DISCLAIMER: I don't own
the X-Men or any of their multiple incarnations. Please don't sue me or
steal my story!
NOTE:
In Italian, Beatrice is pronounced Bee-a-TREECH-eh. Since the great
Dante wrote his Inferno in Italian, I would guess Belasco would say the
name with the Italian pronounciation.
NOTE II: The opening
speech (from "There..." to "What about Kurt Wagner?" ) is quoted
directly from Universe X Volume 2. The descriptions in between those
quotes and everything that follows is mine (except the characters
themselves, of course. Those are Marvel's).
Chapter Three
Bundled in tattered blankets, all but invisible
among the deep shadows of the dusty, crumbling spire of the old
cathedral, a man woke from a restless sleep. He sat up, crying out into
the darkness—a strangled, anguished sound that tore painfully from his
throat. He was trembling, sobbing, the hot tears streaming down his
narrow face—but as he slowly rose to full consciousness, the memory of
whatever horrors had haunted his dreams faded, leaving only blankness
and a cold, lingering fear.
Disoriented and confused, the man
stumbled awkwardly to his feet, stepping into his worn, leather boots
and walking slowly to the small, open window on the far side of the
cramped, cobwebby space. Climbing up onto a pile of dusty, cloth-draped
crates, he slipped out the window with practiced ease and caught hold
of the edge of the roof, hauling himself up onto the moss- covered
slates with his one arm.
The brisk night air helped to revive
him as he crouched on the sloped roof, still and silent as a protective
gargoyle. His long, spade-tipped tail was wrapped securely around the
long pole that supported the large cross which marked this place out as
holy ground.
Lowering his head slightly, he noticed his hand was
trembling. He clenched his fist tightly, taking in a deep, calming
breath as he strove to slow his racing heartbeat. Without thinking, he
reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out two long strips of
cloth. With the help of his teeth, he quickly and securely bound his
fingers into a tridactal shape. For some unfathomable reason, that made
him feel safer somehow, more grounded.
Shaking his head in
something close to disgust, the man tore his newly bandaged fingers
through his short, crimson hair. Ridiculous. That's what he was. He was
letting this place get to him, and such weakness was unacceptable.
He
snarled, glaring down at the graffiti covered buildings and torn-up
pavement far below. What madness had made him decide to take up
residence in the spire of a cathedral anyway? True, it was the best
vantage point for viewing the squalid, corrupt swath of crumbling city
streets he had chosen to make his home, but by all rights, he shouldn't
even be able to stand there. Even now, he half expected to see his
booted feet burst into flame where they touched the mossy slate roof.
He was almost disappointed when it didn't happen. After all, a church
was no place for a demon.
But was he a demon? That was the
question that had been causing him to loose sleep for almost a year,
ever since he had traveled back to the ruin on the mountain and seen
what appeared to be his own body encased in ice. The ancient, frozen
corpse was standing in exactly the right spot, in exactly the same
position where he remembered fighting that fateful duel against his
best friend so many years ago. Dante had won that fight; severing
Belasco's arm and causing the demon to accidentally slice through the
duct above him, releasing the gas that had frozen him instantly in
place. However, despite his heroic actions, the poet had been unable to
save the life of his beloved Beatrice, the woman Belasco had abducted
and ultimately murdered as he strove to do the will of the Elder Gods.
The
russet-skinned man shuddered deeply at the dark memories—real or
implanted, he didn't know. Hesitantly, he reached up to touch the two
sharp horns that protruded from his smooth forehead. The realization
that he might in fact be the mutant Kurt Wagner terrified him even more
than the idea of being a demon. After all, if he was truly a demon the
evil he had worked over the centuries was just a manifestation of his
true nature and he had nothing to feel guilt or fear over. However, if
he really was Kurt Wagner, how could he possibly begin to atone for his
many sins? How could he continue to live with the knowledge of the
horrors he had performed, the lives he had ruined, and the lives he had
taken?
He sighed deeply and turned his glowing gaze to the
twinkling stars. The tempting thought of suicide had been flitting
across his tormented mind since long before the nightmares began. It
would be so easy to put an end to his pain once and for all. All he had
to do was to loosen his grip on the pole. He would roll down the
slanted roof, gaining speed as he went, until that wonderfully
liberating moment when he suddenly found himself in free fall. He would
spread his arm out to its full length, welcoming the chill breeze that
whipped his hair back and caused his cloak to billow out behind him as
he spun towards the ground.
Then, the impact.
He had to admit, it would be a fitting end for an acrobat who had lost
his balance.
He
had no idea if the impact would hurt, or if the shock would last long
enough for him to leave his malformed, disfigured body without pain or
regret. Either way, he knew a swift, easy end like that was far less
than he deserved. He deserved to suffer, to hurt. He deserved a long,
drawn out, painful death at the hands of those he had so gravely and
repeatedly wronged. Unfortunately, he knew all too well that such an
end was something the X-Men could never give him.
Surprisingly,
the only part of him that kept his tail wrapped securely around the
pole, the only part that kept him from pressing his chest against the
pointed end of his sword when the nightmares became too much to bear,
was the same part that cried out from the depths of his shredded psyche
that he was, indeed, Kurt Wagner. This soft, accented voice that
rattled around in his head like a ghost he could not see or touch was
also the part that demanded he take full responsibility for kidnapping
and corrupting little Illyana Rasputin, the sister of the X-Man known
as Colossus, and for repeatedly manipulating and torturing the X-Men
who had tried so valiantly to come to her rescue. Kurt Wagner, ever the
wide-eyed optimist, honestly believed that if he truly accepted his
guilt, if he was truly willing to make amends for what he had done, if
he was truly penitent, he could seek absolution for his crimes, no
matter how sadistic they had been. Only suicide could never be
forgiven, and suicide, the ghostly voice argued, was the coward's way
out. And if there was one thing Kurt Wagner had never been and would
never be, it was a coward.
The russet skinned man sat back on
his heels, his darkly swirling thoughts unearthing a shadowy memory of
a time when he wouldn't have needed to hold himself in place by his
tail. Once, his feet would have stuck to the moldy surface of the roof
as easily and securely as a magnet sticks to a refrigerator door.
That's how it had been back when there were no boots that could fit his
feet and his heels were little more than a third toe. He remembered
walking up walls and crawling across ceilings, giving rather less
thought to this extraordinary ability than a spider would have done.
He
reached out a tentative hand and gingerly touched the roof, waiting for
the familiar feeling of attraction to run across his skin, raising his
short, velvety fur like static electricity. When it didn't come, he
looked down at his red, furless, five-fingered hand with some
confusion, not recognizing it for a moment.
"Idiot," he
muttered, snatching his bandaged fingers from the slate tile and
tucking his hand securely into his lap. "You are not a mutant." Casting
his bitter, yellow gaze over the darkened streets he sighed, hanging
his head. "I don't know what you are. Or even who."
A soft
breeze ruffled his crimson hair as an even softer voice responded with
confidence and firm self-assurance. "You are Kurt Wagner, the best and
most honorable man I know no matter what has been done to you."
The
russet-skinned man turned to face the apparition that had addressed
him, his golden eyes widening in shock and fear as a lithe, female
figure dressed all in white floated over to him on a cloud of sparkling
mist. For a long moment, his muddled mind couldn't shake the bizarre
impression that she was an angel, sent at last to redeem him of his
past sins and welcome him to eternal bliss. As she alighted next to
him, surefooted on the slippery moss, a single, reverent word managed
to slip past his painfully tightening throat.
"...Beatrice..."
The
woman seemed confused, her dark head tilting to one side as she
crouched down on the slate tiles before him, brushing her fine, snowy
hair from her luminous blue eyes with an elegantly careless flick of
her mocha wrist.
"Kurt?" she asked, her deep, soothing voice laced with concern. "Are
you all right?"
He
couldn't breathe, he couldn't speak. The angel was reaching out to him,
actually taking his hideously clawed red fingers in her own warm,
perfect hands. Her dark lips were moving, revealing her straight, white
teeth. She was speaking, saying something--it was so hard to hear her
words above the pounding of his heart...
"How did this happen?" she was asking, referring to the bandages that
forcibly kept his hand in a tridactal shape.
He could only stare at her dumbly, uncomprehending.
"Your fingers, Kurt," she elaborated, her eyes openly displaying her
worry. "Are you hurt?"
Kurt--no,
Belasco--yes, Belasco--shook his head, forcing himself to take deep,
calming breaths to slow his racing pulse. "No, my lady," he answered,
his voice soft with reverence. "It's just that there are times when it
seems more natural for me to grip things with three fingers than with
five. I cannot explain it."
The woman was staring at him, a new look of cautious concern growing in
her large eyes.
"Kurt,"
she said, her words now slow and deliberate as though she were speaking
to a child. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Do you recognize me?"
Belasco--or
was it Kurt?--rose gracefully to his booted feet, causing her to rise
with him as he took her hand in his and lifted it gently to his crimson
lips for a brief, courtly kiss. This simple action reminded her so
strongly of the light-hearted flirt she had known that her breath
caught painfully in her throat. Perhaps he did remember after all...
"You
are my soul, my heart, my redeeming angel," he sighed, hardly daring to
look into her eyes. "You are my beloved, my lady fair. You are
Beatrice."
Ororo could almost hear her hopes crumbling as he
spoke those words. Releasing her hand, he fell into low genuflect at
her feet, his one arm draped over his raised knee, his glowing eyes
lowered humbly to the mossy slate below her feet. "Please, tell me what
it is you wish of your humble servant and it will be done."
Confused
and frightened and not sure how to deal with this truly bizarre turn of
events, Ororo did the only thing that came to mind. She strode forward
and grasped the horned man's shoulders, giving him a gentle, though
firm, shake.
"Kurt, look at me," she demanded. "Look at me! You are not Belasco and
I am certainly not Beatrice."
She fell to her knees beside him, cupping his narrow chin in her hands
as she forced him to look into her eyes.
"My
name is Ororo Munroe," she told him, using all her control to keep her
voice from breaking. "We've been friends, teammates, for years. Please,
Kurt, tell me you remember me? Tell me you're still in there somewhere."
For
a moment, an instant, really, his golden eyes lit up with a flash of
wondrous recognition. His ruddy features softened into a familiar
expression of befuddlement, and suddenly, Ororo could see the ghost of
her old friend's handsome face blinking out at her from behind the
demonic mask of Belasco's russet skin.
"...Storm...?"
This
stunning transformation lasted barely long enough for Ororo to draw in
an astonished breath. Before she even had time to form a coherent
thought in response to what she had just seen, the horned man had leapt
to his feet, pulling her up roughly by the elbow and holding her at
arm's length. His grip was like a painful vice, and his pupilless
yellow eyes burned with such dark emotions that the very sight of them
terrified the brave woman straight through to her marrow.
"What
do you want here?" he growled through clenched teeth, his sharp,
pointed fangs gleaming wickedly in the moonlight. "Why did you come?"
At
that moment, Ororo was unsure of the answer herself. She stared at the
monster before her, desperately willing herself to overcome the terror
that was freezing her body and threatening to overwhelm her thoughts.
Calling on her link with the elements, Storm began to gather the stray
zaps of electricity that were streaking unnoticed through the air
around them.
Belasco snarled in fury as her deep, blue eyes
began to whiten. With a vicious shake, he leaned his narrow face in
close to hers, his eyes gleaming with deadly intent. "Don't even
consider it, witch," he spat. "I know all your devious little tricks. I
knew this day would come sooner or later. I knew you X-Freaks would try
to finish me off once you realized that I have lost my link with Limbo."
He
sneered, the look in his golden eyes causing her to shudder. "I must
admit, disguising yourself as Beatrice was a new low I would not have
expected even of you," he said darkly, his tail twitching behind him
like a snake. "But now you have revealed yourself, I will make your
death all the more unpleasant."
Ororo glared at him, preparing
to twist out of his grip and come back with a flash of lighting so
powerful it just might bring him to his senses. However, Belasco
anticipated her movements, ensnaring her neck with his long, powerful
tail and slowly beginning to squeeze.
"Very well," he said with
a flippant, careless air. "Death by strangulation, so be it. Pity
though," he smirked, fixing her with another malevolent glare. "I was
so looking forward to hearing you scream."
"Kurt!" Ororo gasped,
desperately struggling to use what little breath remained her to save
her friend from committing a crime she knew he would torture himself
over for the rest of his life. "Kurt, I know you're in there! I know
you're angry! But, Kurt, you must take control now. You cannot let
Belasco continue to use you like this!" She choked as Belasco's grip
tightened, watching with detached interest as blurry spots began to
swim before her eyes. She squeezed her eyes shut, putting all her
remaining strength into forcing her constricting throat to form words.
Even so, when she spoke, her voice was a barely audible croak, "No
matter what you do to me, I will always love you, Kurt Wagner...my
dearest...friend....."
And the nighttime world slowly faded to black.
#######
Belasco
looked down at the unconscious woman at his feet, the cold satisfaction
he had felt twisting and curdling in his gut until he had to turn away,
his glowing eyes burning with horrified shame at what he had just done.
"You
fool," he hissed, grinding his teeth, his sharp nails digging painfully
into the flesh of his palm. "She came. After all this time, after all
the waiting, the hoping, the ranting at the silent moon, one of the X-
Men finally found the courage to reach out to you. And how do you
respond?"
He turned back to face Ororo, his hard expression crumbling as he knelt
down beside her.
"Ach,
meine Liebling," he whispered, slowly reaching out with trembling
fingers to brush a stray strand of silvery hair from her mocha
forehead. "What have I done?"
#######
Ororo slowly rose
back to foggy consciousness, only to find she was lying sprawled on a
cold, flat, stone floor. Her throat ached so much it was all she could
do to emit a weak cough. As she did, she became aware of a presence
looming over her, barely visible in the shadow of an arched, stone
doorway. She struggled to sit up, to remember how she had gotten inside
the cathedral, but a deep voice as chilling as death itself stopped her
in mid- motion.
"I don't want your pity, Ororo," the shadow
said, the faintest hint of an accent clinging like a ghost to his
vowels. She could have sworn it hadn't been there when he was speaking
to her on the roof.
Ororo struggled to her feet, opening her
mouth to protest. To her shock, nothing came out. Her damaged vocal
chords would not allow her to speak. The dark figure before her averted
his glowing eyes from the expression on her face.
"Leave this place now," he said quietly, his voice burning with a
bitter anger tinged with shame. "Go back to your friends."
Ororo
made no move to leave, wondering who it was that was speaking to her
now. Was it still Belasco, deciding to let her go for some devious
reason of his own—perhaps to lure the other X-Men into a trap of some
sort after she'd returned home? Or could it possibly be....Kurt?
"I
told you to go!" the cloaked figure snarled, stepping forward into the
light. Her eyes widened as she saw he was now brandishing a long,
gleaming sword in his single, powerful hand. Ororo stiffened in shock.
"GO!"
the horned man roared, advancing on her like a monster out of her
darkest childhood nightmares. "Go now, or I swear I will run you
through in return for all the times you and your precious teammates
have taken advantage of me, betrayed me, and abandoned me without a
thought for my feelings! You are none of you worth my time or concern."
"P...please..." Ororo managed to whisper--
"GO!"
he screamed in a voice so full of rage and hurt that it broke Ororo's
heart to hear it. But, it was just what was needed to free her from her
frozen stupor. As she ran for the heavy, wooden door, the anguished,
bitter voice stabbed at her heels, giving her an added burst of speed.
"Go now! And never come back!"
As
the thick door slammed behind her, she found she knew beyond all doubt
who that voice had belonged to. For the first time since she'd known
him, she realized she could never again expect forgiveness from Kurt
Wagner.
"Sweet Goddess," she sobbed painfully, her hoarse voice
barely more than a whispered croak. "What have we done to you, my
friend? What have we allowed to happen?"
Swiftly, Ororo called
up a burst of wind and used it to lift herself into the air,
unconsciously summoning a cold, drizzling rain to trail her all the way
back to the mansion.