’m worried about right now.”
Ororo looked away from him. It was too much to ask of him, too much... But as the heat pounded and the hunger rose once more she knew she had too, before it was too late. Quickly she grabbed at Logan’s right wrist, folding his hand down into a fist as she did so. Then, quietly, deliberately, she placed that fist; cracked knuckles flush against her slender throat. “Do it,” she commanded soberly. Though for all her abrupt limpidity she may well have been speaking in her native tongue, for he heard her words as garbled as if they had been Swahili. But still, implicitly he understood, the shock only delayed.
“What?”
“Do it.” Firmly and rationally Ororo repeated, looking him steadfastly in the eye; no fear, no hesitance. She felt abstracted, in a circumstance that did not involve her; outside the window, looking through.
Finally the full punch of clarity came to him, its ridiculousness, its impossibility, “Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?!”
“No Logan, I’m perfectly possessed of it...for now at least,” she fell into a strained whisper, “but I’m not sure how much longer I can hold back...how much”longer”I can control it.”
“‘Ro...” he pleaded, trying to pull his hand from her neck but finding the strength of her resistance to much. Whether it be his weakness or her new found physical ability, he knew not”he remained powerless to pull away never-the-less. But now...now he understood her earlier plea. “Don’t ask me to do this darlin’...I can’t.”
Ororo nearly crumbled; her throat thick, her eyes hot and beginning to sting. But all the while it grew again...it rose like the reaching licks of random spark fallen where it should not; grappling and hungry for more. It broke her heart entirely, but there was no other choice. “Logan, you have to do it, don’t you see?” She reached out with her free hand, gently touching his face, her eyes imploring. “I’m one of them now.”
“No,” Logan growled sharply in response; his irrational impulses telling him that she could fight it if she really wanted to, that she was strong enough to do that. “No, I won’t accept that. No, no, no...”
“You know it’s true!” she yelled suddenly, “Logan”,” her tone fell to a soft murmur, “you know it’s true...you need to finish this for me, or do you want me to live in constant torment?”
Logan clenched his teeth, his jaw twitching under the strain as his knuckles continued to rub against her prone neck; ready and waiting to be slit through, taken clean off. “God ‘Ro, you know I don’t, but I can’t do this, I can’t...there’s”there’s gotta be another way.”
“Well if you can think of one you be sure to tell me, won’t you,” she said with sardonic bitterness; knowing how much she was hurting him, making her pain all the worse. “But we both know there isn’t,” she whispered. “I can hear it you know, your heart pounding, your blood rushing and believe me”Goddess believe me...I’m trying, trying with all my strength to resist it but as each minute goes it gets harder and harder to. I don’t know how much longer I can fight this and I don’t want to hurt you again.”
His mouth gapped and trembled, trying to form words he could not, only half-created, tumbling from his lips weakly, “Don...don’t ‘Ro...don’t as-k...don’t...”
“I am begging you Logan, don’t let him win, don’t let me live as one of those things”you need to finish this here and now. Avenge me if you wish, just finish this...” She could barely bring herself to continue to look at him as his face contorted with anger and anguish combined, starting to shake with the tension. One more push...“JUST DO IT!” Her eyes screwed shut, both hands gripping vice-like at his wrist now, waiting for the blow as an unholy roar rose from him; bestial and sorrowful, his soul ripping in two all over again. Her head filled with frantic prayers to the Goddess, to her ancestors...not for herself, but for him. She refuted fear, she faced her fate...detached.
“I CAN’T!” he exploded from his roar; a broken man, utterly broken.
“Good choice.”
That cultivated, strained Scottish tone cut through the air, taking them both from their current predicament. They turned to the direction of the intrusion, Logan’s fist finally dropping from its perilous, threatening place against Ororo’s throat without the slightest protest from her. It was a truly distilled moment in time; they looked with disbelief at his abrupt presence, what was almost an encroachment, a certain sense of interruption from a private crisis.
He stood just past the first thick wooden post, between the kitchen and the living room. His thin, dark figure not given the least illumination, though the pallid wan complexion of his skin was enough to define his features; the hollowed low eyes, devious and triumphant. Below that was the thin pinched mouth, like a level footing below the cliff edges of his high, acute cheek bones. “After all,” he demurred, though somewhat caustically, “what man could bring himself to slaughter the woman he loves?”
It was all that was needed. The spark that ignited the random pool of oil; the crass, urging words. All physical ailments were forgotten in an instant, the adrenaline pumping, masking the severe injury, perversely like it was never there in the first place. Rushing past a numb Ororo and leaping over the sofa, making it crash onto his back, his volcano hot face contorted with rage rather than the previous anguish; he overturned several items of furniture in a bid to get to his prize; vase and plates splintering, nesting tables skittering. Claws zipping out in a livid instant, he gave into the animal nature so swiftly once more, always teetering, never having fully receded from its surface presence. For now Logan had every reason; the object of his suddenly impotent anger, his agony, there in the flesh for him to vent against. He saw nothing unreasonable, indeed he saw no side of reason at all; though the strength of his anger did nothing to counteract the strength of his foe, his body not up to the task of compensating his fury.
Fending off the Wolverine’s sluggish attack was like child’s play for Branloch; the man even having the audacity to laugh as he deflected the wounded man with no more than an ultra quick flick of his wrist, so fast not even Logan’s sharp senses saw it coming. Even at full physical strength, he may have faired the same, had faired the same, just an hour, maybe two ago. His body cracked up against the upturned sofa, limp and helpless, a completely foreign state. A state Ororo had only observed him in once before and that was on the night of his heroics at the Statue of Liberty and the days thereafter. She soon realised that it was the sucker punch, so to speak, whatever had happened to him before that she had not been there to witness, this was too much for his overloaded body to cope with.
As Ororo scrambled around, only moving after action that had happened so quickly she could not act upon it, she rushed to Logan’s side. Fresh reams poured from him like rain rivulets down a window. A large congregation of vital fluid came instantaneously about him; his head slumped onto his chest, the blow looking fatal.
“Logan,” Ororo called in almost unnatural calm, the type of calm born from feeling outside the moment, as if all this is not happening to you but you are seeing it in some detached, ethereal manner. She reached for his shoulders, moving him bodily, just a little. His head fell back as heavy as a rock, his eyes were rolled up into his head so far as to only make the whites visible, only the bare tip of the dark tawny, speckled green iris peeping down, a dark sun setting in a reversed world. It was a ghastly sight. “Logan!” The expression had much more genuine cry about it this time, her soul had come back to her body, her mind no longer shockingly disengaged. She shook him frantically by his shoulders but he remained catatonic, induced into some stupor he could not escape. Yes, time would heal any great hurt for him but it was startlingly clear that that was the one thing that could not be afforded. All the while she could feel him behind her...him; watching patiently, always waiting, the air of triumph about him without having to turn and observe it directly. She could simply sense it.
“Leave him Ororo,” the thin but assured voice came as casual as normal conversation, “he will have his uses, but right now, he doesn’t matter.”
“You bastard!” she spat as she turned to Branloch, her concerned hands still upon Logan’s prone body protectively, protectively as a mate. “Why have you done this to us?” The question was simplicity itself, as naïve almost dumb question; what did it matter now?
Branloch laughed in comprehension, everything, all the nuances, crossing her face like clouds changing by the second. “Oh my dear,” he said, “do not see this as vindictive,” he shook his head, the waxy luminous face creasing into what could be called a pious pity, “that is the last reason, the very last.”
“Then why?” Ororo’s voice quivered, her eyes pleading despite herself, feeling sick for having given into it, “Why?” She insisted upon her answer, not angry, moreover perplexed.
Branloch stepped forwards from the shadows, a neat tapping accompanying his measured movements, his hands clasped modestly behind his back as if in consideration, nearly a priestly countenance. And indeed, his facial expression assumed he was contemplating something of grave importance. He spoke deliberately, hesitantly to preserve that perceived modesty. Finally he deigned to answer. “I”I saw your...potential, Ororo. Do not mistake me, I’m not under the Hollywood influence of wishing you to be some ‘Queen’,” he spoke mockingly, seething quietly at the distasteful notion, “by my side, to rule as my lover”the idea is too ridiculous.” He stunted an outright laugh at such a thing for that was the last thing for him to consider, in fact, being what he was, living, if one could call it that, the life he did, such a thing seemed preposterous, beyond immortal concerns. “No”but as a companion...as a companion, yes.” His words were clear and sincere, no airs or graces, the word just right. “I have struggled for years now, tae find someone, somebody who was capable of receiving...the gift, of carrying it tae what it should be...who could continue the bloodline. I have experimented and come tae complete failure.” He paused in his ambling pontificating, thinking of those very failures, unable, at the time, to understand why. He felt the need to explain this, “That is why you see my failures, those...things. You must see that I did’nae mean tae create them...but in you, in you I saw somebody who was worthy o’ this immortal gift, somebody who could bring their own gift tae the bloodline as a companion...as a sister, if yae will. I have waited and waited Ororo, such a very long time,” he came closer to her, feeling his reasoning was perfect and absolute, “yae can’nae imagine the centuries...” His demeanour spoke of loss, an irrevocably old hurt grudgingly brought to the surface, into the dim, heavy light. “I won’t lie hen”immortality is not all it’s cracked up tae be, but still, it has its perks, its advantages...will ya join me? Will ya join this family?”
Despite her instinct, Ororo, in her present circumstance, found it hard to invoke even the least semblance of sympathy; her near dead lover still under her hands, still ruddy in places and bleeding but not yet stirring, icy blue veins pushing up against the drained, porcelain, brittle skin like Delft earthenware. “Thanks,” she intoned stonily, “but no thanks”I already have a family of my own.”
Branloch did not seem indignant at this rebuke, simply expectant, but he knew instinct would override this, would implore her in some unknowable way. All reason and sentiment would fly out of the window. It would be the way of it and he felt a certain vague sympathy for his unwitting victim. No, victim, he felt, was not the correct or appropriate word. She should feel...blessed, blessed by this gift. Slowly he began to shake his head, “That is a shame Ororo...a deep, deep shame.”
“I don’t care,” she fairly panted, her straggled hair falling into her face. All through his little speech she had felt it, felt it rising to different purposes; the subtle rumblings in the background, the sharp shift of the winds through the stiff leaves of the trees outdoors. It had all been building, like a symphony coming to a crashing crescendo; every instrument joining in at its allotted time but none being fully appreciated until the final moment came. The pattering of rain started, slow and broken at first until it burst into a full-on pelt; thumping heavily against the earth and everything else in its way. The wind solidly howled now, battering everything in its path. Her head fell, her body jerked with the force of a constant panting. She had never felt anything like it, a glorious confusion, a forcefulness and intention never before bestowed to her; she felt that if she wished, she could destroy the entire world whole, by force of will alone. All of her nature was employed in all its capacity; its destruction and its nourishment, the ultimate benefactor and distributor of life and death itself. She could do anything she wished, immortality was hers, just like the Umnabi tribe that had worshiped her as a Goddess made tangible flesh in their material pagan thoughts, long ago, had made her believe. She looked up at him, feeling her canines straining again; that Wisdom-tooth ache and a hot, hot burning in her eyes. She knew they were veiled, but also instinctively that it was not the usual white gauze, the spider-web mist. This time it felt more substantial and she was correct to feel the tangible change; her orbs swirled in pure, vibrant blood red, like pulsing clots; thick and deadly in their intensity, deadly with hate, pure antipathy. She had at last found an outlet for this new imposed nature, one she found, against the background of her innate morals as an X-Man, as a human being, albeit humanoid, entirely acceptable. It was almost written that”X-Men shall not kill”but what she had become, it was no longer Storm, the true Storm. Different rules were to be observed.
It was a fractured cry that hailed forth ripping automatically from Ororo’s throat as she lunged at him, lashing out with an errant arm, the unnaturally accelerated growth of her finger nails taking a large chunk like cat’s claws. It was an almost satisfying feeling, removing that chunk of flesh from his right cheek, almost as satisfying as his look of disbelief as he touched carefully at the spot of the infliction, held up against the window-sill, plump tissue, raw and exposed under his hesitant curious finger tips.
“Now, now Ororo,” Branloch smirked at her, “there’s no need for that.”
The fresh blood still dripping from her hand, the unrestrained anger flowing like an ancient spring, she did not reply, she flew at him once more, the battle beginning in earnest. Branloch evaded this second blow, moving quickly and astutely but not the third; her claw like nails, thick and hardy, ripping into his side as he attempted to avoid her. But it seemed his mercy was not to last for long, his patience not infinite. It was most definitely finite as he struck a blow back; if this were to be the way of it, then so be it. He caught her left shoulder, ripping through the bare flesh as if it were nothing more than tissue paper. There was a brief gush, but nothing more, though the vibrant slashes remained with their deep crimson glow.
Ororo automatically clutched at the wound as she crashed back against a random post; a peel of thunder rumbling ominously, ominously and thickly enough to shake the old cottage to its very foundations. The first true bolt of lightening, struck one after the other, one split into many, forking into the ground around the small dwelling, leaving almost perfectly rounded patches of blackened scolded grass and earth in their wake. Looking down at her injured shoulder as she gingerly pulled her hand away, she was astonished to see the scarlet stripes almost sealed over with a crust of deep scab, as it should have been two or three days from now. But her amazement did not last long”she grew rapidly wise to the reality of her new situation. She took reign upon her existing attributes, determined to use them to their full if they were to help her avenge not just Logan, but to avenge herself”to strike down upon him for this indecorous state he had brought upon her.
Again the dwelling rocked as though it had been hit be an earthquake worthy of register on the Richter scale and the rain pelted the earth now, reducing it to a sodden swamp within a matter of seconds, overflowing the guttering, dripping through the hither-to un-noticeable gaps in the old thatching and warped floor boarding; the ensuing deluge was of such magnitude. She almost did not know what to use first, like a child spoilt at Christmas, Storm had an ‘embarrassment of riches’ at her disposal. But instead of wielding her powers she chose to wield her fists”knocking Branloch with such sub-normal strength that he smashed straight through one of the holding joists, sending down a torrent of water from above; droplets as hard as diamonds in unimaginable quantity. The endless sessions with Logan back in the danger room perfecting her one-on-one combat had there final pay-off.
Branloch shook his head, like a dog emerged from a river, reddened water shaking from him in every direction. And his face was set like a hound too; angry and coarse, demanding vengeance for his grievance. “If that’s the way yae want tae play it, then so be it!” he snarled, all notion for a cursory humanity in his voice gone, a demonic, demonstrative force taking over.
Before she even knew what was happening Ororo felt the awful, painful crash of the free standing stair-case ploughing into her from behind; the unbelievable impact like a car-wreck. Everything seemed quiet for a moment, her breath frozen in her lungs, just the small tinkering of the falling wood that where formally the stairs but then it all came in like a stereo on zero brashly being turned up to one hundred; the storm, her storm, more violent than ever. She opened her eyes to find the monster leering over her, practically gnashing his teeth, the drool dripping like liquid lard; his over-developed canines straining, the fierce acid of the eyes like a cat at night, the nose, shrivelled and shrunken back like the puckered stub of a bat. The vision repulsed her, even more so at the thought of her imminent replication. To be destined for a fate as one of these creatures was truly a fate worse than death. That destiny shook Ororo from her forceful daze, but to her dismay that determination to avoid such a fate seemed to bring the monster out in her. She felt, along with the blood-fullness of her eyes, her whole physiognomy transforming; fury giving full reign to the newly fledged monster within.
Without thinking Ororo pounced forwards, her teeth gnashing with equal verve, dying to bite into the putrid flesh that hung before her. She felt her sharpened eye teeth nipping quickly through the softness of Branloch’s right cheek, just a ruddy drop or two issuing from the small, insignificant wound down into her dismayingly eager mouth. But he had pulled away swiftly; whipping around with a knowing snarl as he now stood half a room away from her hunched and waiting; the facial wound disappearing before her very eyes. But that was nothing unusual by now. She pretty much knew the rules of the game.
“You will die for what you’ve done,” Ororo rasped in a voice that was not quite her own, even to her ears. But she meant her solemn vow all the same”she no longer had anything left to lose...
With that the weather witch lunged forwards for a renewed assault and Branloch did the same, but she, the mutant, had an extra ace up her sleeve. Summoning a fierce wind she lifted him from the floor, smashing him straight through the low-slung ceiling. Wood and white plaster rained down along with the true rain as his slim form disappeared from view, but she did not wait for it to come back down. Instead she manipulated that same wind to take her through the hole she had created, zipping up like a lightening blot in reverse. She landed with a fair amount of grace; falling into a stride that led her straight to Branloch as he pushed himself up onto all fours, looking more the animal than ever. He never did get his chance to right himself as Ororo used the most rudimentary methods open to her, simply kicking him heartily in the ribs several times, shunting him along the floor of the master bedroom where they now found themselves. With one last mighty round-house, utilising her growing super-human strength, she sent him spinning back into the redundant fire place on the back wall.
But Branloch was only momentarily dazed. As quick as a flash he had advanced on Ororo as she tried to harness the random lightening strikes that marred the rough terrain into a deadly weapon but she did not concentrate swiftly enough, for the Laird had her by the throat as he fairly flew them both threw the air; the glass of the lead latticed window cracking against the force of her skull impacting on it. But she barely felt it, didn’t even register the slowly leaking ooze that began to mat her ruffled hair at the crown of her scalp. Apparently he had given up any hope of her ever joining him, absolutely. She knew they were playing for keeps now, for sure. She just about had time to look up at him, a mere inch or so from her face before he threw her back across the room; her back snapping painfully backwards against the bed, making her utter a strained noise of anguish. Her breath exploded from her as she flopped forwards as if she’d just finished running a Marathon”twice over, the pressure on her chest, coming through from her back almost unbearable. It certainly gave Branloch a chance to gain on is advantage as he yanked Ororo from the floor where she had fallen helplessly onto all fours, by her tangled white locks this time, showing no mercy. He looked about ready to say something to her until the now unbearable racket of the storm outside become so much that it would have drown out any words of attempted reconciliation or threat anyway.
Thin rays of light began to rain down and he could almost feel the static in the air. It was as if the bedroom had become a depressurised zone, separate from the manic chaos that was transpiring outside. Amidst this sudden distraction, Branloch let go of Ororo, making her fall back to the floor in surprise at her sudden release. But this did not distract the weather witch from her current task and it all came into fruition exactly as she had envisioned. The mightiest bolt of lightening suddenly tore threw the already fragile thatched roof of the cottage, blasting away several pieces of furniture as it had a similar affect on Branloch’s person, striking him almost directly on his head.
Ororo watched carefully as the vampire fell back though the already decimated flooring and back into the living room. But it took her a few moments to notice the falling red stars that glowed around her. She had only just become aware of these, cascading like angry fairies in every direction, coming down about her ears when she smelled the heady fumes of the smoke. Quickly her head snapped up and she saw the beginning of a raging fire, one that even her rains could not put out, not in an instant for she had no time to linger; Branloch was already stirring below. She looked up again briefly as the flames began to eat their way through the sturdy wooden joists of the ceiling and the darkened murky blue sky was visible good and proper from the massive hole the fire had now made. It was clear that the cottage was soon to burn down around their ears, but Ororo did not care...
“Logan?” she called quickly as she looked down and could not see him for he was not where she had left him. That fact gave her double the determination. If he was not where she had left him then surely he was still alive. A quick and rather rough wind took her through the ever widening hole that was now licked with fierce flames. As she landed the whole upper region of the cottage gave a horrendous groan followed by a series of ear splitting cracks. They were enough to distract her and give Branloch his chance to get back the upper hand, before it was too late...
“You fool!” he snarled as he back-handed her to the ground, seemingly appearing from nowhere. “Do yae not realise that if we don’t get out o’ here soon then we’re both done fae?!”
“Great observation!” she shot back as the fire became even more ferocious and thick plumes of orange tinged opaque grey smoke began to fill the room.
“Not the fire!” he screamed back, incensed, “that can’nae dae anythin’ you stupid girl!” For the first time Ororo could see the hint of fear in those hideous eyes, and then, as if on queue, the very thing he had become so alarmingly agitated about demonstrated itself. The first thing that hit her after the blinding flash and the scream of agony was the smell of burnt flesh, but not living flesh, rotting, decayed flesh”like a funereal pyre. It took Ororo a few moments more to realise that what had burned the side of Branloch’s face so badly, sending him scuttling for cover in the nearest corner, was a bright shaft of sunlight. Having picked its why through the cotton cloud it had acted upon the monster in a way that the real flames springing up around them apparently could not. It didn’t take Ororo much longer to realise the implications of this revelation for her self”the moment she was exposed to daylight as the cottage fell down around her ears, that would be the end...
Finally she looked up at him as he emerged from the smoke and shadows, determination in her eyes now more than ever. If they were both moments from death no matter what they did then she was certain that she would have the satisfaction of knowing she had taken him down first. The winds died down outside and the rain that had been nothing short of torrential began to ease. Thunder continued to crack intermittently but she was gathering up to something, it was clear to Branloch as he stood just feet away from her in some kind of stand-off; the intensity of blood-red locked with a gruesome sallow. The sallow flickered first, found its salvation in that small instant. Storm looked across; a wooden trapdoor placed in the flagstones, formerly hidden by the sofa that was now in bits somewhere else. There was a cellar. There in lay preservation. There in lay deliverance...
Not if Ororo Munroe could help it.
She seized upon her ultimate move, not really sure if it would work or not but determined to give it a shot. Her fist began to glow, bright white hot. Around it a ball formed, fuzzed and vaguely blue at its edges, an electric ball”a ball of lightening. He made his move, so did she...thrusting her fist forwards she met him halfway, ignoring the burning in her shoulder as a stray column of fresh sunlight struck it, a spike broke free of the balled lightening, forming a kind of dagger and she pushed it with all her might through the central area of his chest. He stood; shocked paralysed, his arms splayed out, his eyes monstrously wide as was his mouth. It had been a gut reaction on Ororo’s part, even though the idea of resorting to myth even now, after everything, seemed absurd, the stake-through-the-heart seemed a reasonable thing to attempt. Although her stake was not quite as conventional as it could have been, it had stopped him in his tracks, but had not destroyed him as she had hoped. More sunlight came in as large chunks of the cottage came crashing down and the fire raged all around them. This was it, for them both...
“Need a hand darlin’?”
Ororo could not describe the feelings that flooded through her as she first heard his voice and then saw him appear from the now impossibly thick wall of smoke, coming out from behind Branloch. Against all odds she smiled, feeling her face melting back into a semblance that she knew was her, transformed from the unnatural monster she had become.
“Logan...”
He returned her smile but his attention quickly shifted as the resounding sound of his claws unleashing themselves seemed to make every other riot that was going on fade into the back ground. Hs face screwed up into an ugly anger as he came up right behind Branloch, swinging his arm far behind him and high into the air. It swung back down lightening fast, in a complete blur of movement. The still paralysed Branloch had no idea what had hit him. Ororo managed to register the growing sense of surprise and anger as his entire head left his shoulders, falling with a thud and bouncing out of sight at which point his body simply dissolved, joining the ash that filled the atmosphere, mingling with the smoke.
It was finished. Everything was...
The lightening dagger disappeared and Logan rushed forwards, pulling Ororo into a crushing embrace. It was as if they had forgotten where they were and in the process forgotten themselves. “Come on,” he shouted as he finally forced himself to pull away from her and try to drag her towards where he thought the door would be. But se stood stock-still, resisting his efforts to move her.
When he looked back at her in utter confusion, she said, “There’s no point.”
“What d’you mean!” he shouted in garbled shock and anger”it was only a matter of seconds before the whole thing would engulf them...
“The sun!” Ororo bellowed on the verge of hysterical, wanting him at least to escape this mess alive. “I can’t go into the sun!”
Logan glared at her for a moment but seemed to understand; taking on the unbelievable at a stroke. He suddenly turned from her, his head darting this way and that as if he where a bloodhound on the scent of that precious salty metallic liquid. He dashed into the thick plume only to return seconds later brandishing on of the dark thick curtains from the front window, more-or-less in tact, just sparking at the edges.
“I’m getting you out of here come hell or high water!” was the only thing he said as before she had time to protest he threw the material over her like an all-consuming robe and pulling her tight to him rushed them both into the harsh light of a new day...
*
Coughing ferociously as the ash, heat and fumes conspired to ravish his lungs Logan came to a thump on the cold hard ground that was sodden with the previous deluge just yards outside of the destroyed cottage. Still, he cradled the blanketed mass in his arms as if his life depended on it and in some distorted way, it did...
“Ororo...darlin’...” He called to her with uncharacteristic softness as he surveyed the inert lump covered by the blackened material. Its unanimated presence made him fear the worse. He dared not pull it back for fear of what he would see there. Instead he called again... “Ororo...?”
The blanket twitched. However minutely so, he noticed it.
“Ororo?” he fairly whispered, some of the earlier trepidation lifting. After a moment or so she stirred again, the movement much more pronounced this time and therefore undeniable. A soft moan issued from beneath the ragged and musty thick cloth as unidentifiable lumps began to ripple beneath it, rising slowly from the ground.
“Logan?”
“I’m here darlin’,” he replied with a palpable relief, reaching down tentatively to help her into what he presumed was a kneeling position. Once she seemed settled in this shift his hands lingered about the drape, toying with removing it.
As if sensing Logan’s dilemma Ororo told him, with a more than nervous yet somehow defiant air, “Take it off...” she paused, involuntarily holding her breath, “...please....”
Their was an exaggerated ‘whoosh’ and the brilliance of a new dawns sun flooded everything, bright in rhapsody...
~The Epilogue~
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