Of Fluttering Wings and Forgotten Dreams

by Jaya Mitai

Gee, I’m on a roll . . . =) Marvel’s people belong to Marvel, no money, don’t sue. I promise, I’m a poor college student, and I have no money and VERY sharp reed knives. S’not a good idea. Even lawyers bleed. Ask Duey. =)

Cold, cold water. Colder than metal, colder than pain. Colder even than the boiling rage inside, churning his stomach and weakening his knees.

He hadn’t had the luxury of cold, then. The burning heat of the sun and desert was never cold enough, never empty enough. Never constant enough.

The water that poured from the showerhead constantly beat on his shoulders and back, numbing them, battering them with cold, empty, constant pressure. It lapped in the same rhythmical pattern around his knees, flowing down and around his form, knelt in meditation fashion. It continued its path, falling down the incline towards the drain, always swirling away in a counter-clockwise pattern. Constant. Comforting.

Constant as the hot tears that poured with the cold water down his bowed face, constant as the trembling that spread outward from his chest. Constant as the play of memories in his head.

“Oath! You aren’t serious, are you?”

Tetherblood, if anything, seemed more than a bit amused at the disbelieving quality of his voice. “I remember clearly telling you that not responding would be taken as -”

“I remember what you said,” Cable snapped, more irritated now. “How could he possibly expect that we’d have the resources to babysit his son in the middle of a flonqing war?”

“Maybe less babysitting than you think,” Tetherblood murmured, both hearing the footsteps hiss in the sand outside the command tent.

Nathan curbed his look with effort as the tent flaps were tucked aside, and a young man, barely even that, strode into the tent with such a swaggering step that Tetherblood was forced to turn his back a moment, unable to hide the grin that wormed its way across his face as relentlessly as the sands that blew across the vast Garonath Valley, the valley he had chosen for their next battle. The Elite Guard would have located them by now, but would never expect the geological faults that would give the Clan Chosen such an advantage.

Even the thought of such a sure victory couldn’t coax an even halfway mild expression from the Askani’son, who leveled a fairly acidic glare at the youth.

“You would be?”

The young man seemed not at all put off by such a hostile greeting. “Ariksan, son of L’eisan, Leader of the Clan Ab’und.” His travel robes were heavily embroidered, tailored with skill and giving him the dashing appearance of a brash, rich young son of a Clan leader too valuable and too small to be a threat to the Ca’anninites. Spoiled, prideful, cocky. His tone was so imperious Nathan found himself having to consciously keep his fingers from curling.

Nathan strengthened the ice of his glare. “I don’t recall sending summons for you, boy.”

Tetherblood bent suddenly over a table and snatched up a handful of field reports to disguise the tremor of laughter shaking his sizable frame as Ariksan bristled.

“Your plans for conquest in this area are impossible without access to the resources and water of our Clan, as well you know,” he spat hotly. “You would do well to show me some respect-”

“You would do well to close your mouth,” Nathan growled, walking around the desk in the center of the tent to tower over the man that was only a few inches shorter than he. “Your father knows as well as the next man that if he does not feel compelled to share his resources, we may be forced to take them. Your Clan is no match for this army.”

Ariksan’s mouth closed with an audible snap, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits in a dark, tanned face.

“Furthermore, I’ve known your father since I was but a whelp, like yourself.” He nearly sighed in irritation as Tetherblood began to gnaw on the sleeve of his tunic. “This ‘apprenticing’ you to me would never enter his head. You are here clearly on your authority alone, and I will recognize such authority when I see it.” Cable shouldered past the fuming youth. “Go home. War is no place for boys.”

He slapped the tent flap aside with more force than was truly necessary. Oath! The kid was a telepath, as well. Not trained, that was for certain, but it would benefit the front lines greatly to have another psimitar in their ranks, particularly one with a skilled psi behind it, instead of the majority of weak telepaths that were up there now, young men and women, having been selected from the villages and towns and taught to use the weapon.

He heard the flap behind him settle, but he not gone three paces before it slapped open once more. Two footsteps, then the strange, bell-like hiss of metal brushing metal, a musical tone indicating the metal was tubular, hollow.

Tent posts.

Nathan turned, his eyes finding Ariksan easily, the boy holding two six foot lengths of the metal tubes used as tent supports. Wordlessly he tossed one at Nathan. He caught it, smacking into his palm with surprising speed and sting, but not hard enough to elicit a grunt from the man. One of the nearby officers looked up, startled, hand reaching for the plasma weapon hanging at his side.

Nathan kept his eyes on Ariksan, who was now beginning to circle him, improvised staff spinning freely and swiftly in his hands. Cable held a hand out to the officer.

“Put it away.” Not an angry tone, but neutral enough to be chilling in its lack of emotion.

The staff was lighter than a psimitar, slightly, and the balance wasn’t the same, but it wasn’t enough of a difference to really throw him off. He held his ground, staff at his side much like one held a psimitar at rest.

Without a noise Ariksan struck.

His form was unbelievable, a true example of the graceful, dance-like movements of the art. The staff darted in close, Nathan casually blocking and sidestepping the other end as it came around for his ribs.

To his surprise, the staff actually caught a bit of the fabric to his side. Okay, so the kid was fast.

Without pause Arkisan launched into another attack, this one forcing Nathan to block the staff as it swung for his head, leaping over the end as it came around to take him at the knees. Nathan countered with a swift jab to the chest that was deflected easy, following with a half-spin and swing that should have caught the boy in the ribs, but he dove to the ground, somersaulting forward and cutting the distance between them in half, coming up with a spinning kick that caught Nathan completely by surprise, and he dropped the staff in lieu of catching the foot with his hands, shoving backwards.

Ariksan hit the ground hard, his own staff spinning from his hands as he rolled and was on his feet in less than a second. And hurled a handful of sand into Nathan’s eyes.

Nathan jerked his head to the side, a moment too late, and blinked hastily at the painful grains in his eyes, reaching out telepathically to find the boy -

A kick in the head pretty much gave him the location, and he stumbled back, gaining just enough distance to miss the follow-up and get some sight out of his protesting eyes. Not enough to see the fist coming, but enough for him to spin out of the way of it, striking Ariksan on the back of the neck with the side of his hand, hard enough to knock him down.

He fell down, all right, and Nathan’s feet suddenly moved out from underneath him. He went down with a grunt, his head striking the sand soundly and then rolling limply to the right, his eyes closed. And he waited.

The alternate cheering and booing had silenced now in the crowd that had ringed them, and he heard Ariksan’s breathing loudly enough to place him. After about two seconds, he heard the young man approach, kneel beside him, heard robes ruffling as his arm reached out.

Nathan didn’t even have to open his eyes to grab that arm at the elbow, using it as a lever to hurl the unbalanced boy over him and pin him quite firmly to the sand.

Surprised dark eyes stared into his own mismatched pair.

“You don’t check downed enemies with your hand. You use a blade.”

Something sharp poked at Nathan’s stomach.

“You mean like this?” There was the slightest tremor in that voice.

Apparently Cable managed to look chagrined, because the mess of soldiers about him began to guffaw loudly, and the young man beneath him grinned, his hard face transformed by that genuine grin. He was a boy, true, but he was a determined one with a good soul.

Nathan unpinned him and stood, noting with visible surprise the nearly invisible sheath the young man tucked the thin dagger into, and offered Ariksan a hand. Ariksan looked at it a moment, as if expecting a trick, then firmly clasped Nathan’s wrist, and was hauled to his feet.

Two arms curled around Nathan’s waist from behind, and the soldiers continued snickering before dispersing, several coming up to compliment Ariksan with strong pats on the back that nearly threw the young man into the sand.

It was a familiar, feminine voice that tickled Nate’s ear. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I.”

Nathan sighed loudly. “Jen, I’d like you to meet our newest recruit. This is Ariksan of Clan Ab’und.”

Jenskot unwrapped herself from Nathan, coming over to shake Ariksan’s hand, her own face alight with a mischievous grin.

“Try not to punch too many holes in him,” she murmured conspiratorially. “You’d have to deal with me, then, and I’m not known for fighting so fairly.”

Ariksan continued that strange, innocent grin. “Of course, ma’am.” He pumped her offered hand excitedly before turning back to Nathan, trying desperately to hide his enthusiasm.

“I can stay?”

Nathan tried to bat Jenskot away with all the dignity he could muster as she playfully tugged at the hole in the side of his uniform. “If you leave now without permission I’ll consider it deserting. Punishable by death.” He allowed a small grin to touch his eyes, taking away some of the seriousness of his tone. “Report to the mess officer in the tent over there, grab something to eat, and you’ll get your assignment.”

“Yes, sir.” He turned on his heels with barely concealed excitement and headed off in the direction of the cooking smells and curses. Jenskot tsked under her breath.

“If you keep destroying your uniforms like this -”

He hushed her with a quick kiss, bending back up and wincing as she touched a cut on his head.

“Poor baby,” she murmured to him as he pulled her hand away. “Getting too old?”

He eyed her playfully up and down. “Never.”

It was too easy to numb the outside, and so, so hard to numb the inside.

At length he regained his feet, raising the temperature of the water, white-hot needles of pain shooting through his body. Distraction. Enough to keep the memories at bay, for a time.

Never long enough. Never forever.

When his body temperature was somewhere near normal he turned off the water, one arm braced against the wall of the shower, cheek resting on his human arm, his flesh arm. The arm that would bleed, if cut. That would bruise, if battered.

To his left, the shower curtain was yanked aside.

He was glad of the metal, the cold, unfeeling that separated them.

Her eyes were ice, much colder than the water, much harder than the metal that kept her from him.

“What is it with you and showers,” she finally demanded, lamely. He picked his head up off his arm, took his hand from the shower wall. Reached out.

The towel atop the back of the toilet flew to his fingers, and he tucked it around himself slowly. “You could have just knocked, if you’d wanted it.” Just as lamely. More hollowly, though. He stepped out of the tub, noting that she was still in full uniform, noting a peculiar tightness about her eyes.

Knew that if he looked in the mirror, he’d see the same.

He twisted to the side to avoid her and pick up his electric razor, and the slight pull over his chest caused him to erupt into a fit of coughing. Residue of the gas, probably, but he hadn’t had the headache, or the token numbness of nerve gas.

Not that you’d have noticed it, a nasty voice whispered in his mind, and he froze, instantly. Had that been . . .?

Forget I live in here, too?

Nathan cursed under his breath, slamming the door firmly on Stryfe as easily as he slammed the bathroom door shut, effectively cutting off the half-hearted concerned look Domino had allowed to follow him out of the room.

He’d poured everything into trying to save Sam, ever last shred of telepathic energy he’d had to spare. He bit back another curse. Just as he’d lost the door blocking Stryfe, he’d most likely lost the block on the link, as well. Thank the Bright Lady that Domino was the one blocking him now. He reinforced it on his side as he toweled off and grabbed some clean clothes, hearing the shower start.

The buzz and tickle of the electric razor didn’t serve as much distraction after that, or drown out the hacking in the bathroom, accompanied by the heavy steam scent that came out. Steaming out the gas, as she was doing, would have been the intelligent thing for him to do. He wondered oddly why it hadn’t occurred to him. The coldness of heat would have numbed him as easily.

A very brief scan tickled his shield, and then there was a gentle tap. Shave and-a-hair-cut . . .

#Jean?#

*Nathan.* She was doing her best to curb the grief he could taste on the outermost edges of her ‘voice.’ *Paige is with us . . . do you know where her mother is?*

He tossed the razor onto the bed, less scruffy but no less prickly. #How should I know?# he snapped, and regretted it at once, reaching out to the brightest point of grief in the house. #Try the kitchen,# he sent back more gently.

He felt her presence in his mind, gentle, and the impression of a tight hug that made him shiver, before she withdrew. The shower was still going, but the coughing was petering out, and he was nearly out the door when he heard something fall heavily.

The bathroom door was unlocked, the room full of steam, the mirror fogged and useless as he pulled the shower curtain aside. Domino was curled up on the floor of the shower, unable to cough around her sobs, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. The water was hot enough to scald him as he reached in, unmindful of the soaking he was getting, and hauled her out, red as a lobster. A small amount of blood swirled with the white water down the drain, and he sat down on the side of the tub, settling her in his lap as he looked for the cut.

Back of her head, not too bad. Bleeding more than decently, though. He reached to the hanging rack above the toilet, grabbing a washcloth and pressing it to the back of her head. Hot water soaked his pant legs and lap, even with the fabric between his skin and hers, he could feel the heat of it. Hot to the touch. Stupidly hot. Hot enough to give herself heatstroke - probably why she’d fallen.

She seemed to know he was there, she made no move to pull away, but even dazed as she was from the fall and blow, she didn’t loosen the tight wrap she had around her end of the link. Nor did she lean into him.

Didn’t reach out to him. Didn’t look for comfort. Couldn’t, not without exposing the rest of her emotions.

Her held her loosely, keeping pressure on the back of her head, using two fingers of that hand to gently pull the hair away from the cut and the blood, trying to keep it from matting. Eventually she gave in to that pressure, too tired or dazed to keep her head up, and allowed it to sink onto his shoulder, the sobs still wracking her reddened frame. Her skin still felt hot to the touch, almost feverish, and as soon as she was reasonably steady he reached over, cutting off the water and wrapping her in a towel. She suddenly seemed to realize she was leaning on him, pulling back too swiftly, too jerkily, her hand almost flinching as she brought it to the back of her head and brushed his.

“Have a concussion?” His voice was rougher than he meant, and she almost flinched at that, as well.

Her eyes found his, violet full of thunder and hurt, storm and pain. She moved them in a slow circle, and he watched. They were tracking properly.

He stood abruptly, carrying her with him and setting her gently on her

feet. She wasn’t quite steady, but she reached out instinctively for the sink to steady herself, rather than him, clutching the towel around herself.

“I got it,” she finally managed, voice thick, eyes cast to the floor in an obvious attempt to find balance.

He opened his mouth, then stepped around her, closing the bathroom door gently behind him. He changed from the sodden clothes, tossing the wet ones into the wicker hamper with enough force to break one of the long strands of wood with a startlingly loud snap, almost like a gunshot.

He fled the bedroom.

“That will work perfectly, until the three other units come around behind you,” a more than sarcastic voice dripped from the right. “Very brilliant, Clan Leader.”

Nathan allowed the irritation to flicker in his eye, glaring balefully at the man that had spoken. “Then by all means, why don’t you tell us how it should be done?” His tone matched and raised the general’s, and the man didn’t bother to hide his disgusted snarl.

“How exactly did a man of your limited strategic intelligence get put in command of this resistance?”

Cable made an expansive gesture, his voice laden with venom. “I don’t hear a better idea.”

“Here’s a thought,” a quiet voice observed. A quiet voice behind Nathan, a voice full of patience and fairly emanating calm. Nathan closed his eyes, and the general barked a laugh.

“Hear! The Askani’son’s whelp apprentice is about to present us with his wisdom!”

“Instead of sitting there on your arrogant bottom and smearing everyone, why don’t you come up with a peripheral plan to handle the chance of the three units coming in to flank?” Nathan kept his eyes closed and prevented his lips from turning upwards with effort.

“Perhaps your own arrogant bottom should have been beaten more when you were a child!” General Cathan abruptly rose, knocking the flimsy chair backwards into the tent wall, the sound startling Nathan into looking up and glaring. The general leaned over the table to glare at the young man in the corner of the tent. “I would expect the Leader of the great Clan Chosen to have better disciplined his apprentice!”

“He isn’t my apprentice,” Nathan injected sardonically, completely out of habit of having to say it a dozen times every day. Technically that was why Ariksan was allowed to tag along, but it was generally understood that the relationship did not constitute an appretice learning a trade, more like a smart soldier being given an opportunity. As usual, the comment was completely ignored.

“The intelligent thing to do,” Ariksan continued, in the same even, quiet tone, “would be to set charges in the rocks, here and here,” he took a step forward and indicated on the map splayed out before them, “and collapsing the rocks behind the advance line here.”

Several of the other generals at the table shifted, making notes and quick calculations, murmuring to one another. General Fas’d’fain cleared his throat, but Cathan beat him to it.

“And since we all know how well the Clan Chosen fights after their front line is cut down,” and he glared significantly at the bristling Nathan, “what do you propose we do when retreat becomes necessary?”

Ariksan didn’t seem in the least put out. “The rubble will be hard for the soldiers to climb, should they try, and rather easy for the plasma cannons you’ve provided to clear a path through. Unless, of course, your weapons are substandard?” While his tone was still mild, Nathan easily picked up the faint snickering he was projecting.

#You enjoy this too much.#

*You have no idea.*

Fas’d’fain nodded slowly. “Of course. Actually, Nathan, you should have thought of that yourself, considering the previous victory at Garonath Valley. The sandslide was absolute genius.”

Nathan laughed, cutting the tension in the room significantly. “You’re right, of course. Oath, it’s been a long march,” he finally murmured, and the men around him chuckling wry agreement.

“Good head on your shoulders, boy,” commented General Omana, a grin cracking his usually stone features. He was the oldest man in the room by ten years, and by far the most intelligent and experienced. “We could use more like you during the course of planning this war. Arrogant bottom indeed!” The room chuckled while Cathan glowered.

“Are we voting on this ridiculous proposition,” he finally snarled. There were nods all around.

“A vote is not necessary,” Omana noted after counting heads. “With your consent, it will be unanimous anyway. I assume, Askani’son, you too support this?”

Nathan nodded once, rolling his head to the right, rubbing his neck and chuckling wryly. When Cathan sat still for a few moments, the generals merely shrugged, standing and gathering their papers and maps.

“Tomorrow, let us pray we never have to find out if Cathan’s plasma cannons are substandard,” quipped one, and the entire room was in an uproar as it left Cathan sitting alone at the large planning table.

Nathan took a deep breath of the cold desert air, eyes drawn to the stars once again, motionless as the other generals moved off to their respective tents. He had eyes only for the sky. Somewhere out there was written the fate of every man, and he had had the sneaking suspicion his was, as well, and if he looked long enough, he would find it. A planet far, far away winked at him, turning from pink to blue.

“I’m sorry, sir -”

“My name is Nathan, Ariksan. Not sir, Askani’son, Clan leader. It’s Nathan.”

“Sure, Nate.” Nathan received a playful poke in the ribs. He suddenly laughed, shaking his head, his silvering hair brushing the collar of his sweat-soaked uniform. He idly kicked a small dune of sand, then started across it, Ariksan on his heels.

“What’s so funny?”

“I can’t remember the last time we laughed at a meeting like tonight’s.” Nathan scrubbed a hand through his hair, sweaty from the stifling tent and stress such planning always caused. Beside him, Ariksan shrugged.

“Well, if you all stopped acting like a gantho slithered up your -”

Nathan cuffed him lightly. “Watch your mouth, young one. Jen would have your tongue for speaking like that.”

Ariksan swatted Nate’s hand away. “Yes, sir.” Grinning and ducking, he trotted off to a ten-man tent, to grab a few hours’ sleep before dawn.

Before war.

Boys fighting this war. From playing hero to being one, with no space in between for growing.

He stopped, standing for many moments merely staring at the desert sky, and the fates written there for all to read.

Looking. Just . . . looking.

Cable made his way slowly down the stairs, the shadow at the foot telling him someone was leaning against the wall, waiting for him. Scott. Of course. Probably looking forward to the awkward, uncomfortable offer for support as much as he was.

The fist connecting with his face was his first good indication it wasn’t Scott.

He lay on the floor a moment, waiting for his head to clear while Logan casually strode over from beside the wall.

“Heard what happened.” From Dom. He didn’t have to say it. She was the only other one that knew Sam’d been alive when Cable had picked him up.

Bright lady, he’d been alive. He’d fought for air, he’d fought for life -

Cable hooded his eyes instantly, getting to his feet slowly but gracefully, tensing his muscles as a warning. Fighting Logan now, with the Guthrie family, Scott and Jean and the kids here, under these circumstances, was off limits. Period.

“Glad to hear it. Nice to see you too.” He looked measuringly at Logan before walking past the shorter man. Logan clamped a hand down on his shoulder, and Cable whirled with a backhand that send the smaller man flying.

“What do you _want_ from me,” he snarled. “You want an apology? Oath, I’m sorry! He wasn’t aware enough to hold his breath! The flonqing gas would have done him in if I hadn’t! That what you want to hear? Fine! You’ve heard it!” He stalked forward, leaning down to get right into the feral face snarling back, a mirror of his own.

“You believe that?” The tone was in direct conflict with his expression, his voice soft, not in the least bit gentle, more like a steel blade covered in flannel.

“What do you think?” He bit the ends off the words, watching the reflection of his eye in the dark pools of controlled rage before him. “Do you think I considered it the lesser of two evils? Oath, do you think I did it on purpose?”

Logan didn’t move, other than to take a deep breath. “No,” he finally said.

Cable leaned away, shaking his head, a mixture of emotions so confusing that he couldn’t find a way to articulate. Anger finally won over, and kept him from trying. He simply turned and walked away.

Coward, the voice whispered, and Nathan froze. Checked.

The barrier was still in place. How . . . ?

Must have been nerve gas, then. No wonder you decided to off the kid. Bad way to go. The voice dripped sick amusement. I should know. So should you; you saw enough of your Clan die by that particularly archaic method -

#Shut up! I’m sick of you! Why can’t you just crawl off to some filthy corner of my mind and die?#

Too many to chose from, Stryfe whispered nastily. Cable’s metal hand snapped onto the banister with enough force to break the wood, eyes squeezed shut as he reached into his mind, but Stryfe laughed and retreated, farther than Nathan dared to go.

The gas was affecting his telepathy, then. That might have explained why it took so much effort, trying to find Sam’s mind -

He shook his head sharply, Logan’s hand on his arm startling him.

“Problem?” Nathan couldn’t tell whether the amusement in Logan’s voice was vicious or offsetting concern, and he brushed off the hand before stalking towards the kitchen.

Jean met him halfway, a cup of coffee in her hand. She hesitated at his look, and he softened it with effort.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she returned. Silence. “I was just coming to find you.”

His eyes flickered to the mug, and she blinked before pushing it towards him. “Made it special. Added kerosene.”

“Gee, you shouldn’t have.” Somehow he completely missed the light tone he was trying for, achieving a lame, empty one instead, and Jean dropped her eyes a moment before searching his out again.

“Paige is with Lucinda right now . . . we also brought -”

“Logan. Yeah, I spoke with him already.”

Jean gave him a measuring look before continuing. “We brought Hank, too, to check the kids and Lucinda out, and Remy.” No need to explain his presence; actually, he might be just the thing to distract the kids, with that wacky empathy of his.

“Full house,” he murmured instead, and moved back, startled to find Jean’s hand reached towards him. She dropped it, hiding her hurt well.

“I thought I just sensed something -”

No need to tell her that Stryfe was making a bid for control. He shook his head.

“Headache. Think it was nerve gas.” At her alarmed look, “I didn’t get that much. Dom did, though. Might want to have McCoy give her a checkup.”

She grinned suddenly, eyes lighting. “Not a chance, buster.”

He rolled his eyes, trying for playful. “I’ll just let the T-O take my lungs for a minute or two. That should clear it out.”

Her playful whack was rather forceful. “Don’t even joke about that.” she muttered more than half-seriously. “It isn’t funny.”

He shrugged, taking a sip of the coffee to hide the sudden tightening of his throat. “Not bad.”

She tried to hide her smile. “I got lots of complaints making it.”

“I’m sure,” he muttered dryly, moving past her towards the door. Jean started to say something, but he pretended not to notice, pushing open the door.

The first eyes that found his were Lucinda’s. Red-rimmed and strained, she still managed a semblance of a smile.

“Ah was hopin’ you’d show up ‘fore we left,” she managed, rising to wrap her arms around him. He tensed, arms going around loosely, unable to block out the gratitude she was throwing out like the light of a lantern in a dark cave.

“Ah never said thank you,” she whispered into his shoulder, and he nearly choked. Dom hadn’t told her. Probably hadn’t told anyone but Logan.

Her idea of punishment?

“You don’t need to thank me,” he managed to keep his voice reasonably level. “I wish -”

She pulled back, forcing him to look at her. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said firmly, with a resolve that her southern accent seemed to strengthen. “Y’did more than Ah ever thought you could. Ah though for sure th’ rest o’ mah children were dead, all Ah remember is you walkin’ in an’ grabbing’ me -”

“Lucinda.”

She closed her mouth, eyes watching him with such compassion and gratitude. Such unfailing gratitude.

“There isn’t a need to thank me.” I killed your son. “Are the . . . kids okay?” The ones I managed not to kill.

She moved away, back to the table, nodding as she gestured for him to sit. “Th’ twins finally went ta sleep a few hours ago. Paige is down with Sam-” Her voice broke, and Josh seemed to materialize out of nowhere.

“Speakin’ o’ sleep, Momma, you should get some,” he said gently, urging her to rise, reminding Nathan so much of Sam that he had to look away. “Plenty o’ time tah talk later.” Josh looked up at Cable, as if asking permission to excuse her, and he glanced up, then nodded.

“He’s right, Mrs. Guthrie. Did Dr. McCoy check on you?” She’d inhaled some of the gas, not much, thankfully. She nodded, looking with tired irritation at Josh trying to shoo her out. “He said th’ same thing,” she finally admitted with a forced laugh. “Ah’m goin’, stop nagging.”

“No, ma’am,” Josh murmured, and she nodded to Cable before making her slow way out, Josh in hot pursuit. Leaving Cable to deal with the rest of the occupants of the kitchen.

Scott was seated in the corner, looking almost casual in a white tee shirt and a very nice pair of jeans, brown hiking boots completing the outfit. He seemed to sense Cable’s startlement at his attire.

“I thought you’d want to go for a walk.”

How flonqing sensitive of you. “Maybe later.” He downed the rest of the coffee, nodding once, coldly, to Remy LeBeau, the one man he _hadn’t_ sensed in the room. The man nodded back measuringly, and something cold balled in Cable’s stomach.

He’d have to worry about it later. Not that Logan was apt to keep his mouth shut on something like that.

Not that Nathan was going to attempt to hide it.

He rinsed out the mug, sighing deeply as he turned the water off. “Scott, we have to talk.” He looked pointedly at Remy, who held up his hands with an easy grin.

“Don’ need t’tell me twice,” he commented casually, leaning off the counter and crossing the room in unhurried but long strides, all too soon gone with the whisper of the swinging door. Scott cleared his throat.

“Gambit isn’t a telepath, you know.”

Nathan kept his back to his father, staring out the window instead, the grass that Sam had always joked had a bluish tinge to it. “Talk being the operative word.”

He heard the chair scrape on the tiles of the kitchen floor as Scott settled.

“All right. What do you want to talk about.”

I killed Sam. He was alive when I got to him, and alive when I picked him up, and dead when I got him outside.

“You know, you actually have to say something to talk,” Scott pointed out lightly after nearly a minute of silence.

Why was this so flonqing hard?

Cable watched a blackbird land on the birdbath Theresa had had set up outside, so she could hear the mockingbirds sing when she was doing dishes. It dipped its shiny head down to drink, coming up periodically to look at him curiously, eyes brightly fixed on the dimly shining eye staring at it from behind the glass.

“It’s . . . about Sam.”

He heard Scott shift again. “You know what I’m going to say, don’t you.”

“I’m not finished yet.”

“Don’t.” The anger in that voice startled Nathan into turning, surprised to see real anger on that face, as well.

“Don’t even think about blaming yourself,” Scott snapped. “Do you know how extensive his injuries were?”

No, I just found him and carried him eighty yards. Have no idea. “Yes.”

“Ten broken ribs on his left side. Fragmented. Extensive head injuries. Liver and kidney failure. Ruptured pancreas. Punctured lung. One of the valves of his heart was leaking.”

Cable moved his lower jaw around in a circular pattern before firmly clenching it once more.

“He would have died from those injuries in less than an hour anyway.”

“He’s an External,” Cable snarled, unable to keep the venom and guilt from his voice. “He’s supposed to be immortal!”

Scott shrugged expansively. “Maybe we were wrong. Mrs. Guthrie asked for an autopsy, Hank’s supposed to start in a few hours, if you want to be down there.”

To see Sam cut apart, see the damage? Did Scott know what he’d done? Was he torturing him on purpose?

“I-”

Scott watched him, not saying anything. Flonq it!

“I . . . I should have done more.” He closed his eyes as Scott sighed.

Coward, the voice whispered nastily.

“Cable, you did everything you could-”

“I did _nothing_!” He didn’t try to check the volume of his voice. “I didn’t talk to him! I gave him _space_ thinking it was what he needed, when what he needed was a flonqing _friend!_” Stryfe remained quiet in his head. “I thought he’d come to me if he needed help! I should have sensed what he was planning, I should have stopped him before he even left the flonqing house!” He gestured wildly. “When all else failed, I should have been able to out-_fly_ him! He was _beaten_ to death while I was walking around inside his house! So you had better flonqing well tell me what I _did_ do, besides _kill_ him!”

He realized he was shaking, dimly aware that Gambit had come into the room, Jean beside him. He turned sharply at Scott’s pained look, preferring to look at the empty birdbath, his yelling having frightened the blackbird away.

Stryfe laughed quietly in his head, enticingly just out of reach. The last thing he needed was to fall on the flonqing floor chasing Stryfe around his head.

#Nate? Please tell me that wasn’t what I think it was.#

His shields breaking down, too? Oh, lovely, absolutely lovely.

*It wasn’t. *

#Don’t lie to me.# Her mental tone was hard. #That was Stryfe.#

She remembers me, the voice sighed melodramatically, and Jean’s eyes widened imperceptably. They waited.

#Nate?#

*Oath, it’s me, * he shot back. *It’s an after-effect of the gas, I think. He isn’t going anywhere. *

Styfe hummed a tune to himself, in the darkest, furthest recesses of Nate’s mind, irritating but not threatening.

#Are you sure you’ve got that under control?#

Nothing.

The kitchen was completely silent for a long, long time. The voice that spoke was a total surprise.

“Y’feelin’ awful guilty about de whole t’ing, mon ami. Did it ever occur t’y’ dat maybe y’not de reason he die?”

Cable turned to look at the tall Cajun incredulously, Jean’s searching look momentarily forgotten. “What do you mean?” His voice sounded strained, even to him, and even Scott was watching LeBeau. He shrugged.

“Y’seem pretty sure dat you de reason he die. Completely convinced. Why you so convinced?” What aren’t you telling us. Implied if not spoken.

Yes, tell them all why you’re so sure, gloated Stryfe, and Nathan made a quick snatch for that voice that ended up with thin air and an echoing laugh. Jean’s lips thinned, and Nathan clamped down tightly on his shields, using it as a distraction from emotions he’d rather not display.

“Because I _did_ kill him, LeBeau. He was alive when I picked him up and dead when I put him down.”

Scott stood. “Nate, he died of his injuries -”

Cable allowed his face to curl. “I suffocated him, Scott.” Jean actually flinched at his voice, eyes wide, and Scott took in a measured breath.

Cable chose to stare into the eyes of the demon as he spoke. Easier.

“Wasn’t aware enough to hold a breath. I didn’t know what kind of gas was outside. I put my hand over his mouth and nose when I carried him through it. He had a _heartbeat_ when we got outside. He just wasn’t _breathing._ You want to know why I’m so convinced, Gambit? Because I _killed_ Sam.”

The demon’s eyes never flickered, not even for an instant. “Not t’discredit y’story, mon ami, but did it ever occur t’you dat he had no ribs t’hold all de weight up off his lungs? He mighta stopped breathin’ widout y’help at all.”

Nathan snorted in disgust. “He was fighting me all the way, LeBeau.”

“But that was nerve gas,” Scott pointed out quietly. “It would have killed him anyway.”

He turned slowly towards Scott. “What are you saying?”

“He’s saying,” Jean straightened, “that Sam would have died no matter what you did.” A very measuring look. Oath, did she think Stryfe was actually vying for control?

Who knows, he murmured, I just may.

#Any time you’re ready, _brother _.# “If I stopped him at the house,”

Nathan spat out with forced patience, “it wouldn’t have happened -”

“Oh, so y’want t’just write off de rest o’ de Guthrie family?”

Cable took a step forward, but Remy never flinched. “De FoH woulda gone after dem anyway. Y’saved de whole family, y’saved de ones y’could.”

“Why are you here,” Cable growled. It was the only thing he could think to say.

Remy half-grinned. “It was either me or Bish.”

Cable shouldered past the man, out the door, ignoring the telepathic query that hit his shields none too gently, the call of his name just as easily. His feet carried him off, he really had no control or destination, and if they did, they weren’t sharing. His eyes trailed the Oriental rug in the lobby, the one Logan had knocked him down on. They trailed down the clean-swept hall, following the floor molding, dark and beautifully grained, until it ended in metal. Looking up, he was somewhat surprised to find himself just outside the medbay.

And the morgue.

His feet carried him inside, glad to find the lights dim and the place empty. There was a cup with the thick remnants of what had once been hot chocolate. Probably one of the kids had had it, as something of a calming agent when faced with a fuzzy blue doctor.

They probably liked him. When you got past the fact that he was a doctor, Henry McCoy really wasn’t that bad of a guy.

The lab smelled of alcohol pads and hydrogen peroxide, cotton and bandages. The dim lights made it more somber, the silvers reduced to greys in varying shades, not nearly as sharp and uncomfortable. The three beds were made and unwrinkled, probably tight enough to bounce a dime from. The microscopes were off, the computers without life, everything hushed, even the buzz from the overhead lights.

His footsteps were unnaturally loud as he made his way towards the back room. It wasn’t really a morgue, more of a room with a very power air conditioner that they used for that purpose, when it was necessary.

This was the first time one of the kids had had the unfortunate privilege to spend any length of time in there.

Oath, why did it have to be Sam?

He forced himself to open the door, welcoming the cold air. Cold was numbing, cold was constant and aching and comforting.

Sam was cold.

Nate was cold.

The room itself was dark, the open door not admitting much light to see the white-shrouded figure by, and Nathan was suddenly glad of it as he entered, noting the spartaness of the room. Used as storage most of the time, it now held only a few boxes of medical supplies and the huge metal autopsy table, the surgery lights hulking above like some dark shadow over the body.

Over Sam.

He found himself by the bedside with no memory of approaching, his human hand reaching out to gently grasp the sheet and pull it down, exposing Sam’s relaxed face, closed eyes. Blonde hair still being unruly and curly, matted a bit by blood, but for the most part he’d been partially cleaned up, the blood on his face gone save scabs from some scratches. His face looked unnaturally pale even in the gray light, and Cable started as he saw it gain color, realizing belatedly that his eye had begun to glow fitfully.

He placed his metal hand on the bed, bracing himself as he gently touched Sam’s still face.

“Why him?” He didn’t expect the air to answer. Of all the people to take, why had it been Sam? What had he ever done? He’d saved the miners in his hometown. He’d saved the team more times than he could count. Sam was the soul of kindness and goodness and everything a man could ever hope to be.

“Why him?”

“Why him?”

Nathan ducked into the tent, Jenskot’s name on his lips but unuttered as he heard sobbing. He entered silently, carefully closing the flap, listening to Jen crooning.

“I don’t know, Arik, I don’t know. Sometimes . . . sometimes these things happen -”

“He was _imitating_ me! He wouldn’t have been there if it weren’t for me coming here!”

“No, no, Arik, don’t think that -”

“They killed him . . . he was just a little boy . . . they killed my _mother_”

“They don’t much care -”

“He was pretending to be me. He was _pretending_!”

“Arik -”

He heard a shuffle, then suddenly Ariksan had bowled into him, knocking them both backwards, Nathan supporting him.

“Arik . . .?

He was crying unashamedly, clutching a vid viewer in his hand.

“Cannanites . . . they killed my brother, my _family_,” he finally choked, offering up the viewer. Nathan took it and placed it on the shelf behind him temporarily, pulling the young man to him, eyes finding Jenskot’s as Ariksan sobbed.

*His brother Ranod saw some Cananites in the plaza, attacked one with a stick while imitating the Clan Chosen’s war cry,* she send softly. Watching him. Judged his reaction.

Nathan’s breath caught in his throat. Yes, that would most certainly sign his family’s death warrant. Probably all his relatives within the day. He placed a hand on the brown-hair head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Arik,” he finally murmured. He sighed deeply, and the youth pulled away, wiping his tears angrily with his tunic sleeve, reddening his face.

“May I be excused, sir?”

Sir.

Not Nathan.

Nathan didn’t let his hurt show. How could one boy work his way into his life so easily? “Arik, if you want to talk about this -”

“I-I just need to be alone for a while, I think,” he muttered, and bolted from the tent before Nathan could stop him. Jen crossed the distance between them and he wrapped her in his arms, feeling her tremble against his chest.

“Oath,” Cable finally murmured. With Le’isan gone, the Clan was Ariksan’s now. And he would have to return in person before the entire Clan to pass that leadership to another, which would be the same as if he fell on his own blade. By now it would have been known that Ariksan had joined the resistance, and they would be waiting for him.

Without a leader, the Clan Ab’und would be easily scattered, and the resources of their fertile valley would be a prime target for the Cananites. Without access to that water, the armies here would die. There was no other water for three hundred miles in neutral control.

*After the battle tomorrow, we can send an small force to go with him, keep him alive until he passes leadership, if he so chooses.*

Nathan buried his face in her hair, breathing deeply of the slight lavender scent of it, pulling her tightly against his body. She settled against his chest, still trembling.

#We may need every last man here,# he finally replied, gently. If the battle tomorrow did not go in their favor, the point would be moot as the Guard plowed through them to the valley behind them. He’d rather see them without a leader than dead under any circumstances. Maybe Ariksan could lead them by vid for a while. Orders passed in that manner had to be reviewed by a panel to ensure that the transmission wasn’t false, but even that delay was better than nothing.

Jen’s pain was coming down the link as strong as a sandstorm, and he shared his distress with her, simply holding her for a long, long time, his mind reaching out to gently touch and comfort the man grieving alone on the dunes.

His touch was telepathically slapped away, and he left the bright glow of grief alone.

Cable parried the blow, reaching behind him for the dagger he kept there, ducking the attacker behind him and flinging the third away with a blow from his whirling psimitar. He sidestepped the first as he came up for another swing, tossing the dagger. In this close of quarters aim wasn’t imperative, and the first fell back, the blade sunk to the hilt in his left eye. The second he cut down with a well-aimed strike with his psimitar, but he wasn’t fast enough to counter the plasma blast that brushed past, burning a path through his armor and his side.

If the shot had been true, three quarters of his small intestine would have been served as sausage links at their table.

The man was cut down by a fellow Clansman, and Nathan made eye contact in thanks, bring his psimitar around to blast a soldier behind Sakara, who yelped in surprise at the tickle of the close-passing telekinesis, surprising her attacker, who she quickly felled with her deft twin blades.

His eyes searched the battlefield for the next likely target, preferably Stryfe, and fell upon Ariksan, his psimitar whirling in a mad, uncontrolled dance, so unlike his usual style that it made Nathan start.

Ariksan was faced by at least seven of the Elite, always the first to take on any Clansman armed with a psimitar. Not surprisingly, they were incredibly unfond of the weapons, and would often keep those from the fallen, using them themselves in a much less skilled but as lethal dance.

It was considered a prize.

Nathan tried not to favor his side as he hurried, cutting down a soldier before him almost without glancing, working his way to Arik, screaming and shouting even as he continued his dance. Arik’s eyes were wild and wide, his face a rictus of pain, like that of a lunatic, and it was obviously intimidating the Guard, who were not shooting him in lieu of the sport of slowly killing him between the lot of them. Nathan nearly winced at the openings he was leaving. What was he doing, trying to get himself . . . killed . . .

#Don’t you dare!# he telepathically shouted as loudly as he dared without distracting the young man, using raw TK to hurl one of the guards into the path of a plasma blast. Two others turned, grinning humorlessly as they recognized him and advanced.

Nathan bared his teeth in welcome, and began to dance with them.

*Why not? My father already had specified another family to take the place should ours be killed. It’s in his will, required of all Clan -*

#I know that!# Nathan snapped, ducking a swift slice and parrying the second before coming back up with a kick that sent the first staggering back, letting his attention focus fully on the more skilled of the two of them. #It isn’t the answer!#

*You got those two?*

A very swift glance found Arik finishing off the last of his four remaining opponents, as Jenskot shot Nathan’s second opponent, leaving him to deal with the one directly before him. Nathan lashed out viciously for the man’s legs, trying for a crippling blow rather than a killing one in interest of time. The man screamed as he went down, and Nathan brought the bloody psimitar across the man’s throat even as he stepped over him, hurrying towards Arik.

*That’s the last of the Elite. Clan can get along fine without me from here on out.*

Arik turned, looking for another opponent, and in the corner of his eye he saw Jenskot working her way towards him, as well, a terrified look playing across her features, splattered a bit with blood.

Nathan ignored the churning in his gut, shock from the plasma burn, running towards Arik.

#Don’t! There’s another way!#

*Not for me. Make sure they don’t get the ‘tar.*

“Arik, NO!”

*Thanks for it all . . . Nate. Jen . . . you’ll make a great mother someday.* The anguish in the eyes he turned Nathan’s way ripped at the soul, and then Arik made a half-hearted swipe at a regular soldier, removing his left hand at the wrist. The man screamed, turned his plasma rifle on Arik -

“ARIK!” Jenskot’s cry rang across the battlefield as pure as the tolling of a bell.

Nathan readied the psimitar, frigid in his hands, leveled a blast -

That got there three-tenths of a second too late.

Arik never made a sound as the burst cut through his chest, point blank. He stood only a second before toppling backwards, the psimitar glowing in his hands. It discharged wildly, killing the three closest to him and knocking everyone down, including Nate, for a radius of about fifteen feet.

*NO!*

He heard Jenskot’s anguished cry, managed to get to Arik only a moment before she.

A slight breeze blew over them, bringing with it the stench of blood cooking on hot sand, flesh burned by plasma, the plasma fumes rising like steam in the air. The sun shone down brightly through the smoke of some shattered cannons. Nearby, amid the groans and the shrieks and the cries, someone was moaning for their mother.

Jenskot reached his side, kneeling swiftly to touch the mind of the youth at their feet, unable to find it.

Sightless eyes stared up at them, a thin mist of blood drying on that expressionless face.

He was glad Sam’s eyes were closed.

“What did you want from me?” He’d given him space, all the space he could. He’d kept away, leaving Sam to immerse himself in routine and chores to deal with the grief, making himself available but never in the way.

Trying to talk to Arik had failed. Not trying to talk to Sam had failed.

“What should I have done?”

The dead man said nothing, and Nathan choked back the sob that tried so hard to erupt from him. Sam’s face was just as expressionless, lips blue and skin pale despite the glow from Nate’s eye, illuminating the shining metal in the room, glittering on the corners like small stars.

Nathan gripped the white sheet that covered all of Sam but his face, half wanting to see the extent of his injuries, half fearing them. He’d been beaten with a blunt object. A baseball bat, according to Lucinda.

Clubbed to death like an animal, by animals.

Something hot sparked in his chest, spreading up to his eyes, making him close them.

“I’m so sorry, Sam . . . I . . .” Tears crept out anyway. “I did what I thought was right, I did what I thought you wanted me to do . . . and all I wanted was for you to just talk to someone . . . anyone . . . even Shatterstar or Ric . . .”

Images broadcast from Lucinda paraded before his eyes, Sam lying on the tiled floor, bloody, nearly unconscious, breathing labored and face twisted with pain, the sounds of bones breaking and his strangled cry. Of the anguish she’d felt when she’d thought him dead, of her hanging onto his body as the paramedics had tried to pull her away.

Of Elizabeth, her little face so righteously confused when Sam didn’t get up.

He forced his eyes open, jaw clenching and unclenching as he lifted a shaking hand to pull back the blankets.

The injuries were as he remembered, that strange depression where ribs should have been on a wiry but strong chest, a huge swollen discoloration where a collarbone should be. A still chest that should have been filling with air, to talk, play games. Tunes that Sam used to whistle during his chores sprung to mind with such clarity it was as though he could hear them in the room. Light, lilting tunes, the Celtic ones Theresa would sing with him as they did the dishes. The way his face would light up whenever Tabitha chose to sprawl in his lap when they were watching TV. The memory he’d gotten of Logan racing Sam, then taking him to a bar and getting him plastered.

The look in those eyes when he watched newscasts of mutants being beaten on the streets. The anger there during battles when a fellow teammate was struck down.

The softness of his eyes when the kids rescued an injured juvenile squirrel beside the road.

The laugh that could brighten a room, the accent that could drive you so crazy you could just scream.

The first of his kids to fall.

Cable picked up on of those hands, marveling at the softness of it, repelled by the texture of death there. It was cold but no longer stiff, malleable but foreign.

He remembered it thrown carelessly around him as he’d held Sam on that beach, letting him cry, finally cry, finally sharing just a little bit of the pain, of the guilt. The hair that the moon had burnished with gold, the somehow honest scent in the cologne Paige had sent to him as a gag.

The feel of the man in his arms, drawing strength from him like Nate had drawn strength from his honesty and sincerity from the start.

“Oath, Sam, I’m so sorry . . .” He didn’t try to stop his tears, letting them fall uncontrolled, dripping down his chin and tickling down his neck. Inevitably he had to open his mouth, almost an invitation for the single sob that managed to shudder through him.

“I’m so sorry.”

The hand that he held in his own grew slightly more malleable with heat, and he clasped it tightly.

“G’journey, Sam.”

Someone shifted behind him, and Nathan jumped, Sam’s hand slipping from his own as he released it, the absolutely unblemished skin so soft against his. He probed instead of turning, his gut churning slightly as he realized who it was.

“What the flonq do you want from me now.” He knew the venom there was to make up for the vulnerability he’d expressed only moments ago, but he made no effort to temper it.

Logan cleared his throat several times. “Actually, came ta do what you just did, ‘fore Hank takes him apart to see what killed him.” Rough, but not loaded.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to sneak up on people?”

“Beats me.”

Nate suddenly choked out an almost hysterical laugh at the frankness and simplicity of that statement, and he heard Logan rumble a chuckle out of his chest. It seemed to break the tension, just a little bit, and Nathan used the opportunity to compose himself.

Maybe if you stand there long enough, your face will dry before he smells the tears, Stryfe jeered, but Cable ignored it, instead picking up Sam’s hand and placing it back across his chest. Something stopped him, instincts suddenly screaming that something was not at all right about this.

Logan sensed his hesitancy. “I c’n leave, if you aren’t finished . . .”

Nathan blinked several times, then slowly turned Sam’s hand over, tracing his palms. Without the warm of Cable’s living hand, it had become stiffer, but no less smooth.

Very smooth.

Too smooth.

There were no calluses on that hand.

Nate stared at it for a long time, his mind not quite grasping what that could mean, and he heard Logan come forward.

“Nate . . .?”

He moved Sam’s hand toward Logan, who gave him an inscrutable look before inspected Sam’s hand. After a few moments of uninterested searching, his hands froze as well, his fingers running over Sam’s thumb.

They met each other’s gaze.

Nathan began to tremble slightly. “That’s impossible . . .”

Logan’s eyes had gone rock-hard, the slightest hint of a growl in his chest as he turned Sam’s hand over, looking over the back of his arm. Nathan immediately moved to Sam’s head, looking for the scar he knew was there, from when Shatterstar accidentally cut him in a training session -

The scar wasn’t there. Above Sam’s right temple there was only unmarked scalp.

“He got his arm scratched up by debris fallin’ on us,” Logan noted quietly. “I sure as hell ain’t finding the scars from it.”

Nathan covered the distance between the body and the intercom in two strides.

“McCoy, come down to the Medbay, _now._”

Logan caught his eyes. “You went into his mind when he died, right?”

Nathan shook his head. “I wasn’t ever able to find more than the most surface of thoughts . . .” He slammed his fist into the wall, making a sizable dent.

“Oath!”

Logan simply nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

By the time the others gathered, Cable was in a cold, seething rage. Jean approached him very cautiously, as though he were something dangerous, but he didn’t make any attempt to hide his furiousness.

Since Logan was still growling quietly, he felt more than justified.

She touched his arm, and he glared down at her, not surprised to see the hurt look it elicited.

“Why did you call us down here?” Still gentle, still giving him the benefit of the doubt.

The doors open, and for the first time he saw Paige.

Her eyes were clear, confused and hurt, and she had her arm around her mother, who looked a bit dazed, as though she’d just been woken up. The kids were all sleeping, so the only other occupants were Remy, Scott, and Dom, who looked like she was trying to not look curious. She refused to meet his gaze, instead watching Hank bent over the microscope, muttering occasionally to the tune of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

“Well?” Cable’s voice was cold, silencing the doctor, who made a slight adjustment to the microscope before looking up.

“You were right.” He sounded incredibly pleased. “The breakdown of this DNA is much too rapid, not to mention naturally impossible. It’s decomposing at a rate I’ve only seen in cases of extreme radioactive exposure.”

“English, Hank.” Scott sounded hopeful despite his exhaustion.

“The body of Sam Guthrie we recovered at the church,” and he removed his spectacles, “Is a clone.”

continued in Of Spreading Wings and Sickly Dreams

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