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
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.
FIN
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
This was written for lucilla darkate’s Movie Challenge fic. 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.