Disclaimer: The characters and premise of 'League of Extraordinary Gentlemen' belong to quite a few varied people. I'm not one of them.
A/N: Continuation of LXG, which I was supremely disappointed with. Rated for action, minor violence and swearing.
REVITALIZED
Browned, weathered fingers, curled with arthritis, scrabbled at the mound of dirt.
A life for a life - the debt was owed, and now, would be repaid. The old man
scattered his handful of earth over the warm flames of a brush-fire. Swift, unnatural clouds darkened the sky.
A strange, spicy smell wafted through the air, a smell that dove deep within the lungs and lodged there. Not the odor one would expect from grave-soil. It was cleansing and sharp upon the senses; pleasant, as the first warm rain in spring brought the vibrant scent of grass to creatures starved of scent by winter's chill.
All was in readiness.
Earth was the balm for its people's wounds, rain the giver of life. Fire of the soul, brought into harmony with the sweet, rejuvenating air. Rheumy eyes found the storm cycling overhead as the old man began to chant. Low and deep, the language of his people resonated over the plains and reaching the five individuals seeking shelter.
The companions walking away from the buried body of their friend stopped, momentarily, and glanced back. Varied and experienced as they were, the sight shocked them - and they froze.
The old man continued chanting, his voice gaining cadence and volume, until the primitive beat echoed over the golden grasses, more felt than heard. The woman who was staring in the direction of the grave absently noted the rhythm, much like that of a beating heart. The young man next to her jumped in shock as a bolt of lightning lanced from the heavens to strike the gun he had gently placed over the mound.
"Bloody hell," came a disembodied voice in his ear, and the young man started once more. Another man, standing almost a pace away, glanced at the Agent, his dark hair shaggily hanging down over his brow.
"Something is moving," the Doctor noted with a calmness and confidence new to him, gained during the past mission.
The earth was shaking slightly, the vibration and hum of life electrifying the air, making each breath a charged reaffirmation of existence.
The Indian man was the first to move, unsheathing his sword and walking toward the grave, his entire body unconsciously moving in rhythm with the pulse filling the air. Blue robes shone dark against the golden-brown plain, and his graceful, almost feline motion was soon mimicked by the others.
They gathered in a half-circle around the grave, each wondering, each silent. The shaman stood at the head, and the smell of ozone was almost overpowering. But each and every of the warriors ringed around their fallen companion's grave had attention only for the knife in the old man's hand.
He slashed the edge across his palm, and allowed several drops of ruby blood to fall onto the dark grave-soil. The crimson liquid was gently absorbed into the earth, and thunder shook the heavens. Rain fell, caressing the ground; bathing the earth and the six people on it. Lightning waltzed through the skies, and the shaking of the world flowed, changed, and grew stronger.
It was coming from the grave.
The five companions said nothing, and did not move. Even when it became apparent that the Earth was gently expelling something; pushing something upwards from where it rested, so lovingly cradled. Wide-eyes moments passed, moments of unasked questions and unnamed fears.
The object thrust from the depths of the dirt was not what any of them had expected.
The man had been stripped of age; it had been peeled away as unwanted clothing, leaving bare skin unlined, wiping the grey from his hair. The skies of Africa wept with joy, their tears bathing the son birthed anew from the land.
And from what had been, days, hours, moments before, only a body, came breath. Life.
His face was not that of the old, energetic hunter, but rather that of a man no more than twenty-seven. Africa had restored his life, gifting him with the youth always present within his soul, and returning him to the age he had been when he had saved the village and its shaman, so long ago.
The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, now five where there had once been seven, could only stare as one of its lost was returned to them. Alan Quatremain was alive, though unconscious still.
The old African sighed, a slight smile curling his lips. He looked down at the young man and said something in his language. The dark-haired head moved slightly, a frown forming on the unconscious brow. Rain soothed away those lines, leaving the strangely familiar face untroubled.
Almost as one, the five fixed their respective gazes upon the old man. But the shaman did not react to the strong scrutiny of the vampire, or the harsh, shocked stares of the men - including the invisible eyes trained unblinkingly upon him.
"Africa shall never let him die," the old man said, his English rough and heavily accented. "The earth cherishes him." And then he smiled, an expression of serene joy carved upon weathered features. He turned, and the plains-grasses opened a way before him. A gentle curtain of rain separated him from that place and time, before he returned to the heart of Africa, and disappeared.