CHAPTER TEN -- "THE DYING CANDLE-FLAME"
Cyclops stood between Eric and Presto, watching with muted disappointment as Diana--whose energetic drive had, at times, been all that had kept the group's spirits up--dropped to her knees and lowered her face before the mighty wrath of the Quintessence. The leader of the X-Men could not deny feeling just a little disgusted, even cheated, by her active defeatism; hadn't *she* been the one to claim, not so long ago, that loosening up, keeping strong, and staying calm were far more important than sustaining a cool head in these deadly situations? Where was her light-hearted humour now that they really needed it?
He closed his eyes, reminding himself to remain focused on the task at hand, the selfsame task that appeared genuinely impossible to complete. Indeed, even the wise DungeonMaster seemed to have surrendered himself to the inevitable; his ancient features, once forged so perfectly with emotive power, now remained little more than shrivelled reminders of the Hell that they were all about to face. Scott growled and shook his head, telling himself that this *would* not be their fate. He did not know how, but he knew that the Quintessence would be destroyed. Good must always triumph over Evil; he had been taught that his entire life, and he was not about to sacrifice his beliefs simply because the hypocritical Acrobat--the one that Scott had unabashedly placed his full and unquestioning trust in--had decided to throw *hers* into the selfsame flames that consumed her shattered friend.
Why did he care? He and his companions were no more parts of the Realm than were Hank and the others; yet for some strange and incomprehensible reason, he cared about its destiny. He and the X-Men had been brought to the Realm to put an end to the evil that now threatened to engulf the entire alien world, and their failure, this total breakdown of everything that they had been brought here to achieve, would haunt Scott for all of eternity, even if he was fortunate to survive this deadly trial.
Hank was burning. Cyclops did not know the boy, had spent little time in his presence before the group had split apart, and therefore knew little of his personality; consequently, it should have been extremely difficult to summon sympathy for the unfortunate Ranger, sympathy that rightly belonged with his long-time companion, Rogue, and should have remained focused solely on her dying screams. However, this was not the case. His mind, awash with turmoil as it was, could not shake the memory of that first brief meeting with the Young Ones, and the searing intensity of Hank's deep blue eyes, the same intensity that had died beyond all rejuvenation during the ordeal that now remained forgotten in the mind of the evil one who stood once more before them.
Scott truly regretted the boy's painful situation, and wished with all of his heart that he would survive, praying as much for his own solace as for the boy's mourning friends. And as his eyes wandered to the unmoving form of his fallen teammate, he discovered with wrenching despair that his agony upon witnessing her suffering was in fact *less* than that he felt for Hank. The reason for this, Cyclops knew, was simple, but it did little to quell his pained discomfort. Rogue had known the dangers of fighting for the right thing, but Hank had not.
Shaking his head sadly, Cyclops looked around at the others. They all seemed as remorseful as he was, and, in the cases of Wolverine and Bobby, were actively willing to display these sensations in violent form. Had they not been held back--the former by Presto and Scott himself, and the latter by Jubilee and his sister--they would have simultaneously charged towards the immortal Quintessence in yet another futile attempt to take him down. Cyclops clenched his fists, fighting the urge to scream at the top of his lungs "It won't work!" He closed his eyes. Nothing would work. After everything they had been through, DungeonMaster was right. All was lost.
"Let me go!" shouted Bobby, tears once again streaming down his face as he struggled ineffectually against Sheila and Jubilee. "He's got Hank! Let me take one shot at him! Please! I gotta save Hank!"
The Quintessence smiled and turned towards him; as his eyes moved away from the static Ranger, the flames surrounding him faded slightly, and his rigid body began to crumple. "Indeed. Allow the child to attempt the impossible. It amuses me to watch your futile efforts." He raised his hand once again, and Sheila and Jubilee flew backwards, hitting the ground hard a few metres away from the snarling Barbarian. "Come then, little one. Here is your chance. Attack me. Though I warn you, I am beginning to tire of this futility. Offer me a challenge, or prepare yourself for a painfully slow and torturous death."
Cyclops clenched a fist, readying himself to fire an energy blast between the boy and the Quintessence if the need arose. Sheila, from her sudden distance, was shaking as she extended a hand towards her furious brother, struggling to climb to her feet even as she reeled from the Quintessence's unseen attack. "No, Bobby!" she cried. "There's nothing you can do! Don't even try it!" She lowered her eyes, sobbing softly as he raised his club high, preparing an attack in spite of her warnings. "Bobby..." She never finished the sentence, falling to her knees in complete and inconsolable distress. Cyclops cursed under his breath; their numbers were diminishing rapidly--Hank and Rogue were down, Diana teetered on the brink of surrender, Sheila was beginning to break down at the sight of her wild-eyed brother preparing himself to be the creature's next helpless victim, and Gambit remained unresponsive to any calls, standing transfixed in the centre of the room and staring at Rogue's spasmodically jerking form. It was becoming more and more apparent with every passing moment that their struggle would end in defeat, and, as he gazed around at the chaos surrounding him, Cyclops, for the first time since being summoned to the Realm, began to wonder *why* he was allowing himself to sustain this futile and obviously misplaced hope that things would work themselves out.
"Bobby. Cease this."
Blinking in surprise, Scott looked down at the hunched figure of DungeonMaster as he approached the boy, who remained poised for his attack, though it seemed he was finding himself unable to bring his club down to the ground. The ancient being was smiling sadly as he reached out his hand for the weapon. "You cannot defeat him this way," he said softly.
"Are you nuts?" asked Bobby, gradually lowering his arms. "You're saying we should just let him get away with what he did to Tiamat and Rogue and--" he broke off, whimpering slightly under the force of the grief that he was suddenly forced to experience as he considered all that the Quintessence had done in the short time since they had discovered the true depth of his power. "And Hank?"
"No, my child," the old man said gently. "But this is not the answer. Your attack may well destroy the entire castle, yet *he* would remain unharmed. Self-sacrifice, though indeed a noble gesture, is not one that should be offered lightly. To surrender yourself to his malevolence would do nothing for your cause, and would certainly do nothing to protect the Realm from this hideous creature. For your own sake, Barbarian, stand down." His eyes blazed fiercely as he took the boy's hands in his own, watching with tangible pride as the club in Bobby's hands fell uselessly to the floor. "Your friends cannot be saved through further acts of destruction."
Growling with a hatred that Cyclops had never before witnessed in one so young, Bobby fell to his knees, adopting a similar prayer-like stance to that which Diana remained unable to break away from. "We can't just not do *anything*..." he whispered, making no effort to fight back as Jubilee and Sheila rushed to embrace him. "We've gotta do something! Hank's still alive, and so is Rogue, maybe... But if you don't let us take him out now, they're gonna--" He began to cry.
"Bobby," said Jubilee, and Cyclops applauded her courage and dedication to helping the frightened young boy. "It's gonna be all right. We'll take him out, and get Rogue and Hank back. I promise. It's gonna be okay."
The DungeonMaster nodded. "Indeed." It was clear, though, even from Scott's respectful distance, that he, the one beyond such mortal weaknesses as lies, was not speaking the truth. "I shall address him. He obeyed and respected me once in his life. Perhaps he shall listen again." He squeezed the bowing Barbarian's shoulder, and stepped towards the Quintessence. "Well, my son? Shall you listen?"
For a moment--a single fragmentary sliver of time, during which Cyclops felt his once unshakable hope beginning to burn once again--it appeared as if the evil creature was about to agree. However, not even a full second later, he laughed coldly and shook his head. "No, thou weak fool. I am beyond the comprehension of your so-called wisdom. Tremble before my power or be extinguished like the dying candle-flame that you are." He raised his fist, taking a thundering step forwards with obvious intent gleaming in his impenetrable black eyes.
"Stay back!" shouted Cyclops, instinctively releasing a blast of energy towards the smiling creature. He swore as it passed through his glowing body, though he really should have expected such a predictable result. Suddenly, and with no conceivable transition in emotions, he found himself feeling a desperate urge to run, to flee, to escape this nightmare. He took a single step backwards, and then another, sensing rather than seeing Presto and Eric moving to join him in his retreat. "I mean it! You've done enough damage already. Leave the DungeonMaster alone. If you want to destroy us--" he paused, swallowing "--just do it! We've had enough of this childish game, and we're not going to amuse you any more. Kill us now, or leave us alone."
The Quintessence glanced at him for the briefest of moments, and Cyclops did not even realise that the villainous creature had raised that fate-altering hand until he found himself lying flat on his back, screaming in agony. Dimly, he was aware of Diana, Storm, and Wolverine standing over him and speaking alien reassurances, and, as their voices became clearer, he forced himself to rise once more to his feet. "Is that the best you've got?" he shouted, managing through some miracle to keep his voice steady, even as the pain shredded his insides. "Come on! Take us out already! Or are you too much of a coward to do what you set out to do?" He knew, even as the agony engulfed him completely, that what he was saying, the defeatism and uncontrolled outrage that he was displaying, went completely against everything that he had been brought up with, everything that he had come to believe in, everything that had ever meant *anything* to him... and he didn't particularly care.
"Be silent, fool," retorted the Quintessence. "Your time shall come when *I* wish it, and no sooner." He turned back to the DungeonMaster, and all of a sudden, the flames engulfing Hank's body, and the lightning that enveloped Rogue's dissolved, leaving their victims critically injured, but, for the time being, alive. As the breathtaking relief of this realisation struck him, Scott realised that the stabbing pain that had coursed through his body scant moments ago, was also gone. He shivered, knowing that if Rogue and Hank had been subjected to even half that degree of pain, the assurance of their survival was extremely limited.
"Venger," whispered DungeonMaster.
The Quintessence shook his head. "I am not Venger, feeble one. Venger no longer exists, nor will he ever exist again. I am as you see me, the pure and incomparable manifestation of all that is evil. The one named Venger was weak, bound by the ethereal prison of his own limitations, his own destructive code of ethics. I am strong, and I shall be victorious, even against one as pure as you. Know this: thine reign over this mortal Realm is about to end, marking the beginning of an eternal kingdom built under my watchful gaze. The kingdom shall be my reality, and it shall endure for all time, basking in the glory of unadulterated evil. Understand this now, failed master, and prepare yourself. Your destruction, the destruction of all that is Good in this decaying Realm, shall be the final, glorious, turning point in my rise to complete sovereignty over a world that I alone shall create and rule." He licked his lips hungrily. "Die, old man."
"No."
The word was spoken softly, but with strength enough to steal Scott's breath. He sat up on the frozen floor, gazing in disbelief at the electric power that flickered between the two polar forces. The Quintessence of Evil, the bitter personification of all that made Death worthwhile. The DungeonMaster, simply the manifestation of Pure Good. It was so simple it hurt. Cyclops felt a thick pounding in his brain as his eyes moved from one supreme creature to the other. The Quintessence was enormous, dark and dangerous, crackling with unbridled power, whereas DungeonMaster was small and submissive, quiet and gentle. It was clear that the fight--if indeed it came down to a physical confrontation--would have only one victor, and, as the thought reached his numb mind, Cyclops found himself trembling, the frigid cold penetrating his body and slashing into his very soul.
With a sadistic smile, the Quintessence raised both hands high above his head. Scott cried out in spite of himself, trembling as he recognised the creature's adoption of the same posture as he had used to knock out his team when they had first infiltrated the castle. Still, it seemed that the Quintessence had no intention of performing the same attack, as evidenced by his lack of focus on anything but the silent DungeonMaster, who stood so small and insignificant at his feet.
As he smiled, visibly preparing a special kind of attack--the likes of which Scott was certain he would never again witness...assuming that he was able to survive this one--the tiny old man sighed and took several more steps towards his foe. The two of them were separated by a distance of less than three feet now, and Cyclops closed his eyes, terrified by the though of what the Quintessence's attack would do to the weak DungeonMaster at such close proximity. He considered shouting out a warning, but knew there was no point. DungeonMaster *would* die, and along with him, so would the Realm... and the X-Men's chances of leaving it alive.
The Quintessence spread his fingers apart, aiming them directly downwards. As Cyclops and the others watched, suddenly finding themselves unable to move, breathe, or even think, dark streams of multi-coloured energy began drizzling down from each of the creature's talon-like fingertips, intertwining with each other and forming a sparkling--indeed, almost beautiful--rainbow of solid energy, which twisted and writhed in the air, curving downwards and towards its target, as if magnetically drawn to it. DungeonMaster merely stood there, in unspoken acceptance of all that would happen to him. Cyclops felt tears stinging his eyes as he watched the pained resignation on the old man's finely-chiselled features. WHY? Why had he seen it as necessary to give up? Why had this once all-knowing force of goodness simply decided to surrender himself and everything that he existed for?
Several moments before the gleaming band of colour reached him, then DungeonMaster raised his own hands, releasing from them a similar stream of energy, though this was pure dazzling white in colour. The two energy beams met exactly halfway between the two forces, and remained locked together, writhing and clawing at each other as they intertwined helplessly, remaining bound by the will of their masters. Cyclops watched, unconsciously aware of tears sliding down his face, as the two energy streams engaged in battle. This was no mere light show, he knew, but a life-or-death struggle to determine the fate of the Realm, and its countless inhabitants, as well as DungeonMaster's young pupils, and the X-Men.
Whichever force was weaker, whichever creature was unable to sustain his attack on the other, would be destroyed, and Cyclops did not doubt for one second which being would be victorious. The brightness of the light stung his sensitive eyes, and he looked away, turning to gaze at each of his companions in turn with a mixture of pride and respect.
Hank and Rogue remained motionless. Whether they were unconscious or dead, Scott did not know, but he did not have the ability to function well enough to move towards either of them and check. Either way, they were completely unaware of what was going on, and the tremendous stakes that were being played for; in some ways, Scott mused, perhaps they were better off than any of the others. Bobby, Jubilee, and Sheila were huddled together, unable to tear their eyes from the simultaneously magnificent and terrifying sight; Scott took a moment to silently praise them for their courage, as, judging by the unprofessional agony they had displayed so clearly throughout the earlier battle, it was obvious that none of them had the capacities to adequately cope with the Hell that they had been forced, so young, to witness. The strength shown by their heroic attempts to keep their eyes on the flailing energy streams, was undeniably impressive, and he reminded himself to congratulate each of them in turn... assuming that such a time came when this luxury was possible.
Gambit stood alone, separate from the others; his strangely coloured eyes were even darker than usual, reflecting his inner torment as he gazed not at the sparking battle, but at the unmoving Rogue. Cyclops sighed softly, shaking his head; under normal circumstances, he would have insisted that the Cajun pay attention to the immediate crisis, but, taking into consideration the fact that this would perhaps be their last few moments alive, he decided to humour Gambit's need to fix his gaze on his Chere. He knew that, had his own beloved Jean Grey been with them, he would not have torn his eyes from her either, and a deep wrenching pain coursed through him as he realised that he would now never be able to tell her just how deeply he cared for her, or, indeed, even bid her farewell.
Presto was gazing at the chaos with wide eyes, and as Scott watched him, he acknowledged the emotionless hesitation in the boy's eyes; ever since he had allowed himself to be influenced by Wolverine's crude advice, the young Magician had reached a point of consciously denying his feelings, a state that Cyclops found himself feeling extremely disdainful of, but entirely unable to muster strength enough to inform the Wizard of this. Eric, whimpering and cowering behind his shield as always, remained faithfully by the Magician's side, in spite of his own paralysing terror and the carelessness with which Presto had ignored him after his acceptance of Logan as his mentor and guru; the two of them stared with undisguised astonishment at the conflicting energy forces, and it was clear from the ashen innocence pasted across their faces that neither of them had any true concept of the vital significance of the battle that they watched with such fearful awe.
Wolverine and Storm remained standing, silent and stoic as they watched the pyroclastic battle. Cyclops felt a brief smile crossing his lips, as he watched with deep pride their quiet acceptance of whatever fate--whether righteous purity or violent malevolence--would endure after the end of this destiny-altering competition. Though he knew better than to expect any less of Logan and Ororo, he still found himself struck by the depth of pride that he felt surging through him as he observed their silent strength. Similarly, Diana was gazing at the display with an equal degree of acknowledgement; her eyes, like Scott's own, were filled with tears, but he could see from the determination on her face that she intended to face the future--or lack thereof--with a smile. As he grinned at her, watching as she climbed proudly to her feet, he suddenly felt the selfsame desire to meet Death strong and calm beginning to flow through his own veins.
Smiling at each of them in turn, Cyclops returned his attention to the sparking beams of energy. They were still wrapping around each other, and he was certain that he could hear them shrieking in pain at the pressure that was being placed upon them. A low buzzing sound filled the room, the sound of burning friction, and Scott covered his ears, thankful for the first time since the beginning of this bizarre adventure that Jean was not with them; certainly, considering the tangible tension that crackled through the entire room, her psychic powers would have caused her great distress, and, despite the deep regret he felt at knowing that he would not die by her side, he was relieved that she had been spared this unimaginable suffering.
The searing buzz became deeper, more urgent, painful. Cyclops grimaced, hearing Wolverine crying out in pain; at that moment, Scott certainly did not envy the hotheaded mutant's heightened sensitivity. The low drone was terrifying to behold, symbolising the literal end of the world, and as Scott listened, feeling the angry hum searing the length of his body, the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand on end. Whatever was going to happen, it was going to happen now.
And then, without warning, the sound stopped, leaving nothing but a dead, empty silence. The throbbing energy beams remained for several seconds, still engaged in their fruitless struggle for conquest, and Cyclops watched them through streaming eyes, suddenly finding great difficulty in determining which direction was up and which was down. Time froze, as it had in the instant that he and his fellow X-Men had been transported to this God-Forsaken Realm, and, for an incalculable minute, it seemed as if they would be trapped in that crucial moment for all eternity, forever doomed to gaze upon a fate-determining battle that would never end. But then, just as Cyclops began to fear for his sanity, time resumed once more, as if the fragile dimension had been simply trapped beneath the pressure of this deciding moment, and in that instant, as it finally broke free from the iron grip of its mutual captors, Cyclops glimpsed the future.
Before he had the chance to comprehend the visions as they engulfed him--was that the blood of countless deaths, or the rich ruby gleam of celebratory wine? A carrion vulture or a gentle dove? Were those tears upon his face brought about by joy or pain?--they had disappeared from sight, leaving him helplessly confused and infinitely more frightened. And then, just as he was beginning to wonder if the chaos would ever end, it did. He watched, unable to breathe or think or even register the impacts of what he was seeing until it was too late. The Quintessence's rainbow of energy had disappeared, as had DungeonMaster's pure white light. Scott blinked, wondering if this meant that the battle had been a stalemate, but even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew that this was not the case. He frowned, looking around at the others; his vision disjointed, abstract, sickeningly surreal.
Something was wrong. The room flickered before his eyes, as if he was gazing at it through a wall of fire. The icy chill was gone, and Cyclops suddenly realised that he was feeling nothing. Perhaps this was death. Perhaps this complete lack of sensation was how it felt to suddenly realise that you were dying...
But no... He was not in pain, and he had always been fairly certain that Death entailed some form of suffering; why else would Rogue and Hank have screamed so desperately beneath the Quintessence's villainous hands?
Even as he found himself wondering about these pointless questions, he knew. He *knew*. He gazed out at the distorted room before him, and watched with blunted disbelief as it began to crack and splinter before his eyes. Reality wavered, and then, with Scott Summers, the X-Men, and DungeonMaster's own Young Ones as the only witnesses, the Universe shattered into a thousand pieces.
*****
Sheila opened her eyes, wincing slightly against the bright light that glared at her from some unknown source. "Hank..." she heard herself murmuring, engulfed in an impenetrable shroud of delirium. "Tell Presto to quit playing with that stupid hat of his..."
"Chere...?" The voice was Gambit's; Sheila groaned as she recognised it, realising in that instant that the entire adventure had *not* merely been some horrendous nightmare. "Chere! Talk to me... Tell Gambit you're okay." Holding her head in response to the urgency in his voice, Sheila sat up, moving to inform the handsome Cajun that she was indeed all right, only to discover that he was, in fact, not speaking to her. He was hunched over Rogue's motionless body, and Sheila--in her state of exhausted bewilderment--was unable to completely silence the painful jealousy that welled up inside her, as Gambit continued in a hushed, frightened voice. "Chere?"
Staggering unsteadily to her feet, Sheila looked around. They were no longer inside the castle, but on the gently rustling grass plains where the X-Men had first shown up, rescuing Hank and Bobby from the insignificant threat of a giant armadillo. She shivered slightly, looking around for the others; with the exception of Rogue and Hank, they were all coming around or already conscious and climbing to their feet. "Bobby!" she heard herself shouting, acting on her maternal instincts even as she struggled to comprehend this new bizarre situation. "Bobby, where are you? Are you all right? Bobby!"
He was kneeling over Jubilee, helping the groaning mutant to her feet; upon hearing his sister's urgent cry, he turned, scowling at her with that characteristic youthfulness that made him so endearing. "I'm *fine*, Sis!" he cried indignantly, then turned back to Jubilee. "Are you okay?" He smiled as she leaned into him, and Sheila felt her racing heart beginning finally to slow a little. "It's all right now."
Jubilee grimaced and ran a hand across her temples. "Thanks, Bobby." She grinned and regained her equilibrium, standing a little shakily under her own power. "Hey, Cyke! Storm! You guys know what happened back there?"
Cyclops and Storm were glancing nervously at each other, both crouched beside Gambit, hunched over their unmoving companion. Storm sighed softly and stood, placing a reassuring hand on the grieving Cajun's shoulder, then moved to address Bobby and Jubilee. "We do not know," she said softly. "We are not even certain if the Quintessence was destroyed, or whether he defeated the DungeonMaster." She glanced back towards Cyclops and Gambit, both trying fruitlessly to bring Rogue out of her unconsciousness, then turned to gaze nostalgically towards where Diana was kneeling in a similar fashion beside Hank, who, though he was clearly still breathing, was covered in deep, painful-looking burns; as she sighed softly, Sheila noted that the direction of her speech seemed to change, and she focused stoically on Scott's crouching figure, attempting in her own gentle way to draw him back to the matter at hand. "Whichever of the two forces was victorious shall surely find us eventually--though to what ends, I do not know. Therefore, I suggest we remain here and wait, either for news of our victory or for our unavoidable destruction." She shook her head sadly, and Sheila trembled.
"That's it?" shouted Wolverine, extending his claws and gazing around with the wild-eyed rage that Sheila knew was as much a part of his character as those terrifying metallic weapons. "The jerk drags us millions of miles from our home ta this dump, and *then* just leaves us here ta figure out what the hell is going on? That's crazy..." He clenched his fists. "Jus' wait 'til I find him..."
Of all people to respond to this outrageous statement, Sheila would not have guessed that it would be Presto. "Don't be stupid!" he snapped, and the Thief was struck by the intensity in his voice, and the complete absence of his characteristic emotion. "If he's still alive, he'll come back! He's not like that. He wouldn't just leave us here to wonder what happened!" His eyes blazed as he gripped the mutant's raised fists and forced them back to his sides, against Wolverine's dangerous snarl. "You'll see! He's defeated Venger, and he's going to be here any second to tell us that we won! You'll see..." Sheila shook her head sadly at the childlike hope in his voice, even as his eyes remained blank and his face expressionless.
"Come on, Presto..." Eric said softly, moving to drape a comforting arm across the Magician's shoulder. "We all want to believe the little drip beat the big drip... but think about it for a second. It's not likely..."
"No..." The voice was weak, but it carried a power that forced Sheila and the others to sit up and take notice; it was not Presto who had spoken, she realised in a moment of incredulous recognition, but Hank. He was sitting up, leaning heavily against Diana, and breathing hard with pain and fatigue. "He's right, Eric. DungeonMaster *must* have won. If he didn't... we'd all be dead." He smiled faintly, and Sheila rushed to his side. "I'm all right," he said, grinning in response to her concerned gaze, "just a little sore. We've got to believe the best," he continued, pausing for the briefest of moments. "Because if we don't, then we've got nothing to look forward to, and we might as well just go out and shoot ourselves right now."
"That is not true."
Sheila blinked and looked around, searching for the source of the hushed words. Certainly, it had not been one of the Young Ones who had spoken; she knew their voices well enough to realise that the almost-inaudible whisper belonged to none of her long-time companions. But, as she glanced curiously at the X-Men, it became apparent from the puzzlement on their faces that they too were at a loss to explain who had spoken. As it happened, it was Presto who figured it out, and the joy that glowed in his expressive dark eyes was enough to make Sheila smile in spite of their hopeless situation.
"DungeonMaster..." he whispered. "*DUNGEONMASTER*!"
Frowning slightly, Sheila looked around. The voice, weak as it was, travelled clearly, and the young Thief found herself feeling rather uncomfortable to be hearing the voice of a man who was so fundamental in determining the fate of everything that ever mattered to anyone, but who could not be seen anywhere. She glanced at the others, praying that she would find them at an equal loss to explain the presence of DungeonMaster's voice without his body. Thinking back to all of his countless prior appearances, this simple alteration of physics should not have struck Sheila as particularly surprising; however, something inside of her insisted that this was something to be seriously concerned about, and she knew well enough from her time spent in the Realm, that her gut instinct was *not* something to be ignored.
"No, Magician," the voice murmured, and Sheila again felt her eyes searching for someone or something, *anything* that might be able to explain this juxtaposition of sound and non-vision. "I am not DungeonMaster, merely a manifestation of his thoughts. The DungeonMaster that you know may never again exist in your reality."
Hank staggered to his feet, and Sheila moved to steady him as he swayed dangerously. "What do you mean?" he demanded, choking in pain at the exertion caused by merely opening his mouth and speaking. "If you're not DungeonMaster, where is he? What happened back there? Where's Venger?"
"Calm yourself, Ranger," the voice continued, speaking with a depth of exhaustion that Sheila had thought could not exist in one so boundless, so uninfluenced by the limitations of time and age. "I shall explain." It paused, taking a deep ragged breath. "My pupils. My friends, the X-Men. Our purpose was to destroy the evil that threatened to destroy the Realm, and in that, we have failed. I am sorry. The creature once known as the Quintessence remains. He resides here, in a plane of reality so far removed from your own that you shall remain forever beyond his reach. I too exist solely within this abstract sub-reality, as I must if I wish to keep his sinister tendrils from extending once more into the Realm. For as long as we are here, he cannot harm the Realm." He paused again, and Sheila winced.
Wolverine was growling. "Talk English, willya!" he snarled, stepping forwards and searching for any sign of life, with the obvious intent of tearing it to shreds if he found it. "What the hell are you talkin' about? Why can't you just tell us straight: who won the damned fight, you or the evil jerk?"
"Please," begged the voice, and Sheila felt her heart clenching at the pain that was suddenly audible in its strained whispers. "I am trying to explain. Be patient, this is not simple. The 'fight', as you called it, remains a stale-mate. The power of my good force was able to cancel out his evil, and so neither was able to surpass the other. The strain of good upon evil and evil upon good was sufficient to split open the fabric of reality itself, beyond either of our control, and so we came to exist here. It is not what I expected, nor is it what I wanted... but for as long as the Realm is safe, I am content. I must remain here, trapped within this alternate existence alongside the Quintessence so as to prevent him from escaping and returning to my beloved Realm. It is a small price, and one that I am willing to pay for all that I hold close to my ageing heart."
Sheila winced at that; in all the time she had known DungeonMaster, he had never spoken of himself as 'old'. Even during the most extreme of no-win situations, he had sustained-beyond the limited capacities of Hank, Diana, and even Bobby-a sense of youthful courage far beyond the Young Ones' comprehension. His obvious ancient heritage had been fairly obvious, even to one as naive as Sheila, yet he had never once appeared *old*. Until now. And it hurt to hear the age and fatigue within his faltering voice, to realise that this immortal, undefeated, *true* hero, could be so reduced to nothing more than an old, spent memory.
Jubilee was laughing; Sheila stared at her in disbelief, entirely unable to comprehend her lack of response to this devastating moment of realisation. "You're kidding, right?" the young mutant cried, then appealed to Cyclops and Wolverine. "He's kidding, right? Come on, guys, just listen to this garbage! Sub-reality? Alternate existence? Gimme a break! It sounds like something out of a lousy science-fiction movie!" She rolled her eyes and winked at Bobby.
Cyclops shook his head slightly, and, had his eyes not been covered, Sheila would have been certain that the disdain would have been visible within them. "Jubilee... After everything *we* have experienced together, don't you think that this is at least feasible?" With a gentle chuckle, he raised his head to the sky, as if addressing the heavens themselves. "So... uhh, if you don't mind me asking, what do we do now? I mean, we've done what we were brought here to do--not the way we planned, admitted, but we did it nonetheless. Can you send us home now? Or are we going to be stuck here until you find a way to get out of that alternative plane of existence you're in?" He glanced around at his teammates, visibly uneasy.
"Yeah!" cried Eric, smirking a little as he sat on the grass, looking with a surprising degree of sadness at the unmoving Rogue, and consciously avoiding the fruitless search for any physical manifestation of the wise old man that the others engaged so hopefully in. "You've made *us* stay here for all this time, let it be someone else's turn for a change!"
Hank rolled his eyes at the Cavalier's characteristic selfishness, and Wolverine moved to threaten him once again with his claws; Sheila noted with a faint smile that the Cavalier's anxiety over the danger of the mutant's adamantium weapons had not diminished. "Shut it, Wise-Guy!" the mutant growled angrily. "I'm sick of this damned world!" He whirled around, attempting to speak to DungeonMaster. "Ya hear me, old man? We did what ya brought us here for! Send us home already!"
"Yes," replied the voice. "As you wish, it shall be done. Prepare yourself, as the transportation will be instantaneous. It will take a few moments to summon the strength necessary to do what must be done from this reality, so be patient while I attempt it." Silence ensued for several seconds, during which time, Sheila was aware of several conflicting emotions emanating from her companions: relief and slight regret from the X-Men, and outrage and pained disappointment from Eric and the other Young Ones.
She could not deny that she understood their unhappiness. Why should the X-Men be allowed to return home upon request? After all that she and her friends had been victims of during their time in the Realm, surely they too deserved to be sent home. Still, even as she thought about it, she knew the reasons why it was an impossible prayer. Though DungeonMaster had taken the six Young Ones under his wing, guiding them and directing them throughout the duration of their stay in his world, he had not been the one to summon them, or so Sheila had been led to believe. The X-Men had been brought into the Realm directly by DungeonMaster himself, and consequently, could be returned by him. As deeply as it hurt to realise this, she knew that, while their new friends would return to their bizarre, fictitious world, she and her comrades would remain in the Realm, alone and helpless without even DungeonMaster to guide them. The true hardship, it seemed, was only just about to begin.
"It's been great working with you," Cyclops was saying softly, moving to shake hands with Diana, and smile with unchecked pride at Hank. "I can't say I envy the situation you guys are in, but you seem to be handling it with incredible maturity." He nodded respectfully, ever the diplomat. "I can honestly say that it's been a real honour fighting alongside you. All of you."
As the X-Men and the Young Ones moved to say their final farewells, Sheila noted with quiet curiosity the specificity with which the goodbyes were directed. Bobby and Jubilee, overcome with emotion, were embracing. Storm was wishing Hank a polite and respectful farewell. Wolverine was taking a moment to offer Presto one last word of advice before his departure. Diana was mock-punching Cyclops' arm with a playful grin, saying something about staying loose. Eric was crouched beside Rogue, thanking her in an unusually compassionate voice for protecting him from the Big Bad Wolverine; it seemed not to matter to the uncharacteristically subdued Cavalier that the object of his gratitude was completely unconscious.
Blushing deeply with uncomfortable nervousness, Sheila took a deep breath and approached Gambit. The gentle Cajun stood stiffly beside Rogue, watching with silent suspicion as Eric mumbled at her unmoving form; his eyes were deep with concern for his fallen comrade, and Sheila did not need Bobby's vast comic-book knowledge to understand that there was something very deep shared between the two mutants. With something of a wistful sigh, she placed her hand on his shoulder, smiling with false cheer. "I guess this is goodbye," she said softly. "Uhh, it was really great getting to know you...and, uhh--" she coughed a little anxiously. "I'm sorry about your friend. Hope everything turns out okay for you guys." She took a deep breath, then, acting completely against her common sense and better judgement, she hugged him tightly. "Thanks for everything."
He chuckled lightly, pulling away from her embrace and trailing his fingers gently through her hair. "For one as lovely as you, Chere, it was Gambit's pleasure." He offered her a charming smile, glanced back at Rogue with obvious discomfort, then turned back to the Thief with renewed sorrow in his mysterious red-on-black eyes. "Don't you go forgettin' old Gambit, ya hear me, Chere? Gambit promise we come visitin' some time real soon." They both laughed, knowing that it was an empty promise, designed to make them feel better about saying farewell. "This not Goodbye, Chere. It be Au Revoir."
Sheila lowered her face and stepped back, not wanting the strong Cajun to see the tears in her eyes. She moved, almost on instinct, to her brother's side, watching his final exchange with Jubilee. "Uhh, I think you should have this," he said, holding out his hat to the young mutant. "I mean... I know no-one really *won*, but you were the closest." He grinned bravely and reached out to gently place it on her head. "Aww, it looks better on you anyway..." he said, winking.
Jubilee laughed a little bitterly. "Thanks, Barbarian," she said, then her dark eyes became shadowed. "I'm gonna miss ya." She hugged him hard. "You're one awesome little kid!" In response to his indignant snort, she simply grinned; Sheila felt another twinge knotting around her stomach at the sight. Perhaps her separation from the flirtatious Cajun was not the most serious of the group's concerns, though undoubtedly, it was the most significant in her own biased mind. A dark cloud of melancholy began to form around her, and she shivered slightly, watching sadly as Jubilee returned Bobby's wink and shrugged out of her jacket. "Here ya go. Just so you don't forget about me."
"X-Men..." whispered DungeonMaster's voice, and Sheila was once again struck by how devastatingly weak it sounded. "Are you ready? Be warned, those in your world will have no knowledge of your disappearance."
Cyclops grinned warmly at Diana, bowed respectfully to Hank, then glanced back at his comrades. After a few moments, he nodded, obviously a little nostalgic, and turned his face upwards. "Yes, Sir," he murmured. "Please, send us home." He stepped back, gesturing for his fellow X-Men to do the same, and waited in silent anticipation for the moment where the trials and tribulations of their brief stay in the Realm would become nothing more than a distant nightmare.
Sheila lowered her face unable to watch; they had only known the X-Men for a very short time, yet it seemed like so much longer. And their separation, as expected and understandable as it was, struck her--and, she knew all of the others as well--as decidedly painful, even more so than the all-too-real possibility of never again seeing the wise DungeonMaster. Contrary to the desperate nature of their transport to the Realm, Sheila knew that the X-Men had not simply been unfortunate victims of this world's cruel fate. They had been heroes, brought here to preserve all of importance to the Realm, and, Sheila realised with a degree of shock, to the Young Ones as well, though there was no way of knowing when she and her friends had come to care about what happened to the alien world. And more still, she realised, gazing hard at the floor, they had been partners, companions, equals, and most of all, friends.
And she would miss them all.
Taking a deep tremulous breath, she raised her head, wanting one last chance to say goodbye to the fictional characters that had, at some incomprehensible point during their adventure, become so much more real than anything Sheila had experienced since being transported to the Realm. But as she did so, gazing with deep regret at the point where Gambit had been standing less than a moment ago, she realised with a pain that tore at her heart, that he was gone.
*****
Cyclops stood between Eric and Presto, watching with muted disappointment as Diana--whose energetic drive had, at times, been all that had kept the group's spirits up--dropped to her knees and lowered her face before the mighty wrath of the Quintessence. The leader of the X-Men could not deny feeling just a little disgusted, even cheated, by her active defeatism; hadn't *she* been the one to claim, not so long ago, that loosening up, keeping strong, and staying calm were far more important than sustaining a cool head in these deadly situations? Where was her light-hearted humour now that they really needed it?
He closed his eyes, reminding himself to remain focused on the task at hand, the selfsame task that appeared genuinely impossible to complete. Indeed, even the wise DungeonMaster seemed to have surrendered himself to the inevitable; his ancient features, once forged so perfectly with emotive power, now remained little more than shrivelled reminders of the Hell that they were all about to face. Scott growled and shook his head, telling himself that this *would* not be their fate. He did not know how, but he knew that the Quintessence would be destroyed. Good must always triumph over Evil; he had been taught that his entire life, and he was not about to sacrifice his beliefs simply because the hypocritical Acrobat--the one that Scott had unabashedly placed his full and unquestioning trust in--had decided to throw *hers* into the selfsame flames that consumed her shattered friend.
Why did he care? He and his companions were no more parts of the Realm than were Hank and the others; yet for some strange and incomprehensible reason, he cared about its destiny. He and the X-Men had been brought to the Realm to put an end to the evil that now threatened to engulf the entire alien world, and their failure, this total breakdown of everything that they had been brought here to achieve, would haunt Scott for all of eternity, even if he was fortunate to survive this deadly trial.
Hank was burning. Cyclops did not know the boy, had spent little time in his presence before the group had split apart, and therefore knew little of his personality; consequently, it should have been extremely difficult to summon sympathy for the unfortunate Ranger, sympathy that rightly belonged with his long-time companion, Rogue, and should have remained focused solely on her dying screams. However, this was not the case. His mind, awash with turmoil as it was, could not shake the memory of that first brief meeting with the Young Ones, and the searing intensity of Hank's deep blue eyes, the same intensity that had died beyond all rejuvenation during the ordeal that now remained forgotten in the mind of the evil one who stood once more before them.
Scott truly regretted the boy's painful situation, and wished with all of his heart that he would survive, praying as much for his own solace as for the boy's mourning friends. And as his eyes wandered to the unmoving form of his fallen teammate, he discovered with wrenching despair that his agony upon witnessing her suffering was in fact *less* than that he felt for Hank. The reason for this, Cyclops knew, was simple, but it did little to quell his pained discomfort. Rogue had known the dangers of fighting for the right thing, but Hank had not.
Shaking his head sadly, Cyclops looked around at the others. They all seemed as remorseful as he was, and, in the cases of Wolverine and Bobby, were actively willing to display these sensations in violent form. Had they not been held back--the former by Presto and Scott himself, and the latter by Jubilee and his sister--they would have simultaneously charged towards the immortal Quintessence in yet another futile attempt to take him down. Cyclops clenched his fists, fighting the urge to scream at the top of his lungs "It won't work!" He closed his eyes. Nothing would work. After everything they had been through, DungeonMaster was right. All was lost.
"Let me go!" shouted Bobby, tears once again streaming down his face as he struggled ineffectually against Sheila and Jubilee. "He's got Hank! Let me take one shot at him! Please! I gotta save Hank!"
The Quintessence smiled and turned towards him; as his eyes moved away from the static Ranger, the flames surrounding him faded slightly, and his rigid body began to crumple. "Indeed. Allow the child to attempt the impossible. It amuses me to watch your futile efforts." He raised his hand once again, and Sheila and Jubilee flew backwards, hitting the ground hard a few metres away from the snarling Barbarian. "Come then, little one. Here is your chance. Attack me. Though I warn you, I am beginning to tire of this futility. Offer me a challenge, or prepare yourself for a painfully slow and torturous death."
Cyclops clenched a fist, readying himself to fire an energy blast between the boy and the Quintessence if the need arose. Sheila, from her sudden distance, was shaking as she extended a hand towards her furious brother, struggling to climb to her feet even as she reeled from the Quintessence's unseen attack. "No, Bobby!" she cried. "There's nothing you can do! Don't even try it!" She lowered her eyes, sobbing softly as he raised his club high, preparing an attack in spite of her warnings. "Bobby..." She never finished the sentence, falling to her knees in complete and inconsolable distress. Cyclops cursed under his breath; their numbers were diminishing rapidly--Hank and Rogue were down, Diana teetered on the brink of surrender, Sheila was beginning to break down at the sight of her wild-eyed brother preparing himself to be the creature's next helpless victim, and Gambit remained unresponsive to any calls, standing transfixed in the centre of the room and staring at Rogue's spasmodically jerking form. It was becoming more and more apparent with every passing moment that their struggle would end in defeat, and, as he gazed around at the chaos surrounding him, Cyclops, for the first time since being summoned to the Realm, began to wonder *why* he was allowing himself to sustain this futile and obviously misplaced hope that things would work themselves out.
"Bobby. Cease this."
Blinking in surprise, Scott looked down at the hunched figure of DungeonMaster as he approached the boy, who remained poised for his attack, though it seemed he was finding himself unable to bring his club down to the ground. The ancient being was smiling sadly as he reached out his hand for the weapon. "You cannot defeat him this way," he said softly.
"Are you nuts?" asked Bobby, gradually lowering his arms. "You're saying we should just let him get away with what he did to Tiamat and Rogue and--" he broke off, whimpering slightly under the force of the grief that he was suddenly forced to experience as he considered all that the Quintessence had done in the short time since they had discovered the true depth of his power. "And Hank?"
"No, my child," the old man said gently. "But this is not the answer. Your attack may well destroy the entire castle, yet *he* would remain unharmed. Self-sacrifice, though indeed a noble gesture, is not one that should be offered lightly. To surrender yourself to his malevolence would do nothing for your cause, and would certainly do nothing to protect the Realm from this hideous creature. For your own sake, Barbarian, stand down." His eyes blazed fiercely as he took the boy's hands in his own, watching with tangible pride as the club in Bobby's hands fell uselessly to the floor. "Your friends cannot be saved through further acts of destruction."
Growling with a hatred that Cyclops had never before witnessed in one so young, Bobby fell to his knees, adopting a similar prayer-like stance to that which Diana remained unable to break away from. "We can't just not do *anything*..." he whispered, making no effort to fight back as Jubilee and Sheila rushed to embrace him. "We've gotta do something! Hank's still alive, and so is Rogue, maybe... But if you don't let us take him out now, they're gonna--" He began to cry.
"Bobby," said Jubilee, and Cyclops applauded her courage and dedication to helping the frightened young boy. "It's gonna be all right. We'll take him out, and get Rogue and Hank back. I promise. It's gonna be okay."
The DungeonMaster nodded. "Indeed." It was clear, though, even from Scott's respectful distance, that he, the one beyond such mortal weaknesses as lies, was not speaking the truth. "I shall address him. He obeyed and respected me once in his life. Perhaps he shall listen again." He squeezed the bowing Barbarian's shoulder, and stepped towards the Quintessence. "Well, my son? Shall you listen?"
For a moment--a single fragmentary sliver of time, during which Cyclops felt his once unshakable hope beginning to burn once again--it appeared as if the evil creature was about to agree. However, not even a full second later, he laughed coldly and shook his head. "No, thou weak fool. I am beyond the comprehension of your so-called wisdom. Tremble before my power or be extinguished like the dying candle-flame that you are." He raised his fist, taking a thundering step forwards with obvious intent gleaming in his impenetrable black eyes.
"Stay back!" shouted Cyclops, instinctively releasing a blast of energy towards the smiling creature. He swore as it passed through his glowing body, though he really should have expected such a predictable result. Suddenly, and with no conceivable transition in emotions, he found himself feeling a desperate urge to run, to flee, to escape this nightmare. He took a single step backwards, and then another, sensing rather than seeing Presto and Eric moving to join him in his retreat. "I mean it! You've done enough damage already. Leave the DungeonMaster alone. If you want to destroy us--" he paused, swallowing "--just do it! We've had enough of this childish game, and we're not going to amuse you any more. Kill us now, or leave us alone."
The Quintessence glanced at him for the briefest of moments, and Cyclops did not even realise that the villainous creature had raised that fate-altering hand until he found himself lying flat on his back, screaming in agony. Dimly, he was aware of Diana, Storm, and Wolverine standing over him and speaking alien reassurances, and, as their voices became clearer, he forced himself to rise once more to his feet. "Is that the best you've got?" he shouted, managing through some miracle to keep his voice steady, even as the pain shredded his insides. "Come on! Take us out already! Or are you too much of a coward to do what you set out to do?" He knew, even as the agony engulfed him completely, that what he was saying, the defeatism and uncontrolled outrage that he was displaying, went completely against everything that he had been brought up with, everything that he had come to believe in, everything that had ever meant *anything* to him... and he didn't particularly care.
"Be silent, fool," retorted the Quintessence. "Your time shall come when *I* wish it, and no sooner." He turned back to the DungeonMaster, and all of a sudden, the flames engulfing Hank's body, and the lightning that enveloped Rogue's dissolved, leaving their victims critically injured, but, for the time being, alive. As the breathtaking relief of this realisation struck him, Scott realised that the stabbing pain that had coursed through his body scant moments ago, was also gone. He shivered, knowing that if Rogue and Hank had been subjected to even half that degree of pain, the assurance of their survival was extremely limited.
"Venger," whispered DungeonMaster.
The Quintessence shook his head. "I am not Venger, feeble one. Venger no longer exists, nor will he ever exist again. I am as you see me, the pure and incomparable manifestation of all that is evil. The one named Venger was weak, bound by the ethereal prison of his own limitations, his own destructive code of ethics. I am strong, and I shall be victorious, even against one as pure as you. Know this: thine reign over this mortal Realm is about to end, marking the beginning of an eternal kingdom built under my watchful gaze. The kingdom shall be my reality, and it shall endure for all time, basking in the glory of unadulterated evil. Understand this now, failed master, and prepare yourself. Your destruction, the destruction of all that is Good in this decaying Realm, shall be the final, glorious, turning point in my rise to complete sovereignty over a world that I alone shall create and rule." He licked his lips hungrily. "Die, old man."
"No."
The word was spoken softly, but with strength enough to steal Scott's breath. He sat up on the frozen floor, gazing in disbelief at the electric power that flickered between the two polar forces. The Quintessence of Evil, the bitter personification of all that made Death worthwhile. The DungeonMaster, simply the manifestation of Pure Good. It was so simple it hurt. Cyclops felt a thick pounding in his brain as his eyes moved from one supreme creature to the other. The Quintessence was enormous, dark and dangerous, crackling with unbridled power, whereas DungeonMaster was small and submissive, quiet and gentle. It was clear that the fight--if indeed it came down to a physical confrontation--would have only one victor, and, as the thought reached his numb mind, Cyclops found himself trembling, the frigid cold penetrating his body and slashing into his very soul.
With a sadistic smile, the Quintessence raised both hands high above his head. Scott cried out in spite of himself, trembling as he recognised the creature's adoption of the same posture as he had used to knock out his team when they had first infiltrated the castle. Still, it seemed that the Quintessence had no intention of performing the same attack, as evidenced by his lack of focus on anything but the silent DungeonMaster, who stood so small and insignificant at his feet.
As he smiled, visibly preparing a special kind of attack--the likes of which Scott was certain he would never again witness...assuming that he was able to survive this one--the tiny old man sighed and took several more steps towards his foe. The two of them were separated by a distance of less than three feet now, and Cyclops closed his eyes, terrified by the though of what the Quintessence's attack would do to the weak DungeonMaster at such close proximity. He considered shouting out a warning, but knew there was no point. DungeonMaster *would* die, and along with him, so would the Realm... and the X-Men's chances of leaving it alive.
The Quintessence spread his fingers apart, aiming them directly downwards. As Cyclops and the others watched, suddenly finding themselves unable to move, breathe, or even think, dark streams of multi-coloured energy began drizzling down from each of the creature's talon-like fingertips, intertwining with each other and forming a sparkling--indeed, almost beautiful--rainbow of solid energy, which twisted and writhed in the air, curving downwards and towards its target, as if magnetically drawn to it. DungeonMaster merely stood there, in unspoken acceptance of all that would happen to him. Cyclops felt tears stinging his eyes as he watched the pained resignation on the old man's finely-chiselled features. WHY? Why had he seen it as necessary to give up? Why had this once all-knowing force of goodness simply decided to surrender himself and everything that he existed for?
Several moments before the gleaming band of colour reached him, then DungeonMaster raised his own hands, releasing from them a similar stream of energy, though this was pure dazzling white in colour. The two energy beams met exactly halfway between the two forces, and remained locked together, writhing and clawing at each other as they intertwined helplessly, remaining bound by the will of their masters. Cyclops watched, unconsciously aware of tears sliding down his face, as the two energy streams engaged in battle. This was no mere light show, he knew, but a life-or-death struggle to determine the fate of the Realm, and its countless inhabitants, as well as DungeonMaster's young pupils, and the X-Men.
Whichever force was weaker, whichever creature was unable to sustain his attack on the other, would be destroyed, and Cyclops did not doubt for one second which being would be victorious. The brightness of the light stung his sensitive eyes, and he looked away, turning to gaze at each of his companions in turn with a mixture of pride and respect.
Hank and Rogue remained motionless. Whether they were unconscious or dead, Scott did not know, but he did not have the ability to function well enough to move towards either of them and check. Either way, they were completely unaware of what was going on, and the tremendous stakes that were being played for; in some ways, Scott mused, perhaps they were better off than any of the others. Bobby, Jubilee, and Sheila were huddled together, unable to tear their eyes from the simultaneously magnificent and terrifying sight; Scott took a moment to silently praise them for their courage, as, judging by the unprofessional agony they had displayed so clearly throughout the earlier battle, it was obvious that none of them had the capacities to adequately cope with the Hell that they had been forced, so young, to witness. The strength shown by their heroic attempts to keep their eyes on the flailing energy streams, was undeniably impressive, and he reminded himself to congratulate each of them in turn... assuming that such a time came when this luxury was possible.
Gambit stood alone, separate from the others; his strangely coloured eyes were even darker than usual, reflecting his inner torment as he gazed not at the sparking battle, but at the unmoving Rogue. Cyclops sighed softly, shaking his head; under normal circumstances, he would have insisted that the Cajun pay attention to the immediate crisis, but, taking into consideration the fact that this would perhaps be their last few moments alive, he decided to humour Gambit's need to fix his gaze on his Chere. He knew that, had his own beloved Jean Grey been with them, he would not have torn his eyes from her either, and a deep wrenching pain coursed through him as he realised that he would now never be able to tell her just how deeply he cared for her, or, indeed, even bid her farewell.
Presto was gazing at the chaos with wide eyes, and as Scott watched him, he acknowledged the emotionless hesitation in the boy's eyes; ever since he had allowed himself to be influenced by Wolverine's crude advice, the young Magician had reached a point of consciously denying his feelings, a state that Cyclops found himself feeling extremely disdainful of, but entirely unable to muster strength enough to inform the Wizard of this. Eric, whimpering and cowering behind his shield as always, remained faithfully by the Magician's side, in spite of his own paralysing terror and the carelessness with which Presto had ignored him after his acceptance of Logan as his mentor and guru; the two of them stared with undisguised astonishment at the conflicting energy forces, and it was clear from the ashen innocence pasted across their faces that neither of them had any true concept of the vital significance of the battle that they watched with such fearful awe.
Wolverine and Storm remained standing, silent and stoic as they watched the pyroclastic battle. Cyclops felt a brief smile crossing his lips, as he watched with deep pride their quiet acceptance of whatever fate--whether righteous purity or violent malevolence--would endure after the end of this destiny-altering competition. Though he knew better than to expect any less of Logan and Ororo, he still found himself struck by the depth of pride that he felt surging through him as he observed their silent strength. Similarly, Diana was gazing at the display with an equal degree of acknowledgement; her eyes, like Scott's own, were filled with tears, but he could see from the determination on her face that she intended to face the future--or lack thereof--with a smile. As he grinned at her, watching as she climbed proudly to her feet, he suddenly felt the selfsame desire to meet Death strong and calm beginning to flow through his own veins.
Smiling at each of them in turn, Cyclops returned his attention to the sparking beams of energy. They were still wrapping around each other, and he was certain that he could hear them shrieking in pain at the pressure that was being placed upon them. A low buzzing sound filled the room, the sound of burning friction, and Scott covered his ears, thankful for the first time since the beginning of this bizarre adventure that Jean was not with them; certainly, considering the tangible tension that crackled through the entire room, her psychic powers would have caused her great distress, and, despite the deep regret he felt at knowing that he would not die by her side, he was relieved that she had been spared this unimaginable suffering.
The searing buzz became deeper, more urgent, painful. Cyclops grimaced, hearing Wolverine crying out in pain; at that moment, Scott certainly did not envy the hotheaded mutant's heightened sensitivity. The low drone was terrifying to behold, symbolising the literal end of the world, and as Scott listened, feeling the angry hum searing the length of his body, the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand on end. Whatever was going to happen, it was going to happen now.
And then, without warning, the sound stopped, leaving nothing but a dead, empty silence. The throbbing energy beams remained for several seconds, still engaged in their fruitless struggle for conquest, and Cyclops watched them through streaming eyes, suddenly finding great difficulty in determining which direction was up and which was down. Time froze, as it had in the instant that he and his fellow X-Men had been transported to this God-Forsaken Realm, and, for an incalculable minute, it seemed as if they would be trapped in that crucial moment for all eternity, forever doomed to gaze upon a fate-determining battle that would never end. But then, just as Cyclops began to fear for his sanity, time resumed once more, as if the fragile dimension had been simply trapped beneath the pressure of this deciding moment, and in that instant, as it finally broke free from the iron grip of its mutual captors, Cyclops glimpsed the future.
Before he had the chance to comprehend the visions as they engulfed him--was that the blood of countless deaths, or the rich ruby gleam of celebratory wine? A carrion vulture or a gentle dove? Were those tears upon his face brought about by joy or pain?--they had disappeared from sight, leaving him helplessly confused and infinitely more frightened. And then, just as he was beginning to wonder if the chaos would ever end, it did. He watched, unable to breathe or think or even register the impacts of what he was seeing until it was too late. The Quintessence's rainbow of energy had disappeared, as had DungeonMaster's pure white light. Scott blinked, wondering if this meant that the battle had been a stalemate, but even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew that this was not the case. He frowned, looking around at the others; his vision disjointed, abstract, sickeningly surreal.
Something was wrong. The room flickered before his eyes, as if he was gazing at it through a wall of fire. The icy chill was gone, and Cyclops suddenly realised that he was feeling nothing. Perhaps this was death. Perhaps this complete lack of sensation was how it felt to suddenly realise that you were dying...
But no... He was not in pain, and he had always been fairly certain that Death entailed some form of suffering; why else would Rogue and Hank have screamed so desperately beneath the Quintessence's villainous hands?
Even as he found himself wondering about these pointless questions, he knew. He *knew*. He gazed out at the distorted room before him, and watched with blunted disbelief as it began to crack and splinter before his eyes. Reality wavered, and then, with Scott Summers, the X-Men, and DungeonMaster's own Young Ones as the only witnesses, the Universe shattered into a thousand pieces.
*****
Sheila opened her eyes, wincing slightly against the bright light that glared at her from some unknown source. "Hank..." she heard herself murmuring, engulfed in an impenetrable shroud of delirium. "Tell Presto to quit playing with that stupid hat of his..."
"Chere...?" The voice was Gambit's; Sheila groaned as she recognised it, realising in that instant that the entire adventure had *not* merely been some horrendous nightmare. "Chere! Talk to me... Tell Gambit you're okay." Holding her head in response to the urgency in his voice, Sheila sat up, moving to inform the handsome Cajun that she was indeed all right, only to discover that he was, in fact, not speaking to her. He was hunched over Rogue's motionless body, and Sheila--in her state of exhausted bewilderment--was unable to completely silence the painful jealousy that welled up inside her, as Gambit continued in a hushed, frightened voice. "Chere?"
Staggering unsteadily to her feet, Sheila looked around. They were no longer inside the castle, but on the gently rustling grass plains where the X-Men had first shown up, rescuing Hank and Bobby from the insignificant threat of a giant armadillo. She shivered slightly, looking around for the others; with the exception of Rogue and Hank, they were all coming around or already conscious and climbing to their feet. "Bobby!" she heard herself shouting, acting on her maternal instincts even as she struggled to comprehend this new bizarre situation. "Bobby, where are you? Are you all right? Bobby!"
He was kneeling over Jubilee, helping the groaning mutant to her feet; upon hearing his sister's urgent cry, he turned, scowling at her with that characteristic youthfulness that made him so endearing. "I'm *fine*, Sis!" he cried indignantly, then turned back to Jubilee. "Are you okay?" He smiled as she leaned into him, and Sheila felt her racing heart beginning finally to slow a little. "It's all right now."
Jubilee grimaced and ran a hand across her temples. "Thanks, Bobby." She grinned and regained her equilibrium, standing a little shakily under her own power. "Hey, Cyke! Storm! You guys know what happened back there?"
Cyclops and Storm were glancing nervously at each other, both crouched beside Gambit, hunched over their unmoving companion. Storm sighed softly and stood, placing a reassuring hand on the grieving Cajun's shoulder, then moved to address Bobby and Jubilee. "We do not know," she said softly. "We are not even certain if the Quintessence was destroyed, or whether he defeated the DungeonMaster." She glanced back towards Cyclops and Gambit, both trying fruitlessly to bring Rogue out of her unconsciousness, then turned to gaze nostalgically towards where Diana was kneeling in a similar fashion beside Hank, who, though he was clearly still breathing, was covered in deep, painful-looking burns; as she sighed softly, Sheila noted that the direction of her speech seemed to change, and she focused stoically on Scott's crouching figure, attempting in her own gentle way to draw him back to the matter at hand. "Whichever of the two forces was victorious shall surely find us eventually--though to what ends, I do not know. Therefore, I suggest we remain here and wait, either for news of our victory or for our unavoidable destruction." She shook her head sadly, and Sheila trembled.
"That's it?" shouted Wolverine, extending his claws and gazing around with the wild-eyed rage that Sheila knew was as much a part of his character as those terrifying metallic weapons. "The jerk drags us millions of miles from our home ta this dump, and *then* just leaves us here ta figure out what the hell is going on? That's crazy..." He clenched his fists. "Jus' wait 'til I find him..."
Of all people to respond to this outrageous statement, Sheila would not have guessed that it would be Presto. "Don't be stupid!" he snapped, and the Thief was struck by the intensity in his voice, and the complete absence of his characteristic emotion. "If he's still alive, he'll come back! He's not like that. He wouldn't just leave us here to wonder what happened!" His eyes blazed as he gripped the mutant's raised fists and forced them back to his sides, against Wolverine's dangerous snarl. "You'll see! He's defeated Venger, and he's going to be here any second to tell us that we won! You'll see..." Sheila shook her head sadly at the childlike hope in his voice, even as his eyes remained blank and his face expressionless.
"Come on, Presto..." Eric said softly, moving to drape a comforting arm across the Magician's shoulder. "We all want to believe the little drip beat the big drip... but think about it for a second. It's not likely..."
"No..." The voice was weak, but it carried a power that forced Sheila and the others to sit up and take notice; it was not Presto who had spoken, she realised in a moment of incredulous recognition, but Hank. He was sitting up, leaning heavily against Diana, and breathing hard with pain and fatigue. "He's right, Eric. DungeonMaster *must* have won. If he didn't... we'd all be dead." He smiled faintly, and Sheila rushed to his side. "I'm all right," he said, grinning in response to her concerned gaze, "just a little sore. We've got to believe the best," he continued, pausing for the briefest of moments. "Because if we don't, then we've got nothing to look forward to, and we might as well just go out and shoot ourselves right now."
"That is not true."
Sheila blinked and looked around, searching for the source of the hushed words. Certainly, it had not been one of the Young Ones who had spoken; she knew their voices well enough to realise that the almost-inaudible whisper belonged to none of her long-time companions. But, as she glanced curiously at the X-Men, it became apparent from the puzzlement on their faces that they too were at a loss to explain who had spoken. As it happened, it was Presto who figured it out, and the joy that glowed in his expressive dark eyes was enough to make Sheila smile in spite of their hopeless situation.
"DungeonMaster..." he whispered. "*DUNGEONMASTER*!"
Frowning slightly, Sheila looked around. The voice, weak as it was, travelled clearly, and the young Thief found herself feeling rather uncomfortable to be hearing the voice of a man who was so fundamental in determining the fate of everything that ever mattered to anyone, but who could not be seen anywhere. She glanced at the others, praying that she would find them at an equal loss to explain the presence of DungeonMaster's voice without his body. Thinking back to all of his countless prior appearances, this simple alteration of physics should not have struck Sheila as particularly surprising; however, something inside of her insisted that this was something to be seriously concerned about, and she knew well enough from her time spent in the Realm, that her gut instinct was *not* something to be ignored.
"No, Magician," the voice murmured, and Sheila again felt her eyes searching for someone or something, *anything* that might be able to explain this juxtaposition of sound and non-vision. "I am not DungeonMaster, merely a manifestation of his thoughts. The DungeonMaster that you know may never again exist in your reality."
Hank staggered to his feet, and Sheila moved to steady him as he swayed dangerously. "What do you mean?" he demanded, choking in pain at the exertion caused by merely opening his mouth and speaking. "If you're not DungeonMaster, where is he? What happened back there? Where's Venger?"
"Calm yourself, Ranger," the voice continued, speaking with a depth of exhaustion that Sheila had thought could not exist in one so boundless, so uninfluenced by the limitations of time and age. "I shall explain." It paused, taking a deep ragged breath. "My pupils. My friends, the X-Men. Our purpose was to destroy the evil that threatened to destroy the Realm, and in that, we have failed. I am sorry. The creature once known as the Quintessence remains. He resides here, in a plane of reality so far removed from your own that you shall remain forever beyond his reach. I too exist solely within this abstract sub-reality, as I must if I wish to keep his sinister tendrils from extending once more into the Realm. For as long as we are here, he cannot harm the Realm." He paused again, and Sheila winced.
Wolverine was growling. "Talk English, willya!" he snarled, stepping forwards and searching for any sign of life, with the obvious intent of tearing it to shreds if he found it. "What the hell are you talkin' about? Why can't you just tell us straight: who won the damned fight, you or the evil jerk?"
"Please," begged the voice, and Sheila felt her heart clenching at the pain that was suddenly audible in its strained whispers. "I am trying to explain. Be patient, this is not simple. The 'fight', as you called it, remains a stale-mate. The power of my good force was able to cancel out his evil, and so neither was able to surpass the other. The strain of good upon evil and evil upon good was sufficient to split open the fabric of reality itself, beyond either of our control, and so we came to exist here. It is not what I expected, nor is it what I wanted... but for as long as the Realm is safe, I am content. I must remain here, trapped within this alternate existence alongside the Quintessence so as to prevent him from escaping and returning to my beloved Realm. It is a small price, and one that I am willing to pay for all that I hold close to my ageing heart."
Sheila winced at that; in all the time she had known DungeonMaster, he had never spoken of himself as 'old'. Even during the most extreme of no-win situations, he had sustained-beyond the limited capacities of Hank, Diana, and even Bobby-a sense of youthful courage far beyond the Young Ones' comprehension. His obvious ancient heritage had been fairly obvious, even to one as naive as Sheila, yet he had never once appeared *old*. Until now. And it hurt to hear the age and fatigue within his faltering voice, to realise that this immortal, undefeated, *true* hero, could be so reduced to nothing more than an old, spent memory.
Jubilee was laughing; Sheila stared at her in disbelief, entirely unable to comprehend her lack of response to this devastating moment of realisation. "You're kidding, right?" the young mutant cried, then appealed to Cyclops and Wolverine. "He's kidding, right? Come on, guys, just listen to this garbage! Sub-reality? Alternate existence? Gimme a break! It sounds like something out of a lousy science-fiction movie!" She rolled her eyes and winked at Bobby.
Cyclops shook his head slightly, and, had his eyes not been covered, Sheila would have been certain that the disdain would have been visible within them. "Jubilee... After everything *we* have experienced together, don't you think that this is at least feasible?" With a gentle chuckle, he raised his head to the sky, as if addressing the heavens themselves. "So... uhh, if you don't mind me asking, what do we do now? I mean, we've done what we were brought here to do--not the way we planned, admitted, but we did it nonetheless. Can you send us home now? Or are we going to be stuck here until you find a way to get out of that alternative plane of existence you're in?" He glanced around at his teammates, visibly uneasy.
"Yeah!" cried Eric, smirking a little as he sat on the grass, looking with a surprising degree of sadness at the unmoving Rogue, and consciously avoiding the fruitless search for any physical manifestation of the wise old man that the others engaged so hopefully in. "You've made *us* stay here for all this time, let it be someone else's turn for a change!"
Hank rolled his eyes at the Cavalier's characteristic selfishness, and Wolverine moved to threaten him once again with his claws; Sheila noted with a faint smile that the Cavalier's anxiety over the danger of the mutant's adamantium weapons had not diminished. "Shut it, Wise-Guy!" the mutant growled angrily. "I'm sick of this damned world!" He whirled around, attempting to speak to DungeonMaster. "Ya hear me, old man? We did what ya brought us here for! Send us home already!"
"Yes," replied the voice. "As you wish, it shall be done. Prepare yourself, as the transportation will be instantaneous. It will take a few moments to summon the strength necessary to do what must be done from this reality, so be patient while I attempt it." Silence ensued for several seconds, during which time, Sheila was aware of several conflicting emotions emanating from her companions: relief and slight regret from the X-Men, and outrage and pained disappointment from Eric and the other Young Ones.
She could not deny that she understood their unhappiness. Why should the X-Men be allowed to return home upon request? After all that she and her friends had been victims of during their time in the Realm, surely they too deserved to be sent home. Still, even as she thought about it, she knew the reasons why it was an impossible prayer. Though DungeonMaster had taken the six Young Ones under his wing, guiding them and directing them throughout the duration of their stay in his world, he had not been the one to summon them, or so Sheila had been led to believe. The X-Men had been brought into the Realm directly by DungeonMaster himself, and consequently, could be returned by him. As deeply as it hurt to realise this, she knew that, while their new friends would return to their bizarre, fictitious world, she and her comrades would remain in the Realm, alone and helpless without even DungeonMaster to guide them. The true hardship, it seemed, was only just about to begin.
"It's been great working with you," Cyclops was saying softly, moving to shake hands with Diana, and smile with unchecked pride at Hank. "I can't say I envy the situation you guys are in, but you seem to be handling it with incredible maturity." He nodded respectfully, ever the diplomat. "I can honestly say that it's been a real honour fighting alongside you. All of you."
As the X-Men and the Young Ones moved to say their final farewells, Sheila noted with quiet curiosity the specificity with which the goodbyes were directed. Bobby and Jubilee, overcome with emotion, were embracing. Storm was wishing Hank a polite and respectful farewell. Wolverine was taking a moment to offer Presto one last word of advice before his departure. Diana was mock-punching Cyclops' arm with a playful grin, saying something about staying loose. Eric was crouched beside Rogue, thanking her in an unusually compassionate voice for protecting him from the Big Bad Wolverine; it seemed not to matter to the uncharacteristically subdued Cavalier that the object of his gratitude was completely unconscious.
Blushing deeply with uncomfortable nervousness, Sheila took a deep breath and approached Gambit. The gentle Cajun stood stiffly beside Rogue, watching with silent suspicion as Eric mumbled at her unmoving form; his eyes were deep with concern for his fallen comrade, and Sheila did not need Bobby's vast comic-book knowledge to understand that there was something very deep shared between the two mutants. With something of a wistful sigh, she placed her hand on his shoulder, smiling with false cheer. "I guess this is goodbye," she said softly. "Uhh, it was really great getting to know you...and, uhh--" she coughed a little anxiously. "I'm sorry about your friend. Hope everything turns out okay for you guys." She took a deep breath, then, acting completely against her common sense and better judgement, she hugged him tightly. "Thanks for everything."
He chuckled lightly, pulling away from her embrace and trailing his fingers gently through her hair. "For one as lovely as you, Chere, it was Gambit's pleasure." He offered her a charming smile, glanced back at Rogue with obvious discomfort, then turned back to the Thief with renewed sorrow in his mysterious red-on-black eyes. "Don't you go forgettin' old Gambit, ya hear me, Chere? Gambit promise we come visitin' some time real soon." They both laughed, knowing that it was an empty promise, designed to make them feel better about saying farewell. "This not Goodbye, Chere. It be Au Revoir."
Sheila lowered her face and stepped back, not wanting the strong Cajun to see the tears in her eyes. She moved, almost on instinct, to her brother's side, watching his final exchange with Jubilee. "Uhh, I think you should have this," he said, holding out his hat to the young mutant. "I mean... I know no-one really *won*, but you were the closest." He grinned bravely and reached out to gently place it on her head. "Aww, it looks better on you anyway..." he said, winking.
Jubilee laughed a little bitterly. "Thanks, Barbarian," she said, then her dark eyes became shadowed. "I'm gonna miss ya." She hugged him hard. "You're one awesome little kid!" In response to his indignant snort, she simply grinned; Sheila felt another twinge knotting around her stomach at the sight. Perhaps her separation from the flirtatious Cajun was not the most serious of the group's concerns, though undoubtedly, it was the most significant in her own biased mind. A dark cloud of melancholy began to form around her, and she shivered slightly, watching sadly as Jubilee returned Bobby's wink and shrugged out of her jacket. "Here ya go. Just so you don't forget about me."
"X-Men..." whispered DungeonMaster's voice, and Sheila was once again struck by how devastatingly weak it sounded. "Are you ready? Be warned, those in your world will have no knowledge of your disappearance."
Cyclops grinned warmly at Diana, bowed respectfully to Hank, then glanced back at his comrades. After a few moments, he nodded, obviously a little nostalgic, and turned his face upwards. "Yes, Sir," he murmured. "Please, send us home." He stepped back, gesturing for his fellow X-Men to do the same, and waited in silent anticipation for the moment where the trials and tribulations of their brief stay in the Realm would become nothing more than a distant nightmare.
Sheila lowered her face unable to watch; they had only known the X-Men for a very short time, yet it seemed like so much longer. And their separation, as expected and understandable as it was, struck her--and, she knew all of the others as well--as decidedly painful, even more so than the all-too-real possibility of never again seeing the wise DungeonMaster. Contrary to the desperate nature of their transport to the Realm, Sheila knew that the X-Men had not simply been unfortunate victims of this world's cruel fate. They had been heroes, brought here to preserve all of importance to the Realm, and, Sheila realised with a degree of shock, to the Young Ones as well, though there was no way of knowing when she and her friends had come to care about what happened to the alien world. And more still, she realised, gazing hard at the floor, they had been partners, companions, equals, and most of all, friends.
And she would miss them all.
Taking a deep tremulous breath, she raised her head, wanting one last chance to say goodbye to the fictional characters that had, at some incomprehensible point during their adventure, become so much more real than anything Sheila had experienced since being transported to the Realm. But as she did so, gazing with deep regret at the point where Gambit had been standing less than a moment ago, she realised with a pain that tore at her heart, that he was gone.
*****