Crimson Hope
Author: Logan'sSheWolf
E-Mail Address:
Rating: G
Summary: Warren finds the love of his life. For real this time.
Continuity: Current (Post-X-Treme X-Men)
Distribution: How sweet, you want this? I'm honored! Now tell me where it's going!
Disclaimer: I own no one and nothing portrayed herein. No, not even Warren, sod it!
NOTE: When words or dialogue are formatted in ::this:: manner, they are in effect "translated" for the reader from the Chinese.
Warren thought nothing of opening the fortune cookie placed before him along with his check. You will soon know the love of your life, it read. Which, of course he took as no surprise. He glanced up to look across the table into Paige's eyes. "Love of your life"? Obviously. He smiled at her, and she smiled back sweetly.
A wizened old man came to take their check—Odd considering he had not waited on the pair that evening, but there was nothing particularly unusual about the occurrence. That is, until the man took one extra step closer to Warren than was strictly necessary and whispered "You wish to see her again." It was a statement, not a question.
Warren tilted his head across to Paige in what he assumed to be silent comprehension. The strange elder shook his head.
"No. That message was meant for you. Come back tomorrow night. Alone. We will speak further on the matter then." He spoke up then so that both could hear, "Thank you, and have a good evening. May we see you both here again." He bowed slightly once and was gone. Paige gave no indication she'd heard the strange conversation from moments before.
Odd as the request—demand?—was, Warren felt strangely compelled to obey.
Not to mention the fact that he dreamed of her that night for the first time in ages—Elizabeth…All laughing eyes and violet hair that flowed like water. He couldn't really remember the last time he'd thought about her that intensely. Which was odd, considering he was in a perfectly fulfilling relationship at the moment (wasn't he?) and should therefore have felt no need to dredge up the past. Besides, it was "over" between them when she—(wasn't it?)
All these thoughts still troubled him throughout the day and so at eight-o'-clock sharp the next night, he stood in the doorway of the new restaurant, the trendiest in New York City, known as Crimson Hope. That same wizened man greeted him, saying, "You only need follow me. I have a place in the back room set up for you."
Warren just raised an eyebrow, for though he found the man's behavior altogether eccentric, it was for all intents and purposes harmless.
"I have made you a pot of tea. Join me? We have much to discuss."
"If you don't mind my asking, ::grandfather::, what is it of which you speak?"
He smiled cryptically.
"Do you still have the message?"
Warren wordlessly pulled the tiny slip of paper from the pocket of his coat.
"Good. Wonderful—This will make your task significantly easier."
"Task, ::grandfather::?"
"Indeed. These are no idle words, ::my boy::, they are prophecy. Meant only for you. Give me a short time and you shall see what I mean."
The two had by this point arrived in the back room and both took seats across a small table. Set up on it were a teapot and two cups, and an odd, small bronze tripod.
"May I have the slip of paper, young man?"
Warren handed it over. The older man placed it reverently into the tripod, chanting something low that may have been a prayer and making a few subtle hand gestures as if weaving a spell.
The old man sat and looked across the table at Warren, suddenly sharp-eyed far beyond the natural bounds of his apparent years. Indeed, the elder's gaze was sharp as flint, and calculating.
"Do you wish to see her again?"
The question did not refer to Paige. With that one simple query, Warren just got the disconcerting sensation that the man knew. Everything. Everything about Elizabeth and her role in his life, his role in hers, how much she meant to him. His thoughts were a tumble. Fragments of thoughts, memories, dreams, visions slid around like colored crystals in a child's kaleidoscope. He put his head in his hands, murmured "Yes. Dear God help me, yes."
The old man just smiled knowingly.
"Somehow I thought that would be your answer, dear boy. You will have to subject yourself to a sacrifice—And remember, it could be anything…"
"I'd be a poor man tomorrow if it meant—"
Still that little smile that would not wipe away. A nod.
"I know that. But that is not what The Dawn is asking of you."
He gasped. His eyes went wide. Suddenly it all made sense—This man was an agent of The Crimson Dawn! Then Warren just shook his head slightly with the realization. Oddly enough, nothing really surprised him anymore. He listened as the old man continued.
"No, not money, for what would such as Force as The Dawn do with such a paltry gift as mortal funds—No, no—It is asking you for your life!"
Warren laid his hands palm-up on the table.
"And may The Dawn take it if it saves her own! That I would even give. She knew I would have—Almost did!"
"I realize. A moment, if you please."
The old man just simply closed his eyes for a moment as if in communication with a conscious entity unseen.
He opened his eyes again, looked across at Warren.
"That is…acceptable. Give me your hand."
With those words, then man drew out a jade-handled dagger with a blade made of some sharp, eggshell-colored stone that looked older than Time.
Without even a wince, Warren prepared for the grievous injury he'd expected to come. Instead, the man just drew the dagger across Warren's palm, tilting the bloodied hand over the tripod. As soon as three drops fell over the slip of paper, smoke arose from the bowl of the thing, and said bowl appeared to fill with some clear liquid through which shone light of a red that was almost magenta. A few feet beyond the table there began to open what appeared to be a "crack" in reality, a gold-colored slit that spoke of jumping dimensions. Gold light that began to turn red shone out from there, too, and one blue-booted foot slipped through the opening. The rest of a lithe female body followed, and Betsy just looked over at Warren and smiled beatifically.
"I knew you'd come…" she intoned softly, laying her right hand aside his face.
(The old man knew it was past time to take his leave, and so he slipped away, unnoticed.)
Warren just looked incredulous.
"You—sent the message? The fortune cookie—?" he clarified.
Her smile softened as she answered.
"Indeed. The Dawn knew I desired to return to you, and so once my service to It was over, It gave me a way back—Through you. Through your love and your sacrifice. Thank you," she told him fervently.
"'Service'?"
"Yes. I was Its herald—I delivered messages to mystics and dreamers and others, often those who would sacrifice for love. All in all not a bad job, really. Fairly cushy afterlife, as they go…" she mused for a moment.
"At any rate, however do we intend to explain…this?"
She gestured to herself, slightly bewildered.
Warren just smiled.
"And oh, God—Paige—!"
He laid a hand across her own comfortingly.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it—Though I doubt very seriously you'll need to explain anything at all…If you're a member of our crowd, death is just a state of mind. Beyond that, Paige and I—We—we've been…growing apart lately…I've been wondering, in fact, whether we really have anything to offer each other at all. She should be with someone her own age, for one thing. In fact, that dinner last night was a sort of an attempt at reconnecting to one another that just simply didn't take. But enough about that." He broke off sharply. "Tonight is tonight, and we'll figure out what is it we're going to figure out in the morning. Meanwhile," he smiled faintly, "there is a lovely pot of oolong tea, still warm—And there may even be a fortune cookie or two!" he added with a chuckle.
With this last, Warren slung an affectionate arm across her shoulders, even daring to kiss her once, chastely, and the two took a seat at an intimate booth deciding that, yes, this was a fine time to start figuring out how to make a life together…for real, this time…
Finis