Release, Part Seven

by Tangerine

The mind of an Angel was a cold place, icy and dead. Warren couldn't remember a time when it hadn't been like that. He was sure there were moments of happiness that escaped his memory, but he could never recall them. He couldn't have possibly been born like this. God could not have been that cruel.

"Kathryn, I can see the head," the doctor said, peering above the hospital blankets. "One last push should clear it. On three, Kathryn, one, two, three, push!"

"Oh, God!" She cried as she finally delivered her baby. The pregnancy had been hard and long, the baby two weeks over due. She was just glad it was over, and she never had to have another child. An heir had been produced.

"You have a baby boy, Kathryn, congratulations." The red, messy baby was placed on her chest, crying loudly at the shock of being brought into the world. Kathryn smiled slightly, for the child appeared perfect nonetheless. Warren would be pleased she had given him a son. "Mr. Worthington, come in and see your boy."

A dark-haired gentleman walked calmly into the room, immediately tending to his exhausted wife. "I wonder if this little boy realises he's going to be heir to one of the most elaborate private fortunes in the world."

"Isn't he just perfect, darling? He's going to rule the world."

This was his birth, his parents showing joy over his existence. How long had that lasted? A month, maybe two? But soon they forgot about their son, the fruit of their loins, leaving him to be raised by nannies and servants. Warren had never been enough to keep them occupied with his life.

He turned away from the memory, unaware it had been inside his mind. He didn't care about his beginning, not when it was one big lie of false happiness. Every memory he had revolved around lies. He hated his mind; he hated being forced inside. It was deadening.

His mindscape shook like a San Francisco earthquake. Every hit cracked a memory, but they hung only wounded, never shattered. He was not as weak as a mirror. He would not break simply because someone said he should.

It was dark in his mind, so utterly cold and lifeless, Warren wondered if there was any light here at all. He could feel the blackness all around him, creeping upon his astral image. He would kill Apocalypse for this hell he had created, but then he should have killed him when he had the chance. Would that have erased all this blackness? Or was that task to be left to something else?

"Warren, it's beautiful," Candy murmured, admiring the necklace and pendant. "It's even inscribed. I don't know what to say. Thank you, Warren." Warren helped her put the necklace on, brushing her dark hair away from her smooth neck. "Those other people don't know what they're talking about."

Warren's face darkened slightly. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you haven't even tried to get me into bed, and this is our fourth date."

"They don't know anything about me," Warren muttered angrily, keeping his tone quite.

Candy smiled, brushing a stray hair away from his gorgeous face. She had never imagined finding romance with him, but here they were, together as a couple. She wasn't sure if she loved him yet, but there was something here, blossoming and growing like a flower. "No, they don't."

Warren pushed the memory away, burying his head in his lap. Why had she changed so much? Had death done something to her to make her so angry and cold? If he had been able to push aside his feelings sooner, he could have saved her, but he let the sadness and hate overtake him. He should have saved her.

Another shockwave hit and pieces of his mind continued to crack and break, pieces falling into the black abyss. Whatever had been lost had probably never been worth anything to begin with. He could survive with pieces of himself missing, for he always had before. He was a survivor. He had no choice but to live as a broken man.

He pulled one feathered wing to his body, leaving the left wing, the metal one, out stretched, far away from where it could do harm. His skin was a creamy blue, sickly and smooth looking, his facial features were sharp and jagged, and his piercing blue eyes stared into the void, the eyes that had survived and remained constant in his life in spite of everything else.

Astral images showed the true person within the shell, and Warren had found himself to be shattered and confused, an amalgamation of everything he had ever been, good and bad.

"Warren?" Jean asked, approaching him in the darkened room, reaching out to touch him, but his mighty wings unfurled, protecting him from the assault. "Warren, we'd like you to come to dinner tonight. The kids prepared the meal themselves."

"Go away," Warren growled in a husky voice, clutching his legs closer to his cold body. Try as might, he could find no warmth to soothe the hate in his soul. He could kill her now for this interruption. Just one wrong move...

Jean frowned, moving away from the shaking wings. "How long are you planning on staying up here, Warren? Forever? You can't continue to hide from the world. You have to learn to live again and forget Apocalypse."

"Go away," Warren tried again, his wings shaking, producing a soft, melodic hum. He closed his eyes and jean moved closer to him, moving to touch is face. He grabbed her hand, yanking it violently away. He should kill her now, kill her, kill, no, find control, control. "Don't touch me! Do not ever touch me!"

Jean jumped away, staring a him. "What did he do to you?"

Warren stared emotionlessly at her, burying the feeling down again, deep inside his soul. If he didn't feel, there would be no pain. "He destroyed me, Jean, he killed the man I was and left this monster in his wake. I am dead."

Another quake and that memory cracked, a tiny little break in the fragile glass. How much longer could he withstand this attack? A couple days? A few hours? Another minute? Would it kill him? Or do much worse and make him a slave again?

Time had slowed. Nothing was moving anymore, nothing was aging or dying or living. Everything had simply stopped.

Warren could feel Betsy around him like a veil, covering him like armour. He knew she felt him too, and occasionally their minds would touch, and he'd feel the spark of love pass between them. It kept him sane. It kept him fighting.

All he could do was wait, wait and hope he was strong enough to survive the battle. He knew he could do it because he had the will. Apocalypse would never control his life as he had. Warren would rather die than live in that hell again.

Nobody would ever truly understand what had been done to him. Betsy tried, she listened to his screams while he slept and to his irrational rants when he awoke from one of those soul- searing nightmares, but she'd never know what Apocalypse did to his soul. He could never tell her, or she'd be disgusted with him.

His body had lived through the torture, the wounds healing quickly after the fact, but his mind could never forget what he saw, what had been shown to him. He had seen death in its purest form, over and over again until he was Death. He was sure his soul had been forever hardened, but then light had come in the vessel of another.

"Warren," Betsy breathed sensually, breaking the kiss abruptly. She could feel his breath on her and the steady pump of his heart beneath her hands.

Warren looked at her, moving a stray strand of vibrant purple hair away from her face with a gentle hand. They were both uncomfortable on the couch, but her warm body above him, the soft movement of flesh every time she shifted, made him forget that discomfort. He only wanted to be near her. "Betsy."

Betsy kissed him again, sucking gently on his bottom lip as he ran his hand through her silky hair, tracing her spine down her back. Betsy broke away again, smiling softly as he pulled her closer, intertwining their warm bodies. Their lips met again, and Betsy moved slowly to a stand, taking his hand.

At the door to his room, Betsy smiled shyly with a light blush tickling her flesh. Warren opened his door, and they stepped in, staring at each other through the dim light. His room was plain and empty, but the bed was extravagant, with purple satin sheets and a king-sized mattress.

She slowly reached out to him, beginning to unbutton his shirt and reaching her hands against his bare flesh, massaging and touching it, moving like a snake across his chest to his back. Warren froze immediately, pushing her away as he stepped back. "Please, don't."

Betsy stopped abruptly, looking at him with gentle eyes. "Warren, what is it? Did I do something to hurt you?"

He stared at her tearfully, shaking when he shouldn't be, but nobody had ever seen him as he truly was in his most vulnerable form. And what if she touched his back and felt what was there? She'd think him ugly, a monster. He couldn't bare that, not from her.

"It isn't you," Warren finally whispered, holding the shirt close to his body. Betsy sat down on the bed, and he looked to where she had left a spot, for him. Could he tell her? Could he trust her? Could he love her? "It's me. I haven't... nobody has," Warren paused for breath, shaking his head, "seen me, what I am, seen the ugliness."

"What could possibly be ugly about you?" Betsy asked quietly, gently. "I have seen your soul, I have seen the beauty that is there. You think you're a horror? I have seen the blackest of souls in my life, and you do not come close. We all have scars, Warren, but they can't be hidden forever."

"My body is twisted."

"Your body is beautiful, like your mind, like your soul." Betsy closed her eyes, remembering when she had hated herself like he did, hated her new body because it wasn't the one she was comfortable with, because it was so strange and alien to her. "I have never seen a more beautiful man."

He didn't believe her, not yet, but he knew she spoke what she thought to be the truth. Did she see him in a way he couldn't view himself? "And I have never seen a more beautiful woman." Warren pulled the shirt off slowly with shaking hands. He would show her this, and hope she did not hate him for it. "I want to show you something."

"Okay," Betsy murmured as he took her hand in his and placed it on his back, below the shoulder blade. She gasped quietly as she saw the prominent ridge of scar tissue. "I never thought... I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"I haven't shown anybody them," Warren confessed, looking back at her. "They're the only reminder I have of what, of who I was. I hate them so much, but I can't bring myself to be rid of them. I would lose my past, and I would be lost."

Betsy's eyes glistened with tears as she gently touched a finger to the right scar. Warren flinched slightly, but made no move to stop her. If he was ever going to let her completely into his self, they needed this moment of pure trust.

And he knew they had it when she touched his lips gently to his mutilated flesh. It was the most sensual, most calming, most erotic, most loving gesture she could have made. That night, when they made love for the first time, there were no walls keeping them apart, no secrets, only trust and the beginnings of complete and total love of themselves and each other.

Warren's mindscape shook again, this being the biggest one yet, and the memory began to shatter. He would lose himself first before he let Betsy be taken from him.

He grabbed hold of the image, using every mental trick he had ever been taught to absorb the impact into him, to save his mind, to save himself, to save Betsy.

His mind continued to shake, and Warren knew the end had come, the final length of the battle in a war of many more. He began to weave tight shields, his mind screaming at the pain he was inflicting upon himself, but he continued with it, forcing the alien conscience out of his mind.

If Apocalypse wanted him, he would have to come for Warren himself because Warren would never let him win here. He was too strong for that. He had too much at stake for that. His mind was his and his alone, and Apocalypse would rue the day he ever tried to destroy Warren Worthington the Third.

[next part]

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