FIC: The quest (Willow/Xmen) PART TWO

[jaq_of_spades]

Title: The quest (2/2)
Author: jaqofspades
Archiving, disclaimer etc: see part one
A/N: This is part two of my Willow/Xmen crossover fic for the movie fic challenge run by
lucilla_darkate

**********

Willow’s attempts to transform Fin Raziel proceeded slowly. A raven, Logan surmised, might be seen as a step up from a muskrat, and in that form she could, at least, come and go freely. For the rest of them, an escape attempt was required.

The cage itself wasn’t a problem. The brownies would have eventually succeeded in their attempt to force the primitive lock; Madmartigan achieved it in minutes, and Logan was loath to tell anyone he could have shorn through it at any time. The problem was - had always been - getting their hands on Elora Dannan. The sacred princess was cloistered with the decidedly ungodly one: Sorsha. She of the copper curls and biting repartee. Logan should have known it was a bad idea to send Madmartigan in there.

There was no explanation for it. Actually, the brownies tried - apparently pixie dust was real - but it still didn’t excuse the idiot. Longing glances were one thing, but waking up the guard during a rescue attempt? To spout bad poetry? If they hadn’t been trying to escape, Logan would have laughed.

Luckily, Sorsha had a sword. And Madmartigan might have fancied himself in love with the woman, but he KNEW he loved the sword. And it, Logan was impressed to see, clearly loved him. Now, that was magic, he thought admiringly, as the tempered steel danced in the air and sliced through all comers.

“You finished showing off, Mads, so we can get outta here?” The berserker grin was evidence the kid was just getting caught up in his art, and had forgotten the purpose. Willow sat cradling Elora Dannan, and Fin Raziel had flown in from the East. A village, she squawked. A haven.

And a bloody lot of soldiers waking up, Logan realised, as the camp’s scent changed from sleep-drenched to alert. “We’ve gotta leave, NOW,” Logan yelled, and threw Willow onto a shield, Madmartigan dropping down behind him. He gave them a mighty shove down the hill before diving face first onto a shield of his own, using his own weight to kickstart the momentum. As the makeshift sled careened out of control in the untracked snow, Logan clamped down on his panic. He was Canadian. He could do this.

He could see Willow and Madmartigan streaking down the hill ahead of him, huge gouts of white flying up behind them and obscuring his vision. A rock, and they were airborne, flying faster and faster as the hill dropped away beneath them. Logan tried to steer, tried to follow, but his flight was equally random, their paths reset by even the slightest of obstacles. A natural chute in the snow directed him in an arc to the left, and within seconds they were lost to sight.

He came to rest with a screech of metal over rock, and a view out into nothing. Unable to see earth, snow or anything in between, Logan inched backwards and released his claws, sinking them deep enough to find the hardpacked snow. Sure of his footing, he stood, and looked over the lip of a cliff that would have tested his healing to its limit. Far, far below, he could see a cluster of rude huts and the wind carried occasional wafts of scent to him. Not just soldiers; women and children and animals. A real village. He just had to figure out a way down that didn’t involve combat sledding.

xxxxxxxxxx

Logan was tired, footsore and hungry, and being greeted by a bristle of swords and arrows didn’t help his mood.

“Get that fuckin’ thing outta my face, or lose the hand. Your choice,” he warned the sentry, and the trio of men that appeared from nowhere at his shout.

“I’m alone, and I don’t need to kill anybody. Yet. Just looking for some friends. And a place to sleep.” When the villagers ignored his attempt at diplomacy, he sighed and sprang the claws. “Look. If I wanted to kill ya, I would’a done it already. You guys seen a big, mad Daikini and a nelwyn, with a baby? If ya do, tell ‘em Logan’s looking for them. I’ll be in the bar.” Logan shrugged, sniffed the air and ambled towards the hut that smelt of malt and heaven. No one followed.

He was halfway through his first beer when Madmartigan poked his head through the door. “Glad you could make it,” the swordsman said, sarcasm dripping. “Were you planning on joining us in hiding at some point?”

“Had to be sure you were here first. Didn’t want to have to kill any more of these poor bastards than necessary just to find you,” Logan pointed out, winning a chastened grimace.

“Our thoughts exactly. So we’re in hiding - with the remnants of one of the armies that went up against Bavmorda. We might have a chance of taking Tir Asleen with them,” Madmartigan explained, guiding Logan to the door and throwing a dull coin at the barkeep.

Logan’s nose told him that more than 30 people were crammed into a hideyhole under the floors of one of the huts, and his senses revolted at the thought of joining the human stew. The sight of Willow and Elora Dannan - both safe - drew him down the stairs, and to their side.

“You OK?” he asked the small man, noticing he lacked any bumps or bruises while Madmartigan was covered in them.

“Yes. We were fine - sledded right down into the village. Madmartigan came off about half way. Arrived as a big snowball.” Willow’s attempt not to laugh communicated how serious the situation had been. Logan, however, wasn’t as noble, and his mirth woke the sleeping baby. She chuckled with him, reaching one chubby hand up to pull at his hair while the other patted his cheek in welcome.

Her giggle was still hanging in the air when the thunder of hooves approaching demanded total silence. The soldiers burst into the room above with a clatter of swords and the usual mistreatment for the residents. Bavmorda’s men, however, were not known for their quality, and seemed more interested in destruction than finding the hiding place.

Unfortunately, not all of Bavmorda’s troops were equally stupid. Logan rolled his eyes at Madmartigan’s groan of lust when Sorsha entered the room and began searching. She too, it seemed, had given up, when Elora began to cry. Seconds later, the copper-haired woman was carefully making her way down the concealed stairs.

Not careful enough, however, Logan thought as he shot out of hiding to take her prisoner. Hopefully, Bavmorda loved her daughter enough to give them free passage to Tir Asleen.

Somehow, Madmartigan convinced him that he and Sorsha should ride ahead to Tir Asleen with Willow and Elora, while Logan stayed with Airk’s army, to ensure they followed. Logan was pretty sure Sorsha and Madmartigan together would spell trouble, but his options were limited - no horse would let him ride, and not taking horses would slow them down too much.

“OK, then. You go on ahead. I’ll see you when the army marches. Don’t do anything stupid,” he growled, glaring at the swordsman for good measure. “Keep her guarded, keep her close, and keep her quiet. And don’t forget, for even one minute, that she’s a prisoner!”

Madmartigan looked offended at the suggestion he might think otherwise, but the effect was spoilt by just how close the two were sitting on that horse. Logan snorted. Better not to taunt them with the knowledge of exactly what he could smell in the air; he was intimately familiar with the scent of denial.

xxxxxxxxx

Two days later, a steady march over the open country had Airk’s army filing through the pass that led down to Tir Asleen. As the fortress came into view, Logan felt concern prickle up his spine. It smelt wrong. It smelt dead.

He didn’t realise he’d said the words aloud until Airk shot him a startled look and waved the army into a run. They burst through the forlorn-looking gate to find a courtyard full of stone. Monoliths with curious, twisted faces. That smelt of humanity. Logan paled as he realised exactly what they were. The inhabitants of Tir Asleen. Literally petrified.

A shrill scream reminded him that Willow and Madmartigan had bigger concerns. The nelwyn seemed to be fighting with an extraordinarily hairy monkey at one end of a high bridge, while Madmartigan was hacking at a … monster that was roaring from the moat.

And all about them, Sorsha’s black helmeted cavalry, deployed throughout the fort, but with little to do but watch Madmartigan be eaten by one of the monster’s two heads, or Willow be eaten by the monkey thing. One guy even seemed to be taking bets.

Logan wasn’t surprised to see Sorsha had escaped, wondering only how long it had taken her. Though, it was a bit odd how her eyes were riveted to Madmartigan, metres overhead, as he sawed at the two-headed behemoth. And weird how her hand kept flying to her mouth in that age-old gesture of female concern. Sorsha was concerned alright, and recapturing Elora didn’t seem to be her priority.

Logan knew it had to be his. He couldn’t see the baby, but Willow was usually close by, so he fought his way over the rickety footbridge and disposed of the monkey-thing with a few quick slices. Willow was near catatonic with fear, but had managed to guard Elora Dannan, and that, more than anything else, proved his mettle.

“Willow! Calm down. It’s gone. You’re both safe,” Logan growled, frowning at the foul-smelling blood that dripped from his claws. Willow’s mouth, however, continued to open and close in horror, and when Logan was swept upwards, his leg jammed firm in a set of oversized teeth, he realised why. One of the monster’s heads had come looking for fresh prey.

Upside down, his claws flashing as they flailed at nothingness, Logan realised he needed a plan. He wasn’t used to going into battle upside down, not to mention against a creature that seemed to be breathing fire. He could feel the hot gush against his boot, and his flesh peeling away from the adamantium bones underneath. “Well, you bastard, you didn’t expect me. My bones will get stuck in your teeth and while you’re spitting me out, I’ll tear out your fuckin’ heart,” he growled, jack-knifing upwards to sink his claws deep into the beast’s snout. He couldn’t hold the position for more than a second before gravity dragged him back, but it was enough to douse the fire with the monster’s own blood, and enrage it. Enrage it so much that it began to fling its head from side to side, whipping the Wolverine in a wide arc. Closer and closer to the neck where Madmartigan was perched, sawing away.

“Hey, Madman!” There was still enough of Logan in the Wolverine to be impressed by the nonchalant eyebrow that was the only reply from his fellow warrior, concentrating on clinging to the beast’s other head, while still managing to hack with his sword.

“You do up top, I’ll slice below. Synchronised fuckin’ slaughter - it’ll be a new sport!” The Wolverine was giggling manically at his own joke as he was swung wide, outstretched like a trapeze artist, and aimed directly at the monster’s other attacker. His path was abruptly curtailed when six inches of adamantium sank deep into the beast’s neck - where the jugular should be, if its anatomy even approximated that of other species. The gush of blood suggested something was there, coating Wolverine in the gore even as he worked his claws deeper in an attempt to reach bone. And slice through it.

“Tim-m-m-ber,” Wolverine bellowed, taking a moment to warn Madmartigan. “You better get down, kid. Your tree’s about to crash.”

The swordsman flung himself sideways and somersaulted to the ground below, managing to keep his footing despite the four metre drop. His triumphal flourish was lost on Logan, who was too busy watching the way Sorsha fought her way to Madmartigan’s side, kicked him in the shins, and then pressed her full body length against him for a protracted kiss. Looked like Mommy’s little girl had decided to leave home, Logan smirked.

With all eyes riveted on the couple embracing at the centre of the keep, no one saw General Kael emerge from the battlement behind Willow. They were still staring, and beginning to chuckle, when Kael leapt onto his horse and set it for the gate. Only then did the clatter of hooves draw glances, and neither Willow or Madmartigan could move quickly enough. Wolverine, still riding the monster’s second head, howled in fury and used the anger to twist his body up to its mouth and plunge his claws into its tongue. Adamantium slid through the muscle like butter, and the beast was suddenly choking on its own flesh. Spat out like yesterday’s milk, Wolverine plummeted to the ground, the impact leaving a small crater in the dirt, and metal bones vibrating throughout his body.

By the time Logan had gained his feet, Madmartigan and Sorsha were mounted and in pursuit. Her soldiers stood about, confused by her abdication, but General Kael was long gone. Bound for Nockmaar, and whatever evil Bavmorda planned to inflict.

xxxxxxxxxx

Nockmaar, the symbol of all evil in the land, was just a few miles from Tir Asleen, Logan calculated. Just a few miles, but a generation of horror: if Tir Asleen’s ensorcelled decrepitude spelt despair, Nockmaar’s very walls were screaming of the depraved acts and inhuman bargains Bavmorda had made. And this was the woman who held Elora Dannan. Hope, an emotion that was still new and delicate for Logan, began to wither in the face of the steep black walls.

It had taken him half a day to catch up with the others: he refused to ride, and this time, there was no wagon, so he must walk. He was tired and hungry when Bavmorda’s fortress loomed out of the evening, the flicker of campfires at the base of the walls barely able to push back the noxious dark.

Even so, the encampment was bigger than he was expecting. Madmartigan’s sometime friend, Airk, had gathered even more people to his army on the march to Nockmaar, and they numbered nearly 60 now. But only one person really mattered, Logan thought, and she might well be dead. He looked about with disgust at the poor, deluded fools: why fight now, when it was too late? Where were they when Elora was snatched at Tir Asleen? When Sorsha was scouring the country for any sign of the babe? When Bavmorda was killing pregnant women indiscriminately to prevent the birth of just one?

He scowled into his stew pot, and growled at the futility of it all. Across the tent, Willow cast him a concerned look. The dark mood was obvious, and suffocating. Logan took the hint, however, and stomped outside, no doubt to stare up at the walls like everyone else seemed to be doing.

“Just ignore him, Willow. Concentrate,” cawed the raven Fin Raziel. Willow nodded, and once more began the incantation, blooding the wand and focusing all his energies. It responded with a flash, and before him, a white nanny goat stood. Before he could try again, a ruckus outside drew his attention. Cries of pain and snorting and snuffling … had someone run a herd of pigs through the camp? Even the lambent eyes and friendly face of the Fin Raziel goat were filled with dread as they pushed aside the flaps of the tent to find … nothing. No one. Except a huge herd of pigs, with human clothes scattered about the encampment. No Logan. No Madmartigan. No Sorsha, Airk, Faljean or Rool.

Willow turned to Fin Raziel in confusion.

“Bavmorda,” she bleated. “Bavmorda has done this. Now, Willow, you must transform me to human form NOW, so that I can reverse this, and protect us all.”

It must have been the shock. The ritual was imperfect, the steps rushed through or ignored, the incantation shaky. But he wanted it, he wanted it so much, and when the flash came this time, a woman stood there.

“Has it been so long?” Fin Raziel asked, looking down at her wrinkled hands and iron-grey hair with surprise. She had been transformed as a young and beautiful woman, and now, she was neither. But she was still Fin Raziel, the most powerful sorceress in the land, and Bavmorda was still her arch foe.

“Quick, Willow. Give me the wand.” Raziel was still naked as she cast the first spell, unlocking Bavmorda’s cruel jest and returning their companions to human form. She, at least, would not be the only one rushing about the camp seeking something to wear.

Willow brought her a long robe - one of Madmartigan’s - that was worn and patched, but clean. Fin Raziel barely noticed, so focused was she on weaving the protective wards that would offer them some protection from Bavmorda’s twisted magic. Even so, a disguise was needed. A ruse that would allow them to gain entry to the castle.

An army, Willow reasoned, would never achieve it. The defences would be at maximum alert, the sentries aware that even one person through the gates would pose a threat. Subterfuge was needed. Cunning. Like the gophers in the fields back home.

They dug down, to escape detection. You never knew they were there, or where they were. All you saw was an empty field …

He ran to share his idea with Fin Raziel, Logan and Madmartigan. They were sceptical, and Airk even more so.

“Gophers? Bloody gophers? That’s our plan to get over the walls? Go home, little farmer. Leave war up to the warriors,” Airk scoffed. Madmartigan scowled and Logan growled at the disrespect. Surprisingly, however, it was Sorsha who spoke up in his defence.

“This peck led us all over the country looking for Elora Dannan. He hid her well, kept moving, kept her safe. He is more than just a farmer, and I think the idea is a good one. My mother will expect us to go away, to give up. She has no faith in people, in goodness. She doesn’t know Willow,” the witch’s daughter smiled fiercely.

“Sorsha is right,” Fin Raziel spoke. “Let us begin to dig. Holes big enough for everyone and the horses. There must be nothing left, nothing visible. I will cast a spell over the camp for the next few hours, so they will see us doing nothing, and after that, we will dig under the cover of night. And in the morning, we will be gone.”

Raziel turned away. She expected no opposition, and received none. The pits were well underway within the hour. In the absence of but a few shovels, anything sharp and useful was employed: spears, even the precious swords were plunged into the ground again and again. Logan used his claws. It wasn’t the first time he’d needed to dig himself a burrow, but it was certainly the strangest set of circumstances he had encountered. He shrugged. He’d never been a pig before, either. First time for everything.

By the early hours of the morning, they had dug two sets of pits either side of the approach to the gate. Horses and knights were closest, ready to roar up the sloping side and charge through the gate the minute it opened. Behind them was the small pit which housed Logan, Willow and Fin Raziel, and behind them, another broad pit with the non-mounted soldiers. The horsemen would charge to secure the gate, the infantry would follow, and amid the melee, Madmartigan and Sorsha would find Elora Dannan. The two magic workers - Fin Raziel and Willow - would be left to take on Bavmorda, with Logan as bodyguard. Simple death, they feared, might not be enough for that one.

At dawn, shouts from the battlements suggested they had been spotted - or, more accurately, their absence had been noted. Within moments, two cautious soldiers stepped through the small door inset into the gate, and walked out to investigate the forecourt.

“No one here!” They yelled back to the guardhouse, and within minutes the main gate began to creak open. A stream of horsemen poured out, obviously tasked with finding the escaped besiegers. As the gate began to groan again, it was time to move.

“Attack!” yelled Madmartigan, and he and Sorsha spurred their horses up the ramp and set them full gallop at the gate. They were inside and slashing at the gatehouse defenders before Willow, Logan and Raziel had made it out of their pit. Madmartigan was tying up four soldiers when Logan came strolling in.

“Nice of you to come,” Madmartigan bowed to the three new arrivals. “These nice people were just readying the welcoming party, weren’t you, boys?” The guards spat and cursed, but seemed curiously unmoved by their captivity.

“Good to be here,” Logan joked back. “Who can I kill?”

“I’m sure there are a few guards who will oblige you. Airk! Can you put your men in charge of the gate? We need to find Elora,” Madmartigan yelled, following Sorsha through the bailey and in through the main door of the castle. It had been left open, which was not usual, and Sorsha prayed someone was sympathetic to their cause. Or that they could fight their way out of any trap that was being set.

Inside, Nockmaar was eerily deserted. The house guards were nowhere to be found, and even the servants had vanished. The throne room - Bavmorda’s usual haunt - was empty, and that left only one place. The chapel. The terrible, perverted chapel that had seen sacrifice after sacrifice. Sorsha’s heart quailed at the thought: there had been other babies. Other children. And she had stood by, stony faced, the witch’s most trusted warrior. Would she be able to climb out of the cesspool her mother had birthed her into? Would saving Elora Dannan be enough?

Sorsha pulled herself from the torturous thoughts as she raced through the palace. She could hear Logan’s feet thumping behind her, and feel the warmth of Madmartigan at her side. Willow and Fin Raziel were right behind. She was no longer alone, and her cause was good. That would have to be enough.

They burst through the door of the chapel in one motion. Bavmorda stood by the sacrificial font, Elora Dannan exposed to elements by the open roof. Already, a dark cloud was gathering, and the room hissed with electrical charge. A ceremony had started. Sorsha sprang for her sword at the same time as Logan released his claws, while Willow and Madmartigan rushed to pull Elora Dannan to safety.

Fin Raziel began a chant of her own. She called upon the forces of nature to strike against Bavmorda, who sought to reverse the natural order. She called upon the forces of darkness to take Bavmorda, who was one of their own. She called upon evil itself to rise, and good to overcome.

Nobody seemed to be listening.

It was Sorsha’s sword that struck the first blow, but her mother simply made a pincer movement with her hand, and Sorsha knew what would happen next. Her windpipe choked, her breath stopped. She slumped to floor, unconscious before her head hit the flagstones.

Madmartigan bolted across the room to protect Sorsha. Enraged, he swung at Bavmorda, who froze him in his place. Logan’s claws were not even fully extended when he met the same fate.

The force of Bavmorda’s magic was battering Fin Raziel like a psychic ram. So dark, so practiced. So deep. Her own magics, rising from the light, seemed weak and insubstantial in comparison. Who could chant, with a frozen voicebox? Who could focus, with a broken heart? But the bitch would not win. Not while Fin Raziel lived.

Her anger spiralled out in a mighty punch, one that left Bavmorda cowering on the floor, and her nose streaming blood. But she rebounded like the vermin she was, and within seconds Raziel could feel bony fingers crushing her windpipe. Manually - apparently strangulation by magic wasn’t personal enough.

As the world dimmed, Fin Raziel could see Willow snatching Elora from the font. She smiled as her head hit the marble … there was hope still.

“And so, the great Fin Raziel is dead at last. And soon, Elora Dannan and all my enemies will join you,” Bavmorda crowed. Her triumphal cackle was cut short when she turned back to the altar to find it empty.

“The baby! Where is that baby?” the witch howled, her blood-smeared face contorting with outrage. Willow, running for the door with a bundle in his arms, was caught short as Bavmorda used her magic to slam it in his face.

“Give me the baby, peck,” she demanded, her low voice almost reasonable in contrast to the previous tirade.

“No. I am Willow Ufgood, a great sorceror. Even greater than Fin Raziel, and greater than you.” And Willow tossed his enchanted acorn at her.

For a long moment, he succeeded. Stone spread from the acorn to encase her forearm, and travelled up towards her shoulder. Surprise, however, can suppress powers, and the enchantment vanished once Bavmorda ordered it to. She sneered.

“You’ll need more magic than that, peck. Give me that baby.”

Willow seemed frozen. He even took a step or two towards Bavmorda, and held the bundle out in front of him. Then he froze, and shouted “No! I won’t let you do that to her. I’ll send her somewhere safe instead! Somewhere you can never touch her!”

He began to chant, ancient nelwyn words that manipulated matter, that deceived. A flash, and Elora’s bundle began to crumple in on itself. He shook the cloth out, hung it over his shoulder. The child was gone.

“Ai eee, ai eeeee …” the sound was horrible, painful. Bavmorda’s keening woke all the evil in the land, called it to her, buried it within her, the cold centre of her power. The nelwyn! She must be avenged on the nelwyn. She was shaking as she seized Cherlindrea’s wand and began the chant to send Willow Ufgood into the netherworld.

In her anger, Bavmorda failed to notice her sleeve swipe the bowl of innocent blood from the altar, and pour it down the side of her dress. Lightning cracked. The elements gathered. Cherlindrea’s wand magnified Bavmorda’s evil intent, and the netherworld reached down from the sky. Sheer glee erupted from her lips as she waited for her enemy to be claimed, but the lightning didn’t take the nelwyn. Instead, it surrounded her, imprisoned her. Bavmorda! Her soul, dark, shrunken thing that it was, was captured and pulled free of her body; her body began to boil and evaporate in the stew of black magic that swirled about her. But I am Bavmorda! Bavmorda! Her desperate brain shouted, but there were no lips left to voice the words, no will left to reverse the fate. Bavmorda was gone.

Willow tried not to feel jubilant as the witch was devoured by her own evil. But as his friends began to stir, their enchantments lifted, a smile crossed his face. Sorsha and Madmartigan were embracing, Logan checked Fin Raziel’s breathing, and heaving a sigh of relief as her eyelids fluttered open.

“But Willow? Where is Elora?” Raziel asked urgently as soon as she was fully conscious.

“Don’t worry! It was just my old disappearing pig trick,” Willow grinned as he retrieved the smiling baby from her hiding place behind a barrel. “See - it worked!”

“So it did, Willow. You are a great sorceror. But there is one more thing yet to do,” the old woman said. “You must perform the transformation spell one more time. And this time, without Cherlindrea’s wand. It will be hard, but the magic is in you, not the wand. Though I think you know that now.”

“Again? Why, Raziel? We’ve won!” Willow was jubilant and couldn’t understand the sadness in the old woman’s eyes. They had won! Bavmorda was gone, and in her place would rule a new king and queen, guided by their wise and ancient advisor. But she simply looked at him.

Logan couldn’t understand it either, but he figured they owed the old woman pretty much everything. Being a pig, after all, was no party. And without her … Elora’s soul would have been flung into the void. And without a soul, he realised, there was just a shell. Just the inability to feel, inability to love, inability to commit.

The thought froze him through, Willow’s chant sliding through his consciousness like so much white noise. It was the flash that made him look up. That thinning of the veil, the pull, the crackle. And where the bowed, grey head of Fin Raziel had been, was a beautiful young girl with a mane of sable hair, brightened by two streaks of silver. A black leather suit to match his own, and a potty mouth every Southern mama would shudder to hear.

“Logan? What the …” Rogue turned a circle, speechless. Swords! Armour! A baby, gurgling happily in Logan’s arms.

“Sugah? Where the fuck are we? Or is it when? And tell me - tell me, sugah, that is NOT your child.”

“Rogue, meet the Princess, Elora Dannan.” Logan smiled as Elora gurgled and promptly gained another disciple. “Queen Sorsha, and King Madmartigan,” he continued, “and Willow Ufgood, the great sorceror. My friends.” Madmartigan was already bowing deeply over her hand while simultaneously eyeing Rogue’s generous cleavage. Sorsha smiled, but had her hand on her sword, and her eyes narrowed at Madmartigan.

Willow, however, was aghast at the disappearance of his mentor.

“But - Fin Raziel! What have you done to Fin Raziel!” The little man looked more menacing than Logan had ever seen him, and he had to bite back a growl at the threat to Rogue. She, however, looked a little sad, and chastened. But not frightened.

“I’m sorry, I should have explained right away,” the beautiful girl in black concentrated, as if the answer lay somewhere just out of reach.

“Aah, she needed to go. Too old, she said. She came to me and got me to touch her, first. So she’s kinda here. But not.” Rogue didn’t like explaining her mutation to strangers. Logan seemed to know them, though, so maybe they’d take it on trust. And point those swords somewhere else.

“She wanted to tell you … um,” Rogue concentrated hard, “she’s always with you, always will be, but you have Elora now and there will be no sorceror or witch ever her equal. My - Fin Raziel’s - talents are needed elsewhere.”

The message was delivered as an elegy that required the courtesy of looking straight at Willow, Madmartigan and Sorsha; as soon as it was done, Rogue returned her gaze to Logan. And walked into his arms, and kissed him. Bare lips to bare lips.

“Apparently, sugah, magic is all about control. And Raziel was really, really good at magic,” Rogue whispered. “Wanna find out how good?”

The veil shimmered around them as he drew her into his arms, and deepened the kiss. Time and space danced, and suddenly, they were somewhere else. On a battlefield. After a fight. But this time, there was a girl in his arms, and hope in his heart.

Somehow, he knew what was important now. He was the good guy. He would get the girl. He would fight the good fight. Things were perfectly clear.

The end.