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Chapter Text

Lamb to the Slaughter

The women put the crown of fragrant flowers on Doug’s head, giggling and whispering among themselves. He tried to make out what they were saying, but he could only catch fragments. Bei the Blood Moon. Commander. Leveled a mountain, and she…. Won't even need to draw Seducer… Break this boy….

He clenched his hands in his lap, soft and pink and useless. They had never used a sword that wasn't Warlock, never thrust it into an opponent's heart or opened up their guts. His stomach twisted hard at the thought, and he laughed sourly at himself. Like he would have the chance. He had just seen Betsy’s sword break and her shatter with it. This Bei the Blood Moon was going to kill him. These were the last moments of his life. The laughing women, the smell of flowers, the silent terror and shame.

As the attendants rubbed scented oil into his skin, he thought of an old verse from his protestant childhood:

He was led like a lamb to the slaughter,
and as a sheep before its shearers is silent,
So he did not open his mouth.

Now, watching Bei die, he knows he was never meant to be the lamb. He was always becoming this: Revelation, the living fiat speaking light into the world. Let there be more mutants. Let there be a homeland for them.

Doug wants to pick her up, to gather her broken body into his arms like crushed flowers after the wedding feast. He wants to read the ancient Arakki funeral texts and remember her with the honors she deserves. He wants to cry. Bei, the warrior. Bei, the temptress. His wife.

Revelation leaves her where she died, body pinned to the tree by his Seraphim’s blade, bloodied head bent beneath the weight of her helmet. She is only valuable to him as a message now. The X-Men will find her and they will understand his resolve.

The leaves fall on her and make a crown anyway.

Chapter Text

"Run Simulation Sarah. Authorization REL350,” Gambit says to the empty danger room, the unoccupied control booth above it.

And then he's back in hell. Barely able to see in the reeking dark, shin deep in filthy water, surrounded by the monsters that he’s brought to this place. He lights up a card, tensing because he already knows what it will show him. Its pink glow illuminates the boy’s body floating a few feet away from him. Sabretooth stands above him and licks his blood off his claws. Creed says something, but Remy can't hear the words over the rushing of blood in his ears. It never gets easier, and that is why he does it.

As he has done so many times before - in this simulation, in his nightmares - he throws the card at the rest of the Marauders, and waits for Sabretooth to close the distance between them. He will not try to run or fight. He deserves this.

Sabretooth grabs him by the lapels of his coat and hoists him into the air. His breath is hot on Remy’s face, stinking of new blood and rotten meat.

“All you had to do was walk away, LeBeau. Was that so hard? To walk away?” he bares his teeth in a grin, “Gonna be hard the next time you try it.”

Gambit takes a breath, knowing what has to come next Sabretooth draws back his hand, pauses long enough for dread to open its maw within him, and then slashes.

Pain rips through him. Brilliant white mindlessness that ends all thought, all guilt. He curls around Sabretooth's hand, pressing his head into his hard bicep, breaths coming in shallow pants.

“No cuddlin’, LeBeau.”

Creed drops him and the pain begins again. It pulses through him, beats in his ears. He lets it take him. The warm water around him is almost amniotic.

“End program,” he grits out, once the agony begins to dissipate.

The sewers vanish, leaving him lying on the cold metal of the Danger Room floor. He rolls onto his back and runs a cautious hand over his belly. He feels unbroken armor, smooth and dry.

He looks up at the control room. It is still empty and dark. He should be relieved; his secret is safe. So, why he does he keep hoping the others will find him doing this one day, will find him out?