When Winter Strikes

2. A Small Price

The Plith River wasn't hard to miss. Beginning in the border mountains it meandered south-west for some time until it grew out into the sea, and just before that moment it ran through Cenaria City. Xavier's instructions told James to follow the river in this direction, then to go east just before reaching the city, and he predicted that it should take him a few days at most.

Whoever had ordered the censorship of his memories had decided to leave in the survival skills he'd been taught at some point in his life. Though he had nothing but a few hand weapons and clothes on his person, he was able to fashion spears to catch fish, find remotely safe spots in the trees to sleep, and knew how to avoid becoming a meal for some of the bigger predators that he encountered on his trek. When it was just him on his own, though, James looked back through what little memories he had and tried to piece them together to find an answer.

He remembered the attack in which he lost his arm, as well as the aftermath. He'd come to in what he believed to be some sort of torture chamber, arm replaced by a metal look-alike that moved exactly how he wanted it to. At first he thought he was hallucinating – then the Vurdmeisters had walked in with that mage Xavier had called Stephen Strange and explained things for him. There was barely any time to come to terms with what had occurred before they were pushing him into training: teaching him herbology, weapon skills, how to gather intelligence, how to stay hidden, how to fight, how to adjust to the new balance of his metal arm, how to use it to deflect spells, how to kill with it. He could remember the physical exhaustion of each day, not to mention the fear of displeasing the Meisters he had to mask whenever they laid eyes on him… But once it was all over, once they deemed him ready, they'd given him a name and an order.

That was where things became disjointed; James remembered the contracts being handed to him, even occasionally remembered travelling to whatever land that target lived in, but he couldn't ever recall the actual kill, nor the aftermath. He had flashes of Stephen Strange standing over him, anxiety drawn all over his face as he worked a spell that put James to sleep. Then, he would be woken, he'd get a new name, he'd go out, he'd return, and he'd be put to sleep, and this process would repeat itself several times, he was sure. Between waking, receiving contracts and going to sleep though, James' early life was mostly blank.

After five days of travelling (and worrying over the holes in his mind), James eventually diverted himself east, joining a thin, worn path that soon took him onto a larger one. Xavier's instructions said the cottage he was looking for wasn't too far from the city, roughly an hour or so. Sure enough, he came across a small abode after an hour and a quarter, and with some trepidation (that was odd – the Meisters had cleared out any chance of hesitation, hadn't they?) he knocked on the wooden door.

The woman who answered had long, wavy brown hair that tumbled down behind her shoulders. She was shorter than him, naturally slim, and had bright, questioning eyes that he felt a little uncomfortable looking into. Nevertheless, she seemed fairly welcoming as she smiled and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Uh, I'm looking for Dr. Banner?"

"Which one?" He blinked, and her smile widened. "There are two of us," she explained. "Do you mean me or my husband?"

"Your husband. I think," he answered, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. The woman invited him in, introducing herself as Elizabeth Banner before sticking her head through a doorway.

"Bruce? There's someone who wants to see you."

The man who followed her out wasn't what James had been expecting; his assumption was that someone who could work memory magic like Xavier and Strange would appear similar to them – Bruce Banner, however, was very different. Only a little taller than his wife, he had a weary, ragged look about him, from his tunic and pants to the tired smile he gave James by way of greeting. Judging by the humble accommodation, James guessed he was keeping on the low like Xavier, but obviously hadn't heard the same wind-whispers.

"My name is James," he began after he'd been offered a seat. "I was hoping you might be able to help me."

"In what way?"

"There are some… weaves I'd like removing. From my head. I was told that you're pretty good when it comes to those kinds of things."

Bruce gave a small smile. "Depends on the weaves."

"Memory alterations."

The smile disappeared. "Someone's altered your memory?" he asked. "How can you be sure?"

"Someone else spotted them." He intended to keep true to his word and keep Xavier's whereabouts secret, but the way the doctor scrutinised him he could tell he was already under suspicion.

"Who?"

"I can't say."

Bruce watched him a moment more before nodding grimly and gesturing through to another room set up with a table in the middle. "Sorry about the lack of comfort," he said wryly.

"Been in worse places."

"Do you mind me asking where you've come from?" Bruce asked as he began his initial examination.

"The mountains," James said without thinking twice. "At least, that's where I woke up. I was wandering around for a while before I got to the city, and someone directed me here."

There was a hum from just outside his vision (and his training made him stiffen at the vulnerable position he was in) before Bruce called out softly to the other room. "Betty? What do you make of this?"

He heard Betty come in and stand beside Bruce, felt her breath on his hair as she leaned in to examine the weaves on his head. "My God," she murmured.

"Can you see any traps?"

"Not any obvious ones," she said after a pause. "Why? You're not going to…" Two pairs of footsteps disappeared off to his right, and all James heard after that was hushed muttering and frantic whispering. Whatever Betty thought Bruce was going to do to him she seemed to disagree with it, and that made James nervous. He had no doubt that Xavier wouldn't have sent him here if he didn't think Bruce could help him, but what if Bruce couldn't? Or what if the results left him damaged? The word 'traps' hadn't given him much comfort, and the thought of his head exploding because of an unseen tripwire wasn't pleasant.

After some time the Banners returned, coming to stand in his line of sight, faces heavy. They were both now wearing glasses, making them look much more doctor-like in James' opinion. "Okay James," Bruce began gently, "we've had a look at what's been done to you, and to be honest it's very complicated stuff. Whoever did this to you hasn't actually removed the memories, just repressed them rather forcefully, and, as you probably already know, multiple times." He paused to take a breath. "The good news is that we can't identify any traps or tripwires that might cause further damage, and we're confident that we can restore your memories for you without much difficulty."

"Well that's great!" James said – then saw the doctor's face. "Is there bad news?"

Bruce nodded apologetically. "With the amount of memories you've lost, and looking at the nature of the weaves, each memory you regain will probably hurt."

He raised an eyebrow. "Hurt?"

"Physically, yes, possibly emotionally too, although that depends on certain… personal things."

"It won't necessarily be instantaneous either," Betty added. "The longer a memory has been pushed out of the mind, the longer it will take to move back in."

James let their words sink in, realising they were offering him a choice. "There's something else you can do."

"We can remove the memories completely," Bruce said. "It will be considerably less painful for you, but the downside is that you won't recall anything that you don't already know."

He shook his head. "No. I want to remember."

Nodding once, Bruce shared a look with Betty, who proceeded to tie her hair up as her husband moved into position. "This will take some time," he explained from above James' head. "Betty's going to help me keep an eye out for anything that could cause further damage, particularly with the older blocks, but I'm fairly sure the procedure should run smoothly."

"How long are we looking at?"

He let out a slow breath. "With the depth and complexity of these spells, I'd have to say a few hours."

James huffed out a laugh. "Great. I'd ask for something for the, uh, pain, but I doubt there's a cure for memory pains, right?"

Betty stepped into his line of vision, a folded piece of cloth in her hand. "This will help you relax," she said. "Would you like some? It's just an inhalant."

He eyed the cloth warily. The last few times people had put him to sleep resulted in him losing at least one year of his life, maybe even more. "What does it – ah!"

"Sorry," Bruce said. "That was just me removing the most recent one. Do you remember anything?"

The image of Count Richards bleeding out from a slit throat, his wife screaming beside him, was taking a long time in fading. He nodded. "Yeah." To Betty, he asked, "Can you keep that stuff nearby?"

The Banners worked slowly but steadily on the tangles surrounding his brain, picking apart each block as if they were untangling a spider's web. The memories came at him irregularly, sometimes not quite in chronological order, and just as Bruce had predicted each one was accompanied with a certain amount of discomfort. At first, James could handle it; the recent reminders of assassinations gone well merely felt like a gradually building headache, and even if the images were unpleasant (people with slit throats, wide eyes, bruised and broken skin, unnaturally angled bones) he could deal with them. It was after an hour that he started to eye the inhalant that Betty had placed on a side counter.

The more the Banners unpicked the more horrified James became with himself. He had been ruthless – the Meisters had told him to make his target suffer however he deemed appropriate, and he seemed to have taken that to mean mentally as well as physically. He'd made men watch as he defiled their wives in front of them, played week-long games of ghost with small families before killing them one by one, even stooped as low as torturing children to get a response from their parents. The more he remembered, the more guilt he began to feel, and the more the memories hurt; what had started as an uncomfortable but manageable headache developed into a blunt, unrelenting pressure on his skull, and he wondered if Bruce had tripped a spell that was crushing his head without realising.

After another hour he caved and practically begged Betty for the inhalant. She obliged, pressing it over his nose and mouth and wiping at the sweat on his brow gently. The relief came quickly, the pain receding a little as he sank into blissful unconsciousness, not even worried about what two magi could do to him while he was unable to defend himself.

He stared at the sign in front of him, tracing the outline with his fingers reverently. It was a crude drawing but easily recognisable: a wolf, head thrown back as if it was howling, above two crossed swords. His clan symbol. They'd gained new territory recently, pushing back those bullies from the Hydra clan further towards the river. Chester Phillips said they were going to freeze this winter because of how far back they'd gone. He hoped he was right.

"Are ya sure 'bout this?" he asked the scrawny boy next to him.

The pale, split-lipped face was a stark contrast to the burning blue of his eyes. He nodded. "Yeah. I'm tired of being picked on by my old clan. You're the first person who's ever stood up for me."

The nine-year old scoffed. "I already told ya – I hate bullies. And no 'fence, but ya looked like ya could use a hand."

"I had him on the ropes!"

He smirked. "Course ya did. C'mon – Chester's place is this way."

The boy looked anxious as they set off together. "Are you sure he'll let me join?"

Throwing an arm round his bony shoulders, he grinned. "Sure he will! And if he doesn't at first, I'll persuade him."

His new friend smiled as much as the split lip would allow him. "You mean it?"

"I mean it."

"Thanks, Bucky."

This was the first time James had woken up with more or less all of his memories in place. At first he was bombarded with a few, sharp flickers of targets and casualties that came with their own flare of pain and guilt, but once the onslaught subsided he saw that Betty was at his side, a hand on his shoulder as she tried to get him to focus on her. "It's alright James – you're here, you're fine. The procedure's over now."

Getting his bearings James slumped back on the work surface, feeling no less tired for the extended nap he'd just had. "How long have I been out?" he grated.

"Six hours," she told him, passing over a cup of water. As he drank he felt her fingers run over the seam of his metal arm, taking in the different sensations of skin and metal. "This is… quite remarkable."

Having drained the cup he let her take it before wondering what they'd done with his shirt. "Same guys who fucked with my memory," he said bluntly. Sitting up experimentally he deemed himself able to walk without keeling over, and swung his legs over the edge of the table. "How much do I owe you?"

Betty's smile was genuine as she shook her head. "Bruce and I were glad to help. Payment's not an issue."

"Seriously?" She nodded. "Then thanks, I guess. I mean, if there was a better way for me to say it I would, but…"

"That's fine – I understand," she chuckled.

"Is Bruce…?"

"He's sleeping. It was another three hours before we finished, and it's been a long time since he worked so hard on something so difficult."

"Right. You'll pass on my gratitude?"

"Of course."

Grabbing his shirt from the side, James nodded. "Well, I guess I'll get out of –" The Sethi fire mage, John Storm, was throwing a fireball at him, blood trickling from a gash in his face. In his memory James leapt sideways out of its path – in reality, he was left gasping for breath and clutching the work surface for support, Betty's hand on his arm.

"You may experience a few sudden lapses," she was explaining, "particularly during and after sleep. As time passes they'll become less frequent, but it's like we said earlier: the older the memory, the more severe the sensations that accompany it."

Still shaken, James nodded slowly, blinking away the lingering images of fire. When he was stable again, he pulled on his shirt and left, only accepting the food Betty gave to him because he didn't want to worry her further. Once he was back on the road though, he felt lost; he ended up ambling towards Cenaria City, a loose plan forming in his mind with each step he took. There was bound to be a multitude of jobs available – he'd find one that sounded appealing, hopefully with good pay, then see about setting up a small business or something, anything to keep him occupied and working. Perhaps it was an old, forced-upon habit, but James hated being restless, and now that he was in full knowledge of just what he'd done in his past he needed something to take his mind away from that, even if just for a few hours a day.