Note: Sorry this took so long to post. It was really tough to write, and I'm still not entirely happy with it, but at this point I just want to get it out there. Writing about the Holocaust is hard, y'all. I hope I did it some sort of justice.

CITY OF LIGHTS

Chapter 20

By mid-afternoon they had arrived in Natzwiller, a sleepy little village in the rolling French countryside, nearly an hour's drive west from Strasbourg. As Remy had anticipated, they hadn't been able to help but draw attention to themselves, arriving in the fancy city car he had stolen, with their fine clothes and their good looks. It was an unfortunate turn of affairs that couldn't be helped – but he knew, or at least hoped, that by the end of that night they would be long gone from this place, it not from this country – for good, with any luck.

Either that, or one or both of them would end up dead.

He didn't want to think about that.

They holed up in a tiny tavern where they stood out like a sore thumb. There was only one reason outsiders like these could be in their town, and that was because of the German camp up the hill to the north; and the villagers made their feelings clear, with their suspicious yet fearful glances. Nothing good could come from that camp, and nothing good could come from these strangers. That's what he read in the faces.

Night fell, all too swiftly – they booked some lodgings at the tavern, without the intention of staying much longer than an hour or two. Rogue was quiet, focused on the mission ahead of her. They had carefully gone over their plans during the car journey here – and Remy was in no doubt that they had everything down nice and pat. But there were always things that could go wrong, and it was part of his nature to consider every possible outcome.

Rogue donned her work clothes, the black sweater, trousers and bomber jacket that she always wore on such excursions. As they left the sleeping village under cover of night, she felt the weight of this moment press in upon her. Everything she had remained in France for was now resting on whatever this night would bring. Having Remy by her side was a part she had never dared dream about.

On the outskirts of the village they stopped. Rogue took the ring off her finger and slipped it into her bomber jacket.

"You ready?" she asked.

He let out a heavy breath.

"As I'll ever be, chere."

It was, nevertheless, still something of a shock when she took to the air and whipped him up from under the armpits. A lesser man would've balked at being subject to a woman so much more powerful… But as she whisked him up the hill towards the camp, he could only marvel at her strength, her poise, the complete mastery she seemed to have over her flight, if not her toxic touch.

In what seemed like less than a minute they had crested the hill and were hovering over the camp. It was small – smaller than he had thought – a roughly made, with a cluster of hastily-constructed wooden buildings enclosed by a barbed wire fence. The entrance was a wood and wire gate of immense proportions; a wooden watchtower stood nearby. Swiftly, yet silently, Rogue lowered him down to terra firma, hidden behind a building in an inconspicuous corner of the enclosure.

"Now we need to find him," she murmured, slipping off her right glove. He saw the action, murmured back:

"You sure this is somethin' you wanna do, Rogue?"

"Yeah." She slid him a look. "Y'think we have time to go lookin'? Give me a better idea."

He was silent a moment.

"You might not like the things you see," he warned her.

"I know," she answered simply, and strode off.

He followed after a split second of hesitation, sprinting slightly to catch up with her. He knew anything he said would fall on deaf ears. She was determined; and his job now was only to protect her, if he could. He dipped a hand in his pocket, shuffled the cards there through his fingers reflexively. He didn't like this. But it wasn't his call.

There was a guard posted outside the building they had been hiding behind, and, without even making a play at stealth, Rogue rounded the corner, and, before he could even react to her presence, she had gripped his face between her open hand. A moment later and he had crumpled to the ground.

Remy saw Rogue's eyes flicker briefly. When she opened her eyes again, her mouth had gone hard.

"I know where he is," was all she said. She whipped away, her body taut. He knew she had seen something, and he knew it hadn't been good. Again, he followed.

"Rogue," he said quietly.

"Don't ask," she shot back. Her voice held firm, but there was a wobble in it.

She weaved her way between buildings, the way lit only by the sickly glow of gas lamps, before suddenly coming to a halt outside a chained and padlocked door. She didn't even look to see that he was there – it was like she was in a world of her own.

She drew her fist back, ready to punch in the door – but he quickly laid a hand on her shoulder, staying her.

"We don't cause a ruckus, remember? Let me."

He took out his skeleton keys, and with just a few seconds the padlock sprung open, the chains slithering to the ground. A few seconds more and he had the cavernous doors swinging open into blackness.

The stench was almost unbearable, that of human waste and unwashed bodies, and it hit them like a physical wave, making them gag and momentarily hold back. Fearful whispers filled in the pause, the voices of people for whom doors opening could only mean a day of hard labour, humiliation or torture… or something worse that dare not be spoken.

Rogue moved forward into the dimness with purpose, and again he followed. The camp's inmates were laid out on dirty pallets on the floor, either side of the room, some resting what little they could, others unable to find the comfort of sleep. As they walked, Remy could see some begin to sit up, some curious at these unexpected interlopers, others cowering and fearful. All wore a thick metal collar round their neck, similar in design to the bracelet Carver had once given him – power nullifying devices, he had no doubt.

Rows of faces stared at them, sallow, pallid, dead-eyed. Remy walked between the lines of sunken faces, jaw set, throat constricted. There were things he'd known about what happened in the camps… things he had known in the abstract, things that he knew intellectually were bad. But he'd never been faced with it. Not like this. That he'd ever collaborated with the Party – no matter how peripherally – made his stomach churn with guilt. The money he'd accepted from them… it had been blood money. He'd known it then and hadn't cared. Now the force of his choice felt like a ball and chain.

At the end of the row, Rogue came to an abrupt stop. A man in rags was lying on a grimy pallet, so painfully thin it looked as if a sack of articulated bones had been arranged there.

"Kurt," Rogue spoke in a strangled voice.

The pile of rags stirred; and Remy was surprised to see a thin and pale face peer from behind the wreathes of torn fabric, and even more so to recognise the eyes of Kurt Wagner, the eyes he had seen in once in a sepia photo. The face was almost unrecognisable. Only the eyes gave away his identity.

It was as if he was too weak to rise. But as he peered into the gloom, and saw who had spoken, his gaze widened and, with an effort that was palpable, he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

"Marie?" he exclaimed in a broken voice.

There was a pause, a moment where Rogue could not speak. She fell to her haunches and touched the rags at his feet, as if unworthy to touch him.

"Kurt," she whispered, tears in her voice.

It was as if the man had woken from a dream. With wonder in his haunted eyes, he reached out and ran his long, bony fingers over her face.

"Marie, Marie," he spoke in German, his voice cracked with both joy and sorrow. "How is it you? How is it you, Marie? It cannot be!"

"It is me, Kurt," she answered, clutching his wrists with shaking hands. "And you're alive. You're alive."

It hardly seemed possible to Remy, but it was true – he was alive. Just barely, but undeniably so. For a little while, all either of them could do was hold one another's hands and silently weep.

"We must get you out of here," Rogue spoke at last. "If we removed the collar, do you think you would have the strength to teleport us out of here?"

Kurt touched the collar at his throat gingerly and shook his head.

"It is not possible," he replied. "We all of us have tried countless times, and it has never worked. They are locked tight."

Remy took the moment to step forward, knowing that he could help. For the first time the man seemed to notice him, and as Remy knelt by his side he shrunk back almost reflexively.

"It's okay," Rogue reassured him quickly. "This is Remy. He's my… friend."

Such trust was there between the two that Kurt's demeanour immediately relaxed. Remy reached out slowly for the collar.

"I think I can help," he murmured. "If I may?" His tone was soothing, mindful as he was not to make any fast movements, or to distress the man needlessly. Kurt said nothing, merely nodded.

Remy felt along the smooth, curved steel, remembering how he'd first found the catch on the bracelet, how the notch had felt. It wasn't hard to find – but it was, as Kurt had said, locked tight. With all the control Rogue so envied he sent a small surge of power coursing into the gap. With a muffled pop the charge detonated, and the collar fell away. As soon as it had done so, the man named Kurt became a man no longer – but the demonic-looking creature that his father had so reviled and sent far, far away across the ocean. Despite knowing what he knew, Remy could not help his breath from hitching at the sight of him.

It was almost as if Kurt knew it. He regarded Remy with an expression that was gentle yet resigned.

"Danke, mein Freund," he thanked him quietly.

Remy nodded wordlessly, moving back, letting Rogue take over.

"So – do you have enough strength to 'port us out, Kurt? Is there a place you can take us?"

He looked doubtful – and seeing the state he was in, Remy wasn't sure the man was in any condition to get himself very far, let alone all three of them.

"I can try," he replied uncertainly. "There are the woods outside the camp – but it is not very far."

"Anywhere will do," Rogue whispered urgently. "Anywhere that ain't inside here."

Kurt was silent a long, lingering moment. Several of his fellow inmates had awoken and were sitting up now, openly watching. An inner struggle was palpable on his face as he looked at his comrades, people he had shared so much with. He knew he could not save them all.

"Go, Kurt," a silver-haired man whispered. "Go, if you can."

Once others had spoken, myriad others followed suit, urging him to make the choice they too would make, had they the chance. It was a permission Kurt had not dared to ask for, nor known he had wanted – but now that he had it, he raised his eyes to Rogue's with a steadfast look.

"I will get us there," he said. He reached out for them both with spindly fingers. "Take my hands."

Remy did so, feeling bone and cold, clammy skin beneath the patchy fur. Then there was a jolt, a blast of sulphur—and suddenly they were out in the darkness, under the protective canopies of trees. Through the trunks Remy could just about make out the dim glow of the camp a little way down the hill.

For a few seconds the stench of sulphur lingered before giving way to the scent of spruce and pine. Kurt, exhausted, slumped back against a tree root.

"We're free," he muttered, too shattered to even celebrate the victory. A breeze whistled through the leaves, dispersing the last traces of his infernal power from the air.

In the ensuing silence, Rogue and Remy shared a look. There were plans they had made, to hightail it out of there and fly Kurt to the nearest safe spot. But one look in her eyes, and Remy knew what her thoughts were. She didn't have to speak them out loud.

"We can't leave those people," she spoke what she didn't need to.

"Oh, we ain't gonna," he replied calmly. He dipped his hand into his duster pocket and brought out his deck. "I got fifty-two bombs here and I'm itchin' t'use 'em right now."

Kurt stared at him.

"The two of you intend to go alone? It is not possible! Such a thing is suicide!"

Remy hitched him a grim smile.

"We're mutants, mon ami. Nothin' is impossible."

Kurt frowned, blinked. His expression cleared.

"Then I will join you."

"No." Rogue's tone was stern. "You're too weak, Kurt."

"I must be there to teleport the others out, Marie. If you free them, how will they get out?"

Rogue was silent a moment.

"I can't let ya go back in there, Kurt. There's no way you can even make a coupla journeys in your state. The effort will kill ya."

"It's simple," Remy cut in. "We take out the guards, we take down the gate. Everyone has an escape route."

He turned, began to walk back towards the camp. There was an ugly thing inside him, slithering up from his stomach to his throat and making his jaw clench.

Rogue took the ring out of bomber jacket, slipped it into her trouser pocket, and gently laid the garment over Kurt.

"Here. Keep warm," she murmured. "We'll be back soon."

He grasped her hand weakly.

"Be careful, Marie."

She swallowed. She nodded. She squeezed his hand and left.

In a few seconds she had caught up with Remy.

"Rogue," he said, acknowledging her.

"They will pay for this," she spoke grimly. He passed her a sidelong look, one that asked her what she had seen when she had absorbed the guard. She wasn't ready to speak of the things she had seen, but they were hot and brimming behind her skull, hot as the rage that was steadily building inside of her. To speak of it would be to lose control and never resurface.

"They will pay," was all she could reiterate.

He nodded.

They marched wordlessly up to the gateway to the camp, where two soldiers were standing guard. As they approached they lifted their rifles, aiming at the interlopers.

"This is restricted property!" one of the soldiers barked. "Civilians not allowed! Turn back!"

But Rogue was staunch, rigid, an ungodly fury almost crackling off of her.

"We are not civilians," she responded in quiet German. "And you will pay."

Remy sucked in an audible breath as she stalked towards them, utterly fearless. The soldiers were rightly taken aback, pausing, mouths agape, as they finally understood her intent. Precious moments passed before they gathered their wits, aimed and finally took fire. She barely shrugged off the onslaught, bullets spraying off her like lead confetti. Remy took the cards of his pocket and charged them slowly, watching as she took down her foes with practiced ease, fist to jaw, one, two. He remembered a time before where he had done this – watched her in the unforgiving heat of the desert, fighting with this cold and driving precision, wreaking pain and destruction on her enemies with painful ease. It was almost frightening to witness – yet there was a brutal finesse to her he admired – always had done. Now was no different. Almost to counter her methodical efficiency, he tossed the charged cards at the towering gate with an almost lackadaisical gesture. The screeching missiles thudded into the wooden slats and exploded on impact, shattering the gate into a thousand burning pieces.

With the explosion came the loss of any element of surprise – but stealth had not been his intention. Panicked yells in German rose up in the darkness, and it didn't take long for all the guards to filter towards the smouldering entrance. Neatly packed into one convenient space, it was easy for Rogue to make short work of them, while he ducked and weaved between the heaving, falling bodies, stalking towards the detainee's sleeping quarters and blowing the doors off their hinges with a few well-aimed projectiles.

"Leave!" he called out into the dank and dingy huts, first in French, then in German, and finally English. "The gate is open! You can leave!"

He didn't wait to make sure that his command was heard. He moved from cabin to cabin, taking out the odd soldier who decided to leave the fray with Rogue. When he had liberated the last hut, he turned to see how Rogue was doing. He was none too surprised to see her taking down a final soldier with a headbutt; but he was surprised to see that the left side of the gateway was engulfed in fire.

He paused, breath hitched. Wood. This entire place was wood. And his exploding the gate must've set off a stray spark.

Rogue was advancing towards him, her hair wild, her cheek bruised.

"You got all'a them?"

He nodded. There was a steady bleed of prisoners emerging from the huts, but not as many as he had anticipated. Those who could walk were mostly too slow to make hasty progress; many were assisting one another towards the exit. Perhaps some were too weak to rise from their beds. Perhaps others feared free, and the agency it afforded them. He didn't blame them. Where to next was a question that often was not easy to answer.

But they needed to evacuate, and fast. The conflagration was growing, and flames had begun to lick at the base of the camp's watchtower.

"We need to make sure everyone leaves," he said. "You check those huts for any stragglers; I'll check these ones. We'll meet back up at the gate."

Rogue nodded, flying off without another word said. She zipped over to the first hut, calling out into the darkness, hearing nothing. Aware of how much time was at stake, she streaked over to the next cabin, seeing a small clutch of captives helping a frail older man out.

"You go!" she ordered them. "I'll take him!"

She didn't wait for them to obey. Gripping him by the scruff of his threadbare shirt, she whipped him up and into the air with her, darting over the wall, up towards the treeline, and depositing him in the undergrowth, where she knew he would be safe. She needed no thanks – and if he had been inclined to give her any, she was already up and away again, back towards the camp, finding others who needed the most help and transporting them over to the woods to join their compatriots.

She didn't see Remy. But she trusted he would be safe. She could not allow herself to think of any other possibility.

It was on her third trip back that she heard the gunshots – the pitter-patter of machinegun fire hitting bare earth, and then softer, fleshier targets. She landed in the quad, swirling round, trying to pinpoint the source of the onslaught, only to see a gaunt young couple who had been running for the gate topple to the ground right before her eyes.

With a cry Rogue dropped to her knees beside them, ready to render aid. The man was already dead, and beyond help. The woman was still alive, barely.

Rogue rolled her onto her bag, seeing cadaverous grey eyes in what once would have been a beautiful face. It was only as she looked into those eyes that she realised how young the woman was – perhaps not much older than eighteen or nineteen. For a moment they shared a look, communicating something that could not be said with words; and the girl opened her mouth to speak.

"Ich…" was all she could say, before her mouth welled with blood and she coughed, spraying the droplets onto Rogue's face.

"Shhh," she whispered. She yanked open the girl's shirt, seeing more than one bloody bullet wound. She had been lung shot. Rogue swallowed, her eyes welling. The end could not be far.

The girl was making sounds, desperately trying to communicate something; and Rogue took her hand, held it tight.

"It's all right," she murmured in German. "I am here with you."

She sat with her for the full minute it took for her to die. Bullets thudded around her, but she paid them no heed. Her invulnerability felt like a betrayal to this woman, to the general, to all those who had died at her hands. If only she had died like she should have so many countless times, so many others might have lived.

At last the woman grew quiet, still. Rogue gently closed her eyes and let out a tremulous breath.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

She knew intimately that those words would never be enough.

She stood.

The syncopated rhythm of the machine gun rattled across the courtyard, and she lifted her head to the sound, her eyes catching the muzzle flash up on the blazing guard tower, a soldier executing his last stand.

From amidst the growing flames and the bullet-ridden corpses, Remy came running up – but she barely saw him. Her eyes were cast up at the tower, suddenly burning with an icy cold flame. Remy saw it, knew instinctively what it meant.

"Rogue," he breathed.

She didn't listen, didn't even appear to have heard him. She began to walk towards the tower, a furious purpose in her stride.

For a moment Remy could only stare, rooted to the spot, as she marched across the dirt with her fists balled so tight her skin was white. Shaking himself, he ran after her, catching up, running alongside her breathlessly.

"Rogue," he shot at her. "What you gonna do?"

She didn't respond, just kept walking with this cold, cold fire in her eyes, and he stepped out in front of her, gripping the front of her jacket, making her stop.

"Marie," he said breathlessly. "Whatever you're thinkin', don't do it."

Her eyes moved to his, the colour of her skin impossibly white against the blood which was smeared across her cheek.

"Don't," he pleaded.

Gunfire rang out again, spraying above their heads – screams followed, shrieks of pain and anguish. Her gaze hardened again; and she pushed him aside roughly, not even waiting for him to reach out for her again. In a flash she was in the air, soaring out of his grasp, up to the peak of the burning tower. Remy stared after her. That look in her eyes… he'd never seen anything like it. Cold, raging, vengeful.

He imagined Belle looking up into those same cold eyes in her final moments… and his heart sank. His stomach pitched.

"Merde," he muttered under his breath.

Without a second thought he began to run towards the burning tower.

High above the chaos Rogue hovered, glistening like gold in the flickering light of the flames. In any other setting she would have seemed like an angel, something cast down from heaven. But for the murderous intent in her eyes, any onlooker would have thought her divine.

But for the young soldier behind the machine gun, barely eighteen and only six years from the ancient tales of heroic glory his grandmother had once told him, he saw something neither angelic, nor divine. Through the flames he saw the woman ascend towards him, clothes burning and skin smeared with blood, gaze glittering like hot coals in the reflected light.

"Then a light shone from Logafell," he recited the words in a reverent murmur as the woman rose through the inferno towards him, "and from that light came lightning-bolts; wearing helmets at Himinvangi came the Valkyries, their byrnies drenched in blood."

The woman hovered there, staring at him with a gaze cold and imperious, an agent of death come to take heroes from the battlefield to everlasting glory. He had never seen a woman so beautiful yet so terrifying in all his life.

"Mutter Maria," he muttered at the awesome sight. Death was upon him. He felt sure of it. And suddenly he was afraid – deathly afraid.

The woman seemed to sense it. With a feral smile she swooped in his direction, through the window and past him, into the tower. He swivelled on the spot with the gun turret, trying desperately to track her, losing her in the flames. He squinted, the heat and the smoke stinging his eyes… And then suddenly, there she was. Walking through the flames towards him. The remaining tatters of her clothes burning away, her hair singed and wild. Her glance was ravenous with rage and vengeance. This was no divine beauty come to lead him to his glory. This was something else.

With shaking hands he aimed the gun at her, his finger hitting the trigger and holding it down.

A shower of bullets struck her, bouncing off of her pale skin, leaving not even a mark. She continued to advance upon him, this horrifying vision of beauty, a hunter stalking its outclassed prey. No matter how hard he fired he could not slow her down. She advanced on him without even a stumble in her step, all but naked now as the last scraps of her clothing seared away.

She reached him, slapping the gun turret away with a single swipe of her arm, contorting the metal structure into a twisted heap, in an amazing display of raw power. He took a step back and promptly fell onto his rear-end.

"Those are people down there," she said in a harsh, driving tone. "And you will pay."

He didn't understand the words, but he could comprehend their meaning.

"Teufel!" he spat, petrified beyond reason; but she grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up to her level, completely one-handed, and she smiled at him, like the demon he now knew her to be.

"Übermensch," she corrected him calmly.

And her other fist shot out and snapped round his neck.

Almost at once there was a pain he'd never felt before, a spiralling of his essence, his entire being, outside of himself, out into some pinprick tunnel that started and ended at the points their skin touched… Everything he was and had been was being sucked up by, into, the demon woman, and he clawed at her hands for his life, for mercy, but her grip was like a vice, and yes – here was his death… …

Cherry trees and bike rides, forest excursions and fishing for tadpoles…

The sharp end of his father's belt, and first kisses under cover of the rhododendron bush by the old cemetery…

Cold winter nights gathered by his grandmother's hearth, tales of heroes, of Helgi Hundingsbane and the beautiful Sigrun, his breath taken away by the sweep of the words and the soaring vistas they conjured up, and… …

He's a soldier now, so proud and eager in his uniform, his family excited for their son to make a difference, he starts tomorrow, he'll prove himself, he'll prove his worth to Helga, and… …

… And Sigrun rising through the flames towards him, dreadful and beautiful, like a thing from his dreams, from his nightmares, with murder in her eyes…

She snaps her hand round his neck and everything tunnels… And here comes the thin, black precipice of death… …

Rogue let go as though burned by flames; and the boy soldier crumpled to ground, unmoving. The shrivelled face of Belle danced before her eyes; of all the people she had killed, the dead faces she had spent years trying to atone for.

Tears ran down her face and would not stop falling.

"Marie!"

Remy's voice cut through the roaring of the inferno around her, and she turned towards it as he came up the stairs and finally saw her. He stopped, seeing the soldier at her feet, fearing the worst.

"I couldn't do it," she said to him. "I couldn't."

The building creaked as if in pain, the room pitching and swaying slightly between them. He paid it no mind. Relief crossed his face. Today, that day, she had made the choice she'd never made eight years ago.

He moved towards her, and she moved towards him; and the tower groaned, the floorboards giving way right under his feet. With a muffled scream Rogue lunged forward, trying to catch him, the toxic skin of her hand missing his by mere inches. Realising what she had almost done, she went to her pocket for the ring, but—her clothes were gone, all burned away.

The ring was gone.

Fear and dread twisted through her.

She crawled on all fours to the ragged edge of the hole that had swallowed him up, peered down into the gaping furnace.

He was there, hanging onto a beam, fingers raw and bloody, what seemed like a bottomless pit of raw flame licking at his feet.

"Remy!" she called. Panic blinded her. She had no idea what to do. "Th-the ring! It's gone! I-I don't know where it is!"

He stared back up at her, teeth grit, reaching out with his other hand to grip the beam.

"Dammit, Marie. Why you still here, woman? Get outta here, while you still can. I'll be right behind you."

She knew he wouldn't. Her eyes burned.

"Remy… …"

"Marie. Get outta here. Please."

She shook her head, hot tears streaking down her cheeks.

"I can't," she half-whispered. "I love you." She reached out into the void between them, laying herself flat out on the ground, speaking the simple truth that, for so long, she had denied herself. "I won't hurt you," she told him. "I promise."

He looked at her open hand, then at her face. There was doubt in his eyes.

"Marie..."

"I can't lose you again!" she cried, tears dripping from her chin into the fiery chasm. She swallowed, reached harder, further. Reaching, as he once had for the ring. "Take my hand," she heard herself say, an inexplicable calmness coming over her. "I won't hurt you. I promise."

His gaze flickered.

She saw something she wasn't sure she'd seen in him before.

Doubt giving way to trust.

He reached back up to her with one hand, struggling to push himself through the gap between them, to bridge the space between them once more.

And she reached back, seeing nothing but his hand, his face, wanting nothing more in her entire life than to have him back, this thing she had never really ever had, yet had treasured so dearly.

It was a moment of supreme clarity.

She didn't just want. She needed him to live.

And, not even consciously, she willed her powers off.

Their fingertips brushed – and there was no pull, no rush of memories. For a moment they paused, open-mouthed, stunned.

"Demon!"

She heard the word, and then the gunshots... felt them sear through her back. If there was pain, it was some distant, abstract thing. She set her teeth and they both strained towards one another, palms open, touching, then clasping onto one another... ...

She put both her hands on his, heaved as she'd never done before, and she suddenly realised that she had never known before what weight truly was without her superhuman strength... ...

Slowly, surely, she raised him up to the edge of the hole, and with his own strength he clambered up over the top and straight into her waiting arms. She embraced him fiercely, cheek to cheek, unafraid anymore of stealing his thoughts, his essence.

"Demon!" She heard the word again, and she ripped herself away from Remy, standing and turning, switching her powers back on, amazed at how simple it was to do so.

The soldier was standing there, service pistol in hand. Click, click, click, went the gun... he'd already emptied the entire clip into her back, and yet she'd felt nothing. All she saw now was what he was – a scared boy who'd had dreams that she'd shattered in one fell swoop.

Well, he wouldn't hurt anyone else, not tonight.

She slapped him away, knocking him clean out and back onto the floor.

Remy stepped up behind her. The brutal effortlessness of her power never failed to amaze him.

"His favourite fruits are cherries, and he loves his grandmammy," she told him sadly. "And he kills innocents, because that's what he thinks a soldier does."

She hoisted the boy up onto her shoulder as if picking up a sack of potatoes. She was surprised when she felt Remy put a gentle hand on her upper arm.

"Marie," he said. "Your back."

She twisted round to look, not understanding. She was surprised to see there were bloody bullet holes peppered across her flesh – yet still she could feel nothing.

"I'm invulnerable."

"You weren't when you took these."

The concern on his face gave her pause, but, buoyed by adrenaline and the sheer triumph of the moment, she merely shrugged it off.

"I'm fine." She reached out to him. "Hold onto me, Cajun. I'll get us outta here."

He smiled, reassured by her nonchalance. When he wrapped an arm round her waist, he remembered the first night she flown with him over the lights of Paris, something he never even knew he had missed. Now, graceful and incandescent as an angel in the flickering firelight, she glided down from the tower to terra firma, placing the boy gently on the ground. Behind them, the watchtower gave a final keening groan before slowly crumpling into a twisted mass of smoking debris. The grounds were silent now, save for the spitting and crackling of the conflagration around them.

For several heartbeats they stared at one another, lit up as though by a glorious sunset. She leaned in towards him, touching her forehead to his, still amazed when there was no headrush, no absorption. It was a miracle, a blessing to just rest her forehead against his, to soak in his warmth, skin to skin. It felt like a loss to finally pull apart.

"Here," he murmured, sliding off his duster and slipping it on her tenderly, shielding her nude body from the elements. He looked up, over the horizon, towards the woods, where Kurt was waiting. "Time we skedaddled, chere."

She nodded; and he tucked his arms around her waist, under the coat, pausing only to tilt her a pensive glance.

"Don't worry about my skin touching yours," he said. "You can fly and touch at the same time. Try it. No need to switch anything on and off. Just let both states be at the same time."

She nodded again. Slowly, she ascended into the air, concentrating at first, starting a little when she felt his bare hand splay against the small of her back. But all there was was his warmth, the pattern of his long fingers on her bare skin. She expelled a breath she hadn't even known she'd been holding, a giddy laugh of disbelief and delight falling from her lips.

"Control," he murmured, and:

"Control," she agreed, with an excited smile.

She whisked them both into a loop-de-loop, whooping with joy at the fact that she could do so. He laughed, to see this Rogue he had never seen before, the woman he had once longed to make love to over the lights of Paris. If he couldn't have that now, he was sure as hell going to kiss her, and he did. She kissed him back, for the first time with real hope that something more might await them beyond this moment. The thought of such a thing made her dizzy with elation. To love and be loved… such a thing had always felt so out of reach.

Now, under the pale, pale moon, perhaps it would finally be within her grasp.

-oOo-

They touched down in the little copse where Kurt was waiting for them, dust and leaves whirling in their wake.

Their feet had barely touched the ground before Rogue was sprinting across the ground towards him on bare feet, launching herself at him and pressing an excited kiss to his lips.

Kurt was amazed, first at her joy, and second that she was kissing him at all.

"Marie!" he cried, shocked, as she pulled away. "You just kissed me!"

"That I did, mister!" She laughed joyously.

"But you didn't absorb me!"

"No," she agreed, beaming from ear to ear. "I didn't."

Remy stepped up beside her, a small smile of his own lighting his face.

"Control," was all he said.

Kurt stared. He didn't know how she had been able to achieve such a thing in such a short amount of time, but… that didn't matter to him. What mattered was that it was apparently true. He put his arms around his friend and held her tight.

"I head explosions," he said to Remy over her shoulder. "The place… is it gone? Did everyone make it out?"

Remy's lips went tight.

"The place is gone," he answered grimly. "Whether everyone made it out though…"

He trailed off, and Kurt nodded gravely.

"I understand." His expression was sad, yet resigned. "Thank you, mein Freund. Thank you, Marie."

But Marie didn't answer; and he realised that her body was tense in his arms, her breathing short and sharp, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Alarmed, he drew back from her, seeing her crumple in on herself on a cry of pain.

"Marie!" he exclaimed. "Marie, what's the matter?!"

She nearly toppled over on to her side, but suddenly Remy was on his knees, catching her.

"Marie," he spoke her name fearfully, grabbing her agonised face between his hands. "Marie, what's wrong?"

She stared back up at him, almost uncomprehending, the pupils tiny pinpricks in her green eyes.

"P-p-pain," she stammered. "It hurts…"

"She doesn't feel pain," Kurt said anxiously, and Remy swore to himself.

"Shit."

He stripped the coat from her, tilted her slightly onto her side. The bullet holes in her back had stopped bleeding, but he could only surmise that the bullets were still inside her, and he wasn't sure what that meant when she was supposed to be invulnerable. She was invulnerable on the outside, he knew that. He didn't know how invulnerable she was on the inside.

Kurt gaped.

"But she's invulnerable," he protested.

"Yeah," Remy nodded, teeth gritted. "But she wasn't when she got these."

He wrapped the coat gently around her again, trying not to jar her in any way. She was whimpering, her teeth chattering as if from the cold. He knew it was from shock.

"Marie," he murmured urgently, anxiously, taking her face back in his hands. "Marie, stay awake, please, chere. Don't fall asleep on me, okay?"

Her gaze was still confused, as if she didn't fully recognise him.

"It hurts s-s-so bad… …" she stuttered.

"I know, chere. I know. But don't sleep. You're goin' into shock. Stay awake for me. Please."

She'd never felt pain like this before. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt pain at all. When she was a child… before her powers had first manifested. It was slamming into every sense she possessed, making everything buzz, tighten in, tunnel around her. Light was bleaching into the frayed edges of her perception. It was so bright, so soothing. So insidiously welcoming.

"Marie."

She heard her name again, in his voice. It was the only thing that could call her back, and she blinked, trying to focus on his face as it swam before her eyes.

"Marie."

She felt him shake her gently, felt the warmth of his touch on her cheek, drawing her back.

"Don't sleep on me now, Marie. Don't you dare. Not now. Not when I've found you again, dammit. I won't fuckin' let you."

The words were hoarse, roughened – she heard tears in his voice. And the pain was eating her up, but it was nothing compared to the pain she felt to know that this was hurting him.

Don't cry, Remy. Not for me.

Did she say it? She didn't know. But she heard him weeping, heard him whisper:

"Don't leave me…"

There were planes in the distance… Birdsong, as morning began to break…

And he held her close to him, pressed her body to his, pressed her cheek to his, and then her lips. She didn't respond. Only the warmth of her breath told him that she was still alive.

"Don't leave me," he whispered fiercely.

But Rogue heard nothing more.

-oOo-