FIC: The quest (Xmen/Willow crossover)
Title: The quest
Author: JaqofSpades
Email: jaqfic at yahoo dot com dot au
Rating: PG-13. (Language, violence, mild sexual situations)
Archive: WRFA, ask otherwise.
Spoilers/Continuity: Vaguely comicverse.
Genre: Drama/Crossover (Willow)
Summary: Logan is sunk in hopelessness when his assistance is sought for a very different type of quest.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing. Please don't sue. The copyrights of Marvel Comics and Twentieth Century Fox are respectfully acknowledged.
Feedback: please. Constructive is best, any is welcome.
Author's Notes: This was written for the Movie Fic Challenge run by
lucilla_darkate. My claim was Xmen, for the film Willow. It was meant to be all dark and allegoric, but dammit, I wanted to have some fun. And then I wanted to let Logan be happy for once. So I got carried away. Forgive me. And yes, its late, late, late. And damn near 10,000 words long. Be warned.
*************
He saw her in his peripheral vision: streaks flashing white, guns flashing grey. Matched with one of the Sentinels’ human lackeys - she’d do just fine. His own combatant was dumb but tough, so he pulled his concentration back to slash-gouge-slash, and kept going until the Sentinel fell. Wolverine couldn’t resist a smirk. Dumb but tougher, ya lousy heap of tin.
Rogue - check. Human disposed off, marshalling the troops. Some leader, that girl. Shadowcat, OK. Looked shaken though. Iceman, still icy. Colossus. Looked dented. Obviously had duked it out with his own Sentinel. Storm, her eyes fading to mocha after creating one hell of a tempest. Jubilee, ripped suit, but whatever got her hadn’t dulled her spirits. Gambit, still here. Wolverine spat into the dirt and tried not wish the younger man dead.
Clambering over the metal mountain in front of him, he felt the age in his bones and the weariness a healing mutation could not quell. He - the Wolverine - was sick of this. The endless battles. The neverending lineup of enemies. The quest that never seemed to move any closer to fruition. Xavier’s noble words - harmony, peace, co-existence - left a bitter taste in his mouth. Harmony, my ass. They try to wipe us out, and we try to stop them from wiping us out while we protect them from those of us who want to wipe them out, Logan thought darkly.
He wondered why he stuck around. Scratch that. He didn’t dare wonder, really. The answer was too obvious for his taste, and too fucking frustrating. Better to ignore it, take what he could get, enjoy the ride while it lasted. He could think of a thousand other clichés for their little drama, but refused to give in to the big one. Because lusting after a girl he couldn’t have? That was just stupid.
Vision blurred. Someone must have kicked up a clot of mud into his face, because no way would that be tears. He frowned, hard, and swiped at his eyes, surprised when his hands came away clean. If you didn’t count the blood. And oil. Same thing, really, if you were a Sentinel. Staring at his hands, he never saw it happen. Never saw the light change, the veil thin. The flash reminiscent of Storm, or Jubilee when she was really pissed off. Electricity, moving across his skin and making everything prickle. A pull, not Rogue’s psychic drain, but a physical pull. Taking him somewhere? Where the fuck was there to go? And black wave that told him there were no answers to that question. Not to think. Not to question.
xxxxxxxxxx
Logan drifted up, consciousness breaking over him like a gentle wave. With a not so gentle poke and - FUCK - that was sharp. He forced his eyes open to see what had caused the pain, and came face to face with a tiny man that seemed to be sticking him with a miniscule sword. A sword? Yeah right, bub. He was still scoffing at that thought when he realised the man was REALLY tiny. The size of a dragonfly. Maybe he was dead. Or hallucinating. That had to be it.
Oh. Of course. It was flying now. Throwing a rope over him, drawing the knots tight. Knots? Rope? Logan resisted the urge to chuckle, and sprang his claws. Only to find his elbows and wrists immobilised, and 12 inches of adamantium posing a threat only to the tender skin of his own neck. He sighed, and received another sharp jab for his efforts.
“FUCK! Stop pricking me with that needle, you little fuckwit.” The tiny creature - a fairy? - jumped at that and flew off to perch on a nearby bush. And bowed at him.
“You are awake! Good, good, very good. Faljean thinks this is good, good, good. Only to help you see, only to help.”
Logan noticed the little fucker wavering on his perch. Great. A drunken fairy. I get all the great fairytales, he thought. Who picked this fucking afterlife?
“Afterlife? This is no afterlife, hairy man.” Another voice, to his left. Logan shifted, to find he wasn’t the fairies only captive. There were two of them, in fact. Little men. Very little men - as small as the fairy, but still a good few feet shy of being able to be called short. Dwarves? At least they were real, he shrugged. The original mutants, even.
“And who the fuck are you?” He tried not to snarl. Information was probably a good thing when you woke up trussed like a pig, with a fairy poking you with a sword.
“I am Willow Ufgood,” the little guy said, voice surprisingly even for someone nearly drowning in rope. “This,” he pointed a finger to his left in the absence of being able to wave, “is my friend, Meegosh.”
“Nice to meetcha.” Enough civilities, damn it. “How did we get here? Where are we? And what the fuck are they,” Logan snapped.
Willow frowned, perplexed. “We were taken prisoner by the brownies as we made our way through the forest. Didn’t the same thing happen to you?”
“Yeah, right.” Logan snorted at the thought of the insect-men being able to pin him down. “I woke up like this.”
“Release them!” The woman’s voice sang through the clearing, its crystal tones echoing among the trees. From nowhere, a phosphorescence gathered, then spread, then moved into a familiar pattern - eyes, a mouth, a nose. A beautiful, beautiful face, Logan thought, unable to process anything further in his awe.
A name hung in the air, a million tiny sprites chanting with glee. “Cherlindrea! Cherlindrea!”
She smiled, and Logan felt his own lips quirk in response. Beside him, the two dwarves grinned like idiots.
“Welcome. It is good to meet you at last, Willow Ufgood.” She inclined her head to the small man beside him. “Elora Dannan wanted you to know she has chosen you as her guardian.”
“Me? Why me? You need a warrior for something like that. I’m just a nelwyn! I’m short!” Logan could smell the shame and doubt rolling off the small body beside him, and his heart panged for the dwarf. The goddess - no other word seemed to fit - seemed undaunted by his protests, however.
“Elora Dannan likes you, Willow. She believes in you. She has chosen you to take her to Tir Asleen, where you will find a good king and queen to raise her. The whole world depends on it.”
The little man shook his head, sunk in despair. “Her life depends on it. Without you, she will die. Without you, Bavmorda will take over the whole world. Your village, your children. There will be no one to stop Bavmorda.”
Logan felt his hackles rise. Bavmorda? Who was that? Why did he feel like retching at the sound of the name?
Cherlindrea took her cobalt eyes from Willow, and directed them at him. “You feel it, don’t you my brave warrior? You feel the evil, the threat.” She returned her gaze to the nelwyn.
“This man has no name here, no life. But he knows Bavmorda must be stopped. And he is ready to fight with you, to guard Elora Dannan with sword and tooth and claw. Are you not, wild man?”
The question put, she waited for his answer. Logan felt a compulsion to please her, to scrape and grovel, but he knew the decision was his to make freely. But, still, it was already made. He had no idea why, but there it was.
“Bavmorda will die. Elora Dannan will live.” He wondered, for a moment, if he was drugged. Or brainwashed. Surely, it was unnatural for right and wrong to be so clear?
“That will be my gift to you, wild man. Clarity. And there will be others.” This time, Cherlindrea’s smile was teasing, a promise not yet ready to be spoken. She gazed at him a moment longer, and then the connection was cut, her warmth dragged away.
She was already fading into a million dancing lights when she spoke to Willow one final time.
“Take this wand to the sorceress Fin Raziel. She will join your quest. My brownies will guide you. Go now.” The night darkened again, the forest sounds resumed, and when Logan’s eyes refocused to the firelight, the nelwyn sat grasping a twisted piece of wood that shone with a little of that unnatural radiance.
They were alone - two nelwyns, a man from somewhere else, a miraculous baby, and two cranky brownies. One of which was gibbering about leaving the sacred ground to set up camp, and was already prodding them into action. Logan followed the two nelwyns - Willow carrying Elora with the care of a doting parent - and thought about his situation. A quest. He was on the archetypal sacred quest, he realised, shaking his head. “Goddamn.” Up ahead, the kid laughed, and seemed to wink at him over Willow’s shoulder.
xxxxxx
“Guides, huh.” Logan muttered, feeling the rain drop from his nose and the mud squelch under his fingers once again. His leather suit was wet through, Elora Dannan was strapped to his back and his hands were free - all the better to stop Willow from falling into the mud with every second step.
Meegosh, lucky bastard, had been sent home. To till fields, apparently. Logan was pretty sure he would have made a good farmer. Hell, to get out of this, he would have been happy to pull the fuckin’ plough. They had been lost for half a day, didn’t seem to be any closer to finding Fin Raziel, and he was wet. He hated wet.
When a ramshackle building emerged from the gloom, Logan would have recognised it even if it wasn’t for the overwhelming scent of beer that signalled its purpose. Crummy bars looked like crummy bars everywhere in the world, even here. (And that was a thought he didn’t want to think about any more, because he’d been doing SO well in ignoring the fact that he STILL had no idea where he was.) He’d also been doing well ignoring the little insects, but now they were arguing against going into the tavern.
“No fucking way!” he objected, claws creeping out purely of their own volition. “We’re going in, and I’m getting some dry clothes, and having a fucking beer!”
Willow shot him a dirty look. “Elora Dannan needs milk. We can get milk here,” he insisted to the brownies.
Logan frowned, chastened. “That’s right. Milk. We need milk.” He stomped towards the tavern and didn’t look back to see who was following.
Pushing into the barroom, he sighed at the familiar chaos. Drunkenness. Brawls. Slatternly barmaids. He nobbled one, put on his best charming smile, and motioned to Elora Dannan peeking over his shoulder.
“Baby needs milk. You got any?”
She simpered, then trotted off to find some. Apparently not on tap in this bar, but something about the cow out back. Mission accomplished, and now time for the beer.
He was settling himself at the bar when he heard some bastard threatening to eat the peck, and realised Willow must have followed him inside. He wandered up to the idiot, plucked Willow bodily from the meathead’s grasp, and strode off.
He sat the little guy on a stool beside him and pushed a pitcher of ale his way. Willow’s question was still unvoiced when Logan cut in - “Relax. Milk is on its way. Have a beer.”
The dwarf - nelwyn - shrugged, then took a huge slug of the brew. Logan had to restrain his laughter at the disgust on his companion’s face. “Not used to beer, huh?”
“You can’t call this stuff beer! It tastes like donkey piss! No taste at all and weak as water,” Willow spat around yet another mouthful. “Sad day when I have to drink Daikini beer in a Daikini tavern.”
When the barman stomped up to tell them to move on … “we don’t serve their sort here, peck lover …” Logan considered popping him one, but then decided discretion was the better part of valour. Willow had already jumped down from the stool and was headed resignedly for the door.
Logan caught him and pulled him towards the stairs instead. Bit of time to feed Elora, and then rest up was in order. He’d bet money that the rooms were abandoned during the day, reserved an hour at a time for the lucrative nighttime trade.
“In here, bub.” They backed their way into the room - empty, as he’d suspected - and sat down to make some plans. “I’ll go have a look for that milk for Elora. You wait here with here, and I’ll be back as soon as I can. Try to stay out of trouble.” Wincing at those last words - tactful, bub, the kid can’t HELP being picked on - Logan found his fawning barmaid in the shed at the back of the tavern, and watched as she milked a cow for him. Heat rose from the frothy streams of milk as they spurted from each teat, the woman’s expert hands filling a small earthenware jug in minutes. Huh. Who knew it worked like that? He frowned. The mechanics of getting the milk out of the cow were complex enough - exactly how did they plan to get it into Elora? He prayed the nelwyn would know, because his experience with feeding babies? Exactly nil.
A quick kiss and a fondle were the price he had to pay for the milk - the sacrifices he made - before heading back inside to plonk it down in front of Willow.
“Here ya are. What now?” The nelwyn shook his head at Logan’s ignorance, dipped a clean rag into the milk, and gave it to Elora to suck on. Her chubby fists beat the air with glee, and the method seemed effective - the jug was empty before half an hour was out.
Just as they were finishing up a bump and a giggle at the door gave them a scant seconds warning of company. The nelwyn, Elora and the brownies hid in a cupboard; Logan slid into the cobwebs and scarily unidentifiable grime under the rough hewn bed. Seconds later, a tall man dressed all in black dropped his ladylove onto the bed with a resounding bounce.
Her high pitched giggles had his eardrums about to burst, but the man’s lusty groans suggested the act wouldn’t take long. It was then a heavy tread on the stairs made the pair freeze, before she leaped for the closet. Plucking a pink dress from its hanger, she threw it at the man before registering Willow’s presence with a scream. Simultaneously, a huge man wielding a club burst through the door.
“You’re infested with brownies, cousin,” the man quavered in a doubtful falsetto, pulling the veil over her face and simpering at the giant who loomed in the door.
“Brownies - I hate brownies,” the woman screamed, beating her hands at the nelwyn and their tiny guides. Logan lay under the bed, wondering exactly how to extract his group from this situation.
“And they’ve stolen a baby - poor, dear baby,” the crossdresser cooed, grabbing Elora and holding her up to shield himself.
Now, that was enough. Logan rolled from under the bed, to stand between the baby snatcher and his attacker. The woman squealed again, and the man gripped his shoulders to coo “my protector”. The giant, enraged, was readying his club for a swing when a yet another party burst through the door.
Black-clad, helmeted warriors. Fierce, mean and relentless. Logan could taste the evil rushing from their pores, though the little one in front - the leader - smelt off. Wrong. Different. Nevertheless, it was he who stomped forward, demanding to see the baby.
Willow, Logan noted, had gone white. The sick fear on his face told Logan this was bad. Very, very bad. He was about to object when the conman behind him cooed - “oh no, no marks on this one. She’s mine.” And yanked Elora away when the lead soldier tried to grab the baby.
A raised eyebrow, and a gimlet stare. “You’re strong.” A helmet torn off, and a fall of copper curls demonstrated exactly why the soldier had smelt so different. Female. Beautiful, a voice whispered in the back of Logan’s brain. “Beautiful!” a stunned voice commented aloud, and Logan rolled his eyes. Elora’s “mother” was wide-eyed with appreciation, and had dropped the veil shielding his face to reveal an impressive five o’clock shadow.
“And you’re no woman!” the woman warrior said incredulously.
“Not a woman?” the stranger twittered, and Logan’s mind raced as he tried to figure out how best to rescue Elora.
“Not a woman!” bellowed the outraged giant, dropping his head to charge, the very picture of an enraged bull. Logan fought his way through the sudden melee to get to Willow, who was making a desperate attempt to get to Elora. The stranger, however, was quicker, fleeing down the stairs with the baby, and grabbing the reins to a cart that lay idle outside the tavern. The horses were already at a gallop when Logan and Willow made it to the balcony, and there was only one thing for it. Willow, whose short legs were a few paces behind him, was pitched up and over, and thankfully, Logan’s aim proved good. He fell into the cart, and then bounced up to glare at Logan. Obviously nothing broken.
As the cart disappeared at speed around the bend, Logan fought his way to the picket were the soldiers’ horses and chariots were tethered. Horses hated him, could scent the predator or something, and a few slaps on the rump had them fleeing for the distant forest.
He turned around to find himself being charged by the woman’s little army. He smiled at her, licked his lips, and slowly released his claws, one hand at a time. She took it well, he had to admit. Her sword came up and her helm came down, and only he could smell her fear spike. And something else.
“Well, well. We like the weapons, do we,” the Wolverine smirked as she circled closer. “Figures, you with your sexy armour and all…” he jumped back as she slashed at him with her sword, took a moment to look her deep in the eyes, and then bought up his bleeding arm to lick the blood slowly from the wound. She was forced to watch as the flesh knitted itself together, leaving a thin red line. Within seconds, even that was gone.
Now, THAT was fear smell, the Wolverine crowed. Claws are one thing, but skin that heals …
“Ya see, I’m REALLY hard to kill. And ya just have to do better than that,” he lectured the woman and her lieutenants, hovering just behind. It wasn’t until they all charged at once, however, Wolverine got sick of playing, and began to fight in earnest. Two beheadings and 16 pieces of sword later, none of the soldiers would come near him, and even their copper-haired commander - who had more guts than the rest put together - was keeping her distance.
“Who are you?” she forced out, cradling the arm he’d taken pains not to scar too deeply. “Who do you serve?”
“Serve? I don’t serve no one, kid. But I’m not real fond of people who want to kill babies, and while I don’t generally believe in evil sorceresses, I think I’m gonna make an exception here. Tell Bavmorda the Wolverine is going to carve her into itty bitty pieces.”
“My mother will turn you into a frog! A bat!” the redhead threatened, teeth bared.
“Well, gee. I’m shaking. Tell Batman to get ready to hand over the keys to his ride. I’ll take my chances.” Logan turned his back on her and walked away, in the direction the cart had gone. Fifteen minutes of showing off had probably harmed his chances of finding Willow and Elora, but - God damn! The woman needed to be told.
It was the brownies who found him. Faljean, still woozy from his joyous swim in a bucket of beer, was raving about some mad Martian, and Rool was fretting - something about dinner. Logan was just impressed to see them riding on the back of a bird, complete with tiny bridle and all.
“So, which way, boys?” He set off in a trot after the low-flying falcon, and within the hour caught up to the three runaways. They’d been indulging in their own spot of violence, he surmised, and nor were they the best of friends. Willow’s outraged countenance shouted that one loud and clear.
The stranger - his pink dress clashing with the long black plaits and fierce expression - was introduced as Madmartigan.
“The greatest swordsman in the world,” Pink Dress added to Willow’s introduction. Willow simply rolled his eyes.
“Hey, peck, I just saved your life! And Elora Dannan’s! Again!”
“Yes, Madmartigan, yes you did. Thank you! But we have our real warrior here now, the one Cherlindrea picked to guard us on our way to Tir Asleen! So you can go now!” Willow was obviously at his wits end. Logan could smell the sourness of old fright on him, the staleness of doubt, and the dark tang of terror. He was close to giving up.
“Willow. Madmartigan helped you out. Maybe he can help us out again. I mean, we’re all Bavmorda’s enemies. Shouldn’t we stick together?” He was no negotiator, Logan knew, but it made sense, even to him.
Madmartigan nodded, as prickly as Willow ever was. “I’m heading to the lake anyway, so we may as well share the journey. After that, you’re on your own. Unless you’re heading South. You are? We’ll see, then.”
xxxxx
They had walked south-east, due south, and then east again, through a land that boggled the mind in its magnificence. Where ever he was, Logan reflected, it was a lot less spoilt than Earth. Or North America, anyway. Rivers were crystal clear, untilled grasslands stretched to the horizon, and settlements were few and far between.
But there, the rot began. For the villages were often blackened with fire, abandoned. Bavmorda’s signature lay heavy in the smoke-palled air, and the corpses left hanging in the trees surrounding the dead villages. Madmartigan told him they were avoiding the populated areas, but even there, he explained, Bavmorda had stripped the population of all but the old and frail, pressing men and boys into her armies, and forcing women and girls to service them. Life under Bavmorda, he spat, was no life at all, and death was the better option.
Logan could see the man eyeing Elora Dannan as he spoke, could smell the hope that was trickling into his scent. Reluctant, doubtful, but it was still hope, and Madmartigan’s cynicism suggested it had been a long time since he had felt such a thing. He would fight against Bavmorda, but to fight for something … that was a change, a commitment. Nor was it a decision he had taken yet, Logan realised. Madmartigan’s loyalties were not assured.
Fin Raziel, it seemed, was their best hope. A powerful sorceress, Bavmorda’s most ancient foe. And ahead, the glass mirror of her lake was appearing. A barren island moving into view. As one, they all walked faster towards the shore.
It was Willow who took the boat to the small island, as Logan, Madmartigan, Elora and the brownies stayed on the shore. Willow who could be seen to walk its entire length, searching. Willow who sat defeated at the bole of a wizened oak, before looking up into its dead branches. And Willow who rowed back to the shore, with a small rodent perched on the front of the boat.
A musk rat. Fin Raziel was ensorcelled, and confined to the shape of a musk rat. And Willow - would be sorceror, owner of a few modest tricks - would need to use Cherlindrea’s wand to transform her.
The rat - Fin Raziel, Logan reminded himself, Fin Raziel - admired the baby and then insisted they set a course for Tir Asleen. Transformation could wait until they were safely away, for Bavmorda’s army surely knew that Elora’s defenders would come for the great Fin Raziel.
Madmartigan had already taken his leave, heading south, mumbling his goodbyes with regret and taking great care to tell Willow exactly where he could be found. Unless, of course, he found them first. Which he did. Bound tight, a prisoner of the same band of fighters that they had eluded earlier.
“I told you he was a traitor! Traitor!” screamed Willow, as Bavmorda’s soldiers surrounded them. Logan could hear the disappointment and pain in the nelwyn’s voice, disenchantment biting deep. He was feeling it too, he knew, unable to believe that Madmartigan could turn his back on the quest to restore Elora Dannan to her kingdom. Where, he pondered as one of Bavmorda’s soldiers yanked his arms forward to bind them with iron manacles, had his usual inability to commit gone? His cynicism and lack of belief? Perhaps Cherlindrea had ensorcelled him. Perhaps he really wanted to believe, wanted to follow. And perhaps this quest was more convincing, more clearcut than Xavier’s would ever be.
That thought would haunt him for miles. Trudging behind the prison cart with Madmartigan and Willow, listening to them bait each other. Watching Madmartigan trade barbs and hot glances with Bavmorda’s beautiful daughter. Listening to Fin Raziel coach Willow on the words of the incantation that would return her to human form. And thinking. Endlessly thinking on why he had been so willing to embrace this quest, and reject another.
He was terrified to admit it was because he could never be the good guy in that world. There were no good guys. Here, the bad guys were so bad, and the good guys so few, he was automatically laid a place at the top table. Automatically a hero. “And, no Scooter. No Iceman. No pansies allowed,” he smiled to himself. And tried not to be too satisfied that it was him that Cherlindrea had chosen.
Xxxxxxxxxx
Continues in part two...