Release, Part Fourteen

by Tangerine

Like a delicate dancer in a music-box, he viewed the world in a constant blur of colour and melody. He danced only when told to by urging fingers. Spinning and spinning, he turned and turned until he was ill with what he had, with the reality, the truth.

But he was wasn't dancing now. He was crippled, though only vaguely aware of it, and injured to the point he was on the brink of death, if he had ever been alive to begin with. The pulsing of arteries in his numb back, the faint beat of his heart against his heavy chest, the weak pump of his mutated lungs, all increased his awareness of his ebbing life.

Death had not become him yet.

But he wanted Death. He no longer wanted to be this so-called survivor. He wanted to die, and he wanted peace, and he wanted eternal oblivion. The Angel had been slaughtered. What more did cruel fate have in store for him?

But life beckoned him. Every memory he had, ever feeling he had ever been blessed to feel, it all made him long for existence. How could he decide between two equally horrible evils? He feared regret as much as he did death and life together.

Warren opened his eyes slowly, focussing on the darkened ceiling above. The overhead light glistened with a hint of gold, and he blinked painfully, aware of the horrible agony in his body. He remembered, oh God, he remembered every horrific detail!

Gathering his the last of his strength, he moved one bloodstained arm across his stomach. Though he knew the truth already, he needed to know for sure, to touch and to feel that his wings were truly and utterly gone from him. He felt beneath his cold body, gasping laboured breaths with every severe movement.

The wings were as dead as he was!

His sobs were ragged, and it tore his body apart when he convulsed violently with them, but it was too much to bear. Those beautiful, white wings were him wholly and completely. They stood for everything he imagined himself to be; the beauty and love and hope and life he wanted so much to own and personify. He couldn't have lost them again; it was too cruel a twist of destiny for it all to be happening to him again.

Struggling with the threat of death and utter despair, he grievously ushered his wounded body onto its stomach. Warren buried his face in the bed, muffling his screams of anguish. With his arms, he pulled himself halfway off the bloody bed until he had to stop, every movement increasing the pain of the fiery inferno as it burned his back.

He hung there limply like a ragdoll, gagging as he smelled the rancid blood as it reeked to decay around him. It was his, all his, but even the smell wasn't right. It stunk of ammonia and metal oxides, and to the touch, it was thick and cold.

Inhaling sharply and with one great movement, he rolled himself of the bed onto the carpeted floor, landing with a loud and painful thump. Warren winced again as the blood began to trickle from his left shoulder. After the initial rush of blood, there had been little following, but here he started it up again.

As always, he did more harm than good.

The phone was in view, lying on the floor where he had left it. It was only a yard or so away, but to his tired eyes and ailing body, it equalled eternity. Reaching his left arm out before him, he dragged himself a few paces until he had to rest again. The carpet and the resulting friction burned his already sensitive skin, and he could feel his lifeblood ebb away from one of the dire wounds.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night," Warren muttered in song, forcing himself to focus on some other than the excruciating pain. "Take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life. You were only waiting for this moment to arise."

He wasn't sure why he had picked this song to divert his attention. He had heard it countless times in his life recently, for Betsy had often forced him to listen to the White Album, and this song in particular as it was her favourite, until he finally confessed he abhorred the song, but the lyrics had bothered him and stayed with him despite his hatred of the music. Now, he detested them more, loathed them for being the only ones to come to him in his time of need.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Take these sunken eyes and learn to see. All your life. You were only waiting for this moment to be free. Blackbird fly, blackbird fly, into the light of the dark black night . . ."

Warren cried out as the searing pain struck his body viciously. He had lost too much blood. He had been wounded too severely. He wasn't going to make it to the phone. He was going to die, alone and in agony.

But the phone was somehow there, miraculously appearing beside his head. He collapsed weakly onto the carpet, lying there until he found the strength to move one arm. A finger, one, single finger would be all it took to press the autodial. Teeth ground in pain, he pushed with all the force he could muster and dropped the hand back to the ground, straining to listen as the rings chimed, but the sound seemed so far away, barely audible at all.

At the seventh ring, Warren grew worried. He wasn't deluding himself; he knew if help did not come now, he was going to die. The pain was so intense now, the agony seemingly unending, if no one answered, the despair would slaughter him first.

But there was that part of him that wanted to let his body fail, to stop this circle of death and life, to prove he wasn't a survivor after all.

"Hello?" A groggy voice answered slowly. Warren whispered something through parched lips. "What? Listen, it's too damn early in the morning for a prank call. Unless you're calling for the dashingly handsome Robert Drake, there isn't any one else home, so can I take a message?"

Warren whimpered laconically, biting his lip to hold back the cry of suffering. The instinct to survive, to go on living, was too strong, even for him, a fallen angel.

The sarcastic tone of the caller changed dramatically. "Who is this? Do you need help?"

"Bobby?" Warren murmured into the phone like a child, lost and alone.

"Warren, buddy, what's happened?" Warren winced as the pain increased, fighting down the bile in his stomach. "Warren, damn it, Warren, you're scaring the shit out of me here. What's wrong?"

"Just come," Warren muttered into the receiver. "I need your help . . . please, Bobby, help me, please..."

"Should I call someone? The police? An ambulance? The hospital?"

"No... just you, nobody else. Please, Bobby, no... one..." His eyes closed slowly, flickering as he struggled to stay conscious, and Bobby's cries were snuffed out by the strongest sound of all, that left by a deadening silence.

* *

"Warren?" Bobby called, standing outside on the balcony in the chilly night. It affected him very little, but there was an atmosphere here that chilled him to the bone. He peered in a window, wiping away the fine film of dirt with a clenched fist. Bobby frowned and touched the glass as ice began to creep upon it as though it lived. He let the window shatter in the extreme cold beneath his finger then stifled the sound as it hit the ground upon a soft bed of snow. "Warren?"

Bobby stepped back and retched as he caught scent of the rancid aroma in the loft. He brought his hand to his nose and choked, his face distorting in disgust. He caught sight of several smashed pictures and the fireplace with red embers slowly fading. The door was open, and Bobby stuck his head out into the hall, looking up and down the corridor.

"Warren?" The word echoed down the eerie hall until the sound was dissolved by the blackness. Bobby walked to the elevator, noticing the lock was on. There was no way anybody could get in or out without the codes. He frowned and began to walk back to the door, but his foot caught on something, and he fell to the floor.

"Shit!" Bobby rubbed his head where he knew a bump was going to form and looked to see what he had tripped on. There, emerging from the shadows, was one human leg, with the other bent at an angle so only the ankle was visible. "Betsy?"

Bobby grabbed the extended foot and yelped in pain at the darkness crept up his arm, burning through his coat to his cold flesh, melting the sheath of ice layering his skin. Soon the thin ice shield disappeared completely, but he dared not revert to a total ice form and risk dying, risk his human form melting away forever.

Biting his lip and taking a deep breath, Bobby pulled with all his might, ignoring the smell of searing flesh as he pulled Betsy's body from the shadowy grave.

Bobby gasped at the sight of her, dropping the leg back to the ground once she was clear of the mass. Cradling his arm close to his body, cooling the wound with a layer of ice, he placed two fingers against her neck. It hurt to do so, but he found the pulse, weak but with a steady beat.

"Betsy?" Bobby tried again, and she moved slightly, her translucent, black skin shimmering as she shifted. It was as if the shadows had coated her, changing her tanned skin to a near-black colour. Only the red tattoo shone brightly on her face, over her left eye. Her hair remained purple, though darkened by the sombreness veiling her. "Betsy?"

Her eyes opened slowly, glowing yellow instead of the deep purple he was accustomed to. She blinked several times, opening her mouth and from it flowed a stream of dark energy, hitting the wall behind Bobby's head. "What... am... I?"

Bobby heard the pain in her voice and was terrified by the cold and empty sound of her words. "I found you inside the shadows. I pulled you out, but..." His voice trailed off as he gesture weakly to her appearance. "Warren needs help."

"I know." Betsy stood and moved effortlessly across the floor, like she was skating on ice. She paused, turning back to face Bobby. Her bright eyes narrowed into crescents, and in a voice like the dead, she said, "are you coming?"

Bobby nodded, following her as she sailed into the loft. The shadows lurched and wailed at her arrival then settled into a calm sea as she rose one hand to them. Bobby swallowed loudly, fearing now, fearing her, fearing what had happened to Warren.

"He is here." Her voice shook the darkness, and the sea of black rolled in waves at the sound. "I can feel him here." Her voice was deep and melodic, and it warmed with every word she spoke about him. Bobby could hear the change, he could feel it. Betsy stumbled, bringing a hand to her head. "He is hurt. I can feel him. He is... so badly."

Betsy face distorted with what Bobby assumed was sadness. She looked as though she might be crying, but no tears fell from her golden eyes. Bobby stepped past her as she dropped to the carpet with a thud, bringing her knees to her chest.

"Hurts so bad," she murmured as she recked back and forth, "hurts so bad."

Bobby knew she needed his help, but there was still the matter of finding Warren. Sparing her one last glance, he threw open the door to the master bedroom and ran in. The smell hit him like a hammer, and he fought down his latest meal.

"Warren!" Bobby cried, his voice cracking with a sob. He saw the wings, he saw Candy laying dead upon the furthest one, and he saw Warren laying still by the phone, a loud beeping resounding from the receiver. "Oh, God . . . I never expected this."

Bobby ran out of the room, past Betsy as she continued to talk to herself. Grabbing a blanket from the nearest closet, he darted past her again, and this time he could feel her lit eyes following, tracking his every move.

He shuddered slightly as he entered the scene of death again. He stumbled over one of the dismembered wings then recovered his footing as he pulled Warren naked body off the cold floor and wrapped the fallen Angel in the sheets.

"Oh, Warren," Bobby hummed, clutching the pale blue body to his and standing slowly. He was grateful Warren's weight was light, lighter even without the massive wings attached to his back. Bobby was afraid his friend might blow away if the wind was strong enough.

"Betsy, come on, come with me," he said gently, grabbing hold of the closest hand with his singed arm. The flesh was red and blistered, but he was beyond caring about his own pain now. Betsy rose slowly, clutching him like a little girl terrified of where he might bring her.

They walked slowly. Bobby stopped at the closet once more to find more covering for Warren's frail form. He wrapped more cloth around the man, drawing it tight and snug to seal in all the warmth he was bound to lose.

"I iced over here," Bobby explained, coating his body with a frozen shield again. "It's the quickest way, and it might stop Warren from bleeding anymore. He should be okay, but Betsy, it's going to be cold. I don't think you've ever been sliding with me before."

Betsy nodded slowly, her bright eyes staring beyond him, like she was peering directly into his soul. "Do not let go of me?"

Bobby felt like crying as this childlike question, but he vowed he'd remain strong. He could handle this, but he was suddenly wishing the X-Men hadn't been called away while he and Gambit went gallivanting or that Remy hadn't wandered off drunk to get pierced. "I won't let go of you, Betsy."

She stepped onto the ice platform, shaking violently as she clutched his hand with greater strength. He looked at her, aware suddenly of how vulnerable she was. "Are you cold? Maybe we should get you some clothes."

She shook her heard, her dark purple hair cascading like an ethereal waterfall down her black body. "I do not... feel touch. It is numb." She paused, as if struggling for words she had forgotten. "Help him. I am okay."

Bobby nodded, turning quickly away. He was going to fall apart, he knew he was. Damn Remy for not being able to control his alcoholic tendencies! Damn the world for not being able to handle its problem on its own! Damn life for never giving any of them a fair break!

"Help him," Betsy urged, gesturing him to leave with a move of her head. Bobby extended the slide before them, and he realised it meant everything now. It was the path to salvation, the path to help, the path to life. In a sense, it meant all of that and more.

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