Okay, next up! This one's called "Encounter," as is evidenced by the chapter title! ^.^
Slight rant: This is my first and probably only attempt at dealing with a fic about religion. Kurt in the comics verse is very religious at it's only natural that would carry over into Evo verse, but I myself I am atheistic and as such don't feel too comfortable writing about it. Again, I don't mean to offend or press my beliefs on anyone, I just don't tend to subscribe to any particular religion. Thank you.
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Kurt had found someplace to call his own; a sanctuary, a retreat for him alone. Granted many of the others in the Institute had also located little hideaways to secret themselves away in if the need arose, but Kurt's had special meaning.
He had found a church.
Well, technically, it was more of a chapel, a derelict little place in the middle of the woods, just a single small building containing an old pulpit, a few rows of pews, and a sort of half open loft that could serve as extra seating in the back, if it was needed.
Nowadays, the seating was never needed, though, because it was abandoned. Well, once again, that was a technicality. Kurt still came there, when he felt the most forlorn or adrift, and just needed to get out of the Institute and talk it over with the Big Guy above. The old thing gave him a sense of purpose, and he made it a point to visit once or twice a week, just to shoo away any encroaching spiders, and replace the wilting flowers in the pulpit.
The chapel was with in easy 'porting distance of the Institute, but as far as he knew, none of the others knew about it. It was one of the few places he could come, and truly be alone…well alone from human contact. He always felt the presence of God when he was here, and though it made him feel a bit uncomfortable at times, he enjoyed it.
He was strolling through the woods outside it, collecting some more wildflowers for the pulpit, when he first heard the sounds of an approaching group of people. At first he thought it was a band of drunken teenagers looking for a place to foolishly consummate their young 'love.' However, as the group drew closer, their disorganized babble died down into something spookier—rhythmic chanting. Kurt knew the best thing to do right now would be return to the mansion, and forget he had heard anything, but curiosity got the better of him, and he kited up a tree to watch.
The group passed under his tree, maybe half a dozen of them in all. They were robed from head to toe in black, and several of them carried sacks. Kurt realized with a jolt that they were cultists of some sort, and they seemed intent at practicing their cult in his chapel! He hissed under his breath, and, determined to scare them away before they could trash his sanctuary, he bamfed inside, appearing in a shadowy corner of the loft.
One by one, they filed in, gathering in the open space in front of the pulpit. One of them lifted his sack and opened it, drawing forth what looked like a can of spray paint. One of the others was pointing out a design on the floor, and the one with the paint was shaking up the can preparatory to delineating it.
Kurt felt the fur on the back of his neck stand up. He was NOT going to let them defile his place like that! Before he really stopped to think of what he was doing, he gave a shout and leapt from the loft, landing on the back of one of the pews and leaping from there into the center of the startled circle. He snarled at them, baring his fangs in an effective impression of demonic fury, and the robed figure closest to him drew away. None of the others did, though, and he realized that he may have misjudged these people when one of the ones behind him swung something heavy and hard into the back of his head. His last sight was of all six of the figures closing in on him as he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
He awoke slowly, not much later. The back of his head throbbed and he felt something trickling down the back of his neck, which he strongly suspected was blood. He tried to lift his hand to wipe it away, and found that he could not. He was bewildered for a moment-and then he remembered.
He forced his eyes open, and shut them quickly in vertigo. He could've sworn…he peeked his eyes open again to confirm what he had thought. Yep. He vertical, apparently bound upright to a pole of some sort. Now that he was awake, his senses hammered him with input. He could feel thick and heavy rope cutting into his abdomen and arms and shoulders. He could smell musty old wood and dead leaves, which relieved him slightly because it meant that the cultists, whoever they were, had moved their ceremony out of his chapel. He could see them now, all down on their hands and knees in a half-circle in front of them. They appeared to be praying.
"Oh deities above, we acknowledge your gift to us in the form of this demon from below, and we thank you for the divine protection that gave us the strength and courage to overcome it," one of them murmured. "And in the name of all of your glories, we will willingly and honorably sacrifice this beast to you, so that you will bless us and continue to watch over us." Kurt stiffened, though it took it a moment to hit home: they were planning to sacrifice…him. The sheer import of that was enough to make him reel, and if he hadn't been bound so tightly to the pole, he would have collapsed to his knees. All of them cast their hands to the sky, chanted some unintelligible phrase, and stood.
The one who had been talking earlier seemed to be the leader, for he stepped forward now. One of the others handed him a sack, and, reaching inside, he drew out a long, gleaming knife.
Kurt was struck dumb, still unable to get past the shock that he was about to be sacrificed to the gods of some cult. As the knife drew near his chest, he found he couldn't utter a word, much less a protest. He twisted and writhed, attempting to get away, but they had lashed him very well to the pole, and he could barely move, and 'porting away was out of the question.
"See how it struggles," one of them muttered to another.
"Yes," the robed figure replied. "It must know it is about die. I wonder if it realizes that its death is essential?"
Essential? Essential?! How is my death 'essential?!' he wanted to demand, but his body still wasn't obeying him. The lead figure paused, and turned to the others, shushing them, before turning back and drawing back his knife arm, preparatory to plunging into Kurt's chest.
"NO!"
The blade stopped less than an inch from the fur on his chest (it was them he realized he was wearing no shirt.) At first Kurt thought it was himself who had cried out, seeing as there was no other possible explanation, but then he saw the angel.
She was a vision of fury, ice blue eyes narrowed in inexpressible anger, pale gold hair floating about her head in a cloud. She descended with impossible slowness through the branches of the trees, her huge feathered wings beating deliberately. The feathers were of the purest white, edged in black. Immediately, the cultists prostrated themselves on the ground, the dropped knife hitting a rock and bouncing away.
"What do you think you're doing?" the angel demanded, in a firm commanding voice that sounded oddly familiar to him.
"Oh messenger of the gods above," the leader said, getting to his knees and crawling forward, hands raised towards her in supplication. "We are simply sacrificing this agent of the underworld to the glory of your masters!" She snorted contemptuously.
"My masters would not be pleased by this senseless bloodshed," she boomed. "They would be sickened, and rightly so." She made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "Away with you all! There will be no sacrifice here tonight!" She glowered down at them all, and when they made no move to leave, she growled audibly. "What is wrong with you all? Away!" At this firm and final command, all of them shot to their feet and scattered off into the woods, not even bothering to pick up their things.
Not until they were gone did the angel touch down on the ground, folding her wings behind her. She grinned reassuringly at him, and bent to pick up the discarded knife. "Are you alright, Kurt?" she asked, moving around behind him and using it to sever his bonds.
"I…uh…who are you?" he managed to get out, craning his head to see her. She snicked the last rope and straightened up, an affronted expression on her face.
"Kurt," she said solemnly. "Just because I changed my form and voice, you can't recognize me?"
"Janella!"
"Bingo, Blue!" she said with a laugh and her familiar smirk, reaching out to catch him as he collapsed. "Aw, jeez. What did they do to you?" she asked worriedly.
"Nothing much," he started.
"No, I think it was something," she declared, swinging him up into her arms before he could protest. "The entire back of your head's bloody, and you can't even stand!"
"I—uh—vell…"
"Hush," she commanded gently. "You can tell me what happened when we get back to the Institute."
"How did you know?" he asked, searching her face. She had it upturned to the trees above, and though it seemed like she was searching for the best place to break out from under them, her eyes were distant.
"Know what?"
"Know about zis place. About vhat vas happening." She glanced down at him for a moment, before looking away.
"I've always known, Kurt. I've always known." And before he could ask her what she meant by that cryptic comment, she unfurled her huge wings and sprung into the air, leaving him with the flight back to the Institute to try to figure out exactly what it was she said.
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I rather like this fic. It came out cool; I hope you all did too.
MetaChi: Ah, it's alright, I don't really mind!! ^.^ I do like the Youth of the Nation one, and am glad I had an opportunity to post it!
Oh, another note! Since a year has passed and Scott and Jean were seniors, right? So they're in college, right? I think so…so if they don't really show up much in these, y'all know why.