Change of Heart
Chapter 2: The Turning
by Lilian.
lilian413 at yahoo dot com
Author's Notes: I'm so incredibly glad people are still interested in this story—it was one of my greatest fears, when I decided to start posting again, that you would have forgotten about this fic or its characters… I'm so happy you enjoy reading it, I can't even begin to tell you!
Thank you so much to all of you who took the time to review this: it gives me all kinds of warm feelings to read that you like what I write. And in the end, I am writing this for you as much as I'm doing it for myself! Oh, and for you to keep in mind: a new chapter will be posted every Saturday, giving me time to keep on writing the newer chapters as I post the ones that already finished to you.
Big hugs to all, and review: tell me what you liked, what you didn't, heck, tell me anything! It's always a pleasure to hear from the fans. :-)
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Cole was desperate. Concern and worry were things of the past, and desperation was clutching his heart in its talons and squeezing it until it hurt to breathe.
Phoebe was missing.
She had called Piper on her cell phone at seven o'clock. It was already eleven and there was still no sign of her. While talking to Piper, Phoebe had said she had spoken with Emma and that it had proven fruitless. Her tracks disappeared after that.
All they had been able to find was her purse, left behind just a few feet from the door. Cole saw the potion lying beside it, but it was the wrong one: it wasn't the Belthazor vanquishing potion. He knew what that one looked like, purple-colored and foul smelling. This one was red, blood red, tinged with the faint scent of roses and vanilla. He remembered this last one clearly, because it had once been meant for him.
Why was Phoebe carrying it around?
Right now, the small vial twirled around his fingers as he paced back and forth in the attic, waiting for Leo to orb back from Heaven. He hated waiting, but there really was nothing else he could do. He would not leave the sisters alone with the threat of Sykes still present. But every minute that ticked by was a minute he lost, and his patience was wearing thin.
He fought the urge to blast something. It would do nothing but scare Paige further, and the youngest Halliwell had been looking at him strangely ever since this whole Emma ordeal had begun. It hurt to see the fear in her eyes, distrust coloring her face whenever Cole spoke. Paige had never been exposed to his demonic side before this morning and Cole had to admit it had not been the best of introductions. But still, he had come to care for Paige and having her flinch whenever he approached hurt more than he was willing to admit.
He watched with narrowed eyes as Piper's pendant dangled atop the San Francisco map, swinging back and forth aimlessly. He knew it would sink down into any particular spot if Phoebe were somewhere to be found; they had been scrying for over two hours already, however, and their chances of finding her were slimming by the second.
The one thing that kept him from snapping was the certainty that Phoebe wasn't dead. The Book of Shadows remained as it had always been, the triquetra complete upon its cover. That, and Leo's reassurance that the Power of Three had not been broken yet were the only things keeping him sane as he paced across the attic.
Bells twinkled and three pairs of desperate eyes turned skywards as Leo materialized in front of them. Before Cole could say anything, Piper asked: "And? Did they say anything?" Nobody was surprised when Leo shook his head. When had the Elders known anything? It had been foolish of them to expect any help from them now.
"I'm going to look for her." With Leo among their ranks again, the threat of demonic attacks upon the Halliwells was not as important as it was to find the woman he loved. The silence that fell upon the attic was thick, heavy with things left unsaid and fears kept in check. Piper turned wild eyes to him, concern marring her features and making Cole stop in mid-shimmer.
"You can't! Maybe this is all a setup, a trap from the Source. He's trying to lure you out!" It was startling (even for Piper herself) to realize that even with her sister in mortal danger, she could not bear the thought of letting Cole step into danger as well.
Cole looked at Piper for a long time, his cobalt-blue eyes unblinking in that stillness that only old demons can manage. What went on behind his tormented pupils they did not know, but he shook his head once as if trying to dispel whatever feeling had grabbed hold of him: "If he has Phoebe, I don't care what happens to me."
And before anyone else could try and convince him otherwise, he shimmered out. Piper called out his name, but he was already long gone, shimmering between realms in search for the love of his life.
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The Source was a very patient demon. He had lived for thousands of years and planned to live on for many more, and demons did not survive this long without a certain amount of patience. For years, he had plotted against the Charmed Ones. For years, he tried to kill them. And now, finally, his patience had been rewarded.
He had been killing witches for years to no end, but no other had ever been such an annoying thorn in his side. He had attacked them with every warrior at his disposal: the Triad, the Four Horsemen—for Devil's sake, he sent his best assassin to murder them! It had all failed. They had thwarted all of his attempts at killing them, and even managed to turn one of his best soldiers against him.
All of this was enough to kill the witch that now lay before him. After all, demons more powerful that she could ever hope to be had been killed for less. Why hadn't he burned her, then? Why was he looking down on her as she cried, huddled in a corner like the weak, cowardly human she was instead of letting his power flow through her until she could do nothing but die?
Because he had seen something he had not anticipated. Because, as he looked deep into the witch's heart, skimming through her memories as he sought the best of her fears to torture her with, he had found something unexpected. He had sent a dark probe into Phoebe's heart, and it had answered back.
A confrontation with the old hag Penelope Halliwell about twenty five years back came to mind as he entertained the thought that maybe, just maybe, he had found something more useful to do with this little witch than kill her. The crone had been particularly adamant that Phoebe not look at him – she had gone as far as flinging the young girl into the next room, just to avoid the Source's gaze to fall upon her. At the time, he had not paid it much attention: his wounded pride as he was forced to flee in defeat had stung too deep. But now, feeling something dark and old pulse within Phoebe's heart, the Source smiled, sending a silent curse to the heavens.
"Seems your secret is out, Penelope dear."
His voice echoed around the room, the stone-covered walls amplifying the words until they seemed to beat upon Phoebe as she crouched in the far end of the cavern. Nobody answered, but then again, he hadn't expected anyone to. The distance between heaven and hell was too great, two magical places driven apart by magical forces that paid no respect to geography or any other physical law.
Phoebe moaned in pain, clutching her head and tears still streaming down her cheeks. Fool. Premonitions would do her no good in this place: if she continued her attempt to contact the Powers through her magic, she would be responsible for her own undoing. It was amusing, the idea of letting her be consumed by the weight of her own visions. A witch driven mad by her own power—a cautionary tale to her kind, the perfect warning for other witches who would dare get in his way.
But madness was a double-edged sword. A broken mind left him with no handles to control her, and then, who was to keep her from hurting her child? The child he needed, the child he coveted—the perfect merge of witch and demon, a mixture of both sides of magic and a miracle in its own right.
The future of his demon army, a new type of hybrid: half witch, half demon and his.
She wasn't the first witch to be impregnated by a demonic soldier. Before her, hundreds of women had carried healthy babies to term. All of them had been taken into the Underworld, nurtured by legions of wet-nurses—none of them had survived past their first year. Something about their genetic composition was wrong: the two heritages cancelled each other out. That was why they had stopped trying in the first place: the results were just not worth the effort.
He sensed things would be different with this child. It probably had to do with Belthazor's human half: his genetic code ought to have so many alterations he was unique in his own right. And the Charmed Ones, especially this one… they were something on their own.
He had never encountered such powerful witches before. There were prophecies foretelling their arrival, but nothing had prepared him for what was coming. Nothing could have prepared him for what was coming. Three little humans had decimated his armies almost to the point of no return: attempts had been made on his life and factions were spreading through the Underworld like wildfire. Alone they had undermined his reputation – what good was a leader that could not kill three humans? – and that, more than their vanquishes, was threatening his position as the greatest ruler the demon world had ever seen.
But all was better now.
What more could he ask? Not only did he have one of said witches at his disposal – proof that he could and would hurt them – but also a new form of demon would fall right into his hands if he waited eight more months... oh, things were looking good. They were looking good indeed.
A thought sprung to life in his mind: why settle for one powerful warrior, when he could have two? Mother and child, generals in his newly growing host… oh, the possibilities! Turning a Halliwell—had that ever been done? Of course not: Phoebe herself had reminded him of such truth, calling upon her ancestry and presenting him with a delicious theory.
Could they be turned? Could he exploit that darkness that slept within her – that even now, seemed to call to him, seductive and luscious like a siren's song – use it to his advantage and turn one of the paragons of goodness?
Oh, the very idea of taking on such a feat was incredibly alluring. The thought of having her at his side, proud witch-turned-demon to do his every bidding… and then sending her against the traitor Belthazor. Having her kill him and then, just as she drives an athame into his betrayer heart, loosen his hold on her and have her watch the love of her life die by her hand.
Laughter bubbled forth from his throat and the witch screamed. It only made him laugh even harder.
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Phoebe awoke slowly, the pain in her skull aching silently. Her hand came up and covered her eyes, the soft light of the hundreds of torches around them hurting her eyes.
Goddess, where was she? The last thing she remembered was talking to Emma... and then going back to the house and--
Goddess, no!
Horror crawled up her spine and a gasp fled through her lips. It couldn't be!
But it was. She was in the Underworld, the weight of evil pressing down on her like an invisible hand. It made it hard to breathe, as if the very air was thinner. Perhaps it was: or maybe it was just the impression of learning she was— no. No. She wasn't. She wasn't.
She was on the pill. They had taken every precaution. And Cole had sworn they were unable to have children. She remembered that particular conversation quite well, considering they hadn't spoken to each other for days after it!
She shook her head.
Pregnant.
Was she? Could she be? She didn't know. She had never really considered the idea of having children, not with the life she lived. How could she bring a child into her world, where she was not sure she would live to see tomorrow? She could attest to life without her parents, both taken by magic – one literarily, the other driven away because of it – at a very young age. Children were not something she dwelled upon, perhaps simply because she had never thought she would live long enough to have them.
And now, there was a little person growing inside of her… half hers, half Cole's—what was she going to do? She wasn't ready to have a baby!
"Are you really in there, little one?"
Her hand came to rest upon her belly, still flat and perfect, and wondered how long it would be before she started showing. And how would her sisters react? What would Cole say?
"Oh yes she is."
Her eyes snapped up and widened in fear at the sight of the Source standing a few feet away. A black cloak billowed around his form, hiding his body from sight. And he seemed so tall, so very tall from her position on the floor—was he this big the last time they had met?
"Leave us alone."
Us? She was talking in plural? Weren't women supposed to know when they were pregnant? Didn't they have like a sixth sense for these things? She had needed a high level demon to realize the fatigue she had been experiencing for the past few days wasn't because of exhaustion!
She remembered now that she had skipped her last period.
And then it hit her. France. It must have been France. With Cole: with a very passionate, apologizing Cole. It had to have happened there.
The Source's answer was lost to her as her mind exploded with a cacophony of sounds and images, all piling one upon the other until she could no longer tell head from toe. Eyes rolled in the back of her head, she let the premonition spill forth:
A small bundle was being carried away from her, and she knew, she knew it was her daughter, the one growing inside of her right now, and she cried out for her, 'give her back!' but she couldn't speak, and the Source was towering above her, rubbing his hands together in barely contained anticipation, and she lay there, unmoving, crying, bleeding…
Her loud scream echoed around the cavernous room as she returned to her own body, crying for help that would never come. She could still feel herself bleeding to death, her blood staining the dirt on the floor, seeping into the ground and away from her as her daughter was taken. The future still tingled in the tip of her fingers, aching as if it was her past.
The Source's voice came from afar, as if he wasn't standing a few feet away from her but worlds apart. But his words rang true, drawing her back until she found herself listening intently: "I will not hurt her. Not if you agree to serve me."
Phoebe gasped and heaved, the air sucked out of her lungs at the power of the premonition. It was real, and it was going to happen, unless she did something!
Cole, help me!
"The traitor cannot hear you. There is no connection between the Underworld and the surface."
She moaned as she realized he could indeed hear her thoughts. She needed to save her daughter... she knew it was a daughter, could feel it in the soft glow that emanated from her belly. It was female and truth to be told, how many men had been born in her family? And now she would die, die unless she did something—she was still too small to understand!
No, no, she couldn't! She was a Charmed One, she could surely find a way out! Escape the Source, return home—flames flared to life around her, inches away from burning her skin. She shrieked and tried to get back but the flames were all around her, enclosing her until the very air from her lungs seemed to burn away.
Her throat raw from screaming, the fire disappeared in a flash with a snap of the Source's fingers.
"Thinking of running away, are we? Think again, Phoebe. You are mine now, mine to do with as I please."
His long fingernails were black as they caught the hem of his cloak. For a moment, Phoebe thought he was about to flash her – which was enough to send her into a fit of giggles that soon died away – but the hand continued its path to fall back against his side. It felt oddly anti-climactic, but she got the meaning: he had made sure she was going nowhere.
"I can kill you both now and be done with it. But I want her", the Source said, and it was as if his hands were upon her belly once again. His voice was revolting enough to make her stomach turn, but she shook her head, squashing her fear as best she could. She stood up slowly on shaky legs, letting the rocky wall behind her hold her up.
"Choose the lesser of two evils, Phoebe", whispered a voice she knew all too well, and she looked up to see the Source wearing Prue's face. Gazing into blue-green eyes, Phoebe choked up and the tears began falling again, "Choose her."
Phoebe closed her eyes. It was all too much. Too much too soon, and her head spun as if the world itself was coming to an end, and all she wanted was to sink into the darkness of unconsciousness but she couldn't. She couldn't, not while the Source stood before her, waiting for her answer.
Feeling flames licking at her skin again, she opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by fire once more. The Source's face was hidden behind the black void of his hood, and Phoebe was thankful for that small grace.
Heat emanated from the magical flames; high enough to force sweat upon her brow. Sparks flew about, landing on her naked arms and letting the scent of charred flesh come forth. Not a single sound left her lips.
"Well?" the Source pressed her, hand poised and ready to strike. One move and the fire would burn her, her and her unborn daughter, "Should I kill you?"
Cole, where are you? His name was like a prayer, fervent and desperate as she willed him to appear in front of her. Why wasn't he coming? Why didn't he hear her? She was certain he would come her, certain he would save her—but it seemed he would be too late. The choice was upon her now, and Cole was not coming, at least not in time.
Had things been different, Phoebe wouldn't have hesitated. Had it been only her, she would've chosen to die. She knew her powers weren't meant for evil. And she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her beg for her life.
But it wasn't just her anymore. She was responsible for another life and that made all the difference.
Protecting the innocent was her destiny. Protect the innocent she would.
She looked up to the dark ceiling, illuminated by the fire until it seemed almost—daylight. But it wasn't. She sent a silent goodbye to her family, safe in the certainty that it was the only choice left for her to make.
"No."
Never had one word conveyed so much emotion. And never had one word condemned a soul like it did hers.
There was a sound in the air, although there was no sound at all. It was that ripple in time, that wrinkle that marks a point where fate has changed. Phoebe Halliwell had just changed her destiny, branched off her marked path and chosen one of her own. Where it would lead her no one knew, but it was certainly not what the Powers had intended it to be. By choosing life, by choosing her daughter, she had altered the fabric of fortune itself.
The Source heard it and so did Phoebe, but the former chose not to comment on it and the latter did not understand it.
The fire still burned high, but Phoebe no longer cared. But then the Source's hand closed, slowly, almost lazily, and the flames began to dwindle down. Instead of disappearing, as normal fire would do, they coalesced in one spot, one tiny spot, forming a fireball that burned in white light. It danced in front of Phoebe, like a deadly firefly leading her into hell.
But she was already in hell. And the fireball moved by the Source's will, drawing ancient runes in the air. Phoebe felt the first stirrings of magic in her flesh, in that part of her that was pure power and nothing more. She recognized a ritual, felt it as her blood began to boil and she backed against the wall, afraid.
"What are you doing?" she asked him, her pulse speeding up as her heart beat frantically against her chest. He said nothing, but words were not needed. Before she could react, before she could stop him, before she could even blink, he was upon her and his shadow embraced her, the firefly smashing into her right forearm.
Phoebe screamed. She must have fainted, because by the time she came to it, the Source was nowhere in sight and her arm pulsed in agonizing pain. She moaned as she tried to sit up, her mouth tasting like ash and blood.
Her head hurt, but she was able to see the burn mark on her forearm. Third degree burn, at least, but even now, as she watched, the charred tissue was being replaced by healthier skin.
"Magic at its best", she muttered under her breath, wincing as the healing progressed much faster than her body could allow. The burn mark was taking shape: an inverted triangle, an elven character that she could somehow understand. It was an ancient symbol, and it meant 'Mine'.
Whose, she did not need to ask.
Steeling herself against the ache, she sat up against the wall. The rocks bit into her back, her clothes torn and tattered. She was dirty, bloodied and scarred but letting her forehead rest upon her knees, she felt just the tiniest bit better.
You're safe, my baby. At least you're safe, even if I'm not.
Suddenly, a cool breeze blew by her. It was so out of place that it made her sit up again, eyes wide and unbelieving. The wind carried a word, just one word.
Prudence.
And she understood.
She had struck a deal with the Devil and bore his mark as proof. But her daughter, Prue, was safe. For now, at least. She now had nine months to figure out what to do.
She just wished her decision didn't sting so much.
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TBc...
