Chapter 2 – Act One

Summary:

Though the Lady of the Underworld has denied his boon, the Thief performs the impossible as he seeks a way into her good graces.

Will she accept his gifts, or will he be denied?

The Thief intrigued her.

It was not common for a mortal to so fascinate her. She was Lady of the Underworld. The dead and dying were her domain. Yet, this living, breathing man had worked his way under her skin. He occupied a space in her brain. Her skin buzzed with an unfamiliar energy when he was near and the energy lingered long after he was gone. His scent—spicy and alive—filled her senses. Even when he was not near, he haunted her.

She knew of him, of course. As far and wide as the tales of the Reaper spread, so did the tales of the Thief whom sought her. Until today she had not given much thought to those stories. When she first heard tell of him, she reasoned that with time, the Thief would grow weary of his quest. Surely once he discovered that she was truly unattainable, he would cease his game and find something else to occupy his time.

And yet, he proved her suppositions false. He accomplished what nary a mortal soul had managed in all her time as Lady of the Underworld. No one trespassed into her realm. No one courted her presence or her touch. The Thief—Gambit—had done all this and more. He stood boldly before her without hesitation or fear and asked a boon of her. His sincerity burned so brightly in his unusual garnet on onyx eyes that she had to look away.

Running the coins the Thief had used to gain access to her realm over and under her fingers in a subconscious pattern, Rogue sought to understand why he had risked his very soul to enter her realm. The finely wrought designs bathed in brackish waters told a story. It was a tale she could not read, but one she understood with every beat of her heart. An innate loneliness clung to the coins with every pass—there had been no one to mourn him, to complete the payment with their tears. Beyond the deep-seated pangs which called to the chords of loneliness hidden within her own heart, she sensed the deep yearning which permeated every step of his journey. Catching the coins, she clutched them in her hand, leaving the impression of the design imprinted on her palm.

What did he think to gain by pursuing her?

Closing her eyes, Rogue laid down in her chamber and tried to forget the Thief who dared ask a boon of her. The man who sought her touch without fear. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and spilled in silent, salty trails down her cheeks. With the side of her hand still clasped around the coins, she brushed away the telltale tracks, wishing it was as simple to brush aside her recent thoughts. It would do her no good to allow the memory of him to linger. To allow his presence to take root in her psyche.

Little did she know, she was already too late. He had already breached the defensive walls she had constructed around her heart.

For a week, the Thief remained naught but a persistent memory as she went about her duties. Whenever she walked upon the Mortal Realm, she could almost swear that she caught a glimpse in her peripheral vision of auburn hair and sharp features chiseled from living stone. But, whenever she paused to look again, he was never there. It was always another face, another voice, and never the one she longed to meet again. She longed for the buzz of his touch to caress her skin.

With a sharp shake of her head, she attempted to erase those memories, those longings. The Thief was a bold one, she would give him that. Yet, despite his boldness, she knew that they could never be more than they were in that moment when he approached her throne. To continue to long for a man—a mere Mortal at that—would lead to nothing but heartache. Not even the other Immortals dared to court her and risk her poisonous touch. Instead, they set her upon a shelf they called a pedestal like she was a fragile, breakable thing.

Until he disrupted her solitude, she'd grown almost accustomed to her lonely path. No amount of wishing could change the facts of her life. Hope had burned down to the smallest ember, until no one except herself could detect the existence of the minute spark. It was better this way. The others believed she had accepted her lot in life and she had no desire to dissuade them of this belief. She did not want their pity.

Yet, on days like today, when her duties weighed heavily on her shoulders as she once more experienced the worst of humanity, she would give nigh on anything to not be left physically alone to wallow in her thoughts. The curse of her Gifts allowed her to preserve the memories of every life she escorted into her Realm. Their bodies might be gone, but the memories of their lives would remain, forever imprinted on her psyche. She could not close her eyes and block the horrors from her vision; she could not cover ears and silence their screams from her hearing. With a touch, each travesty became a part of her. Indelibly as though they were her own.

At the threshold of her throne room, Rogue froze.

Laid out on her table was a feast, the likes of which she had not seen in many, many ages. As an Immortal, she did not need to eat as Mortals did. The food did not sustain her, but there was more to eating and drinking than sustenance. Food was pleasure, it was generosity, it was community. It was everything she was not.

And yet, this meal called to her. It was not the ambrosia and nectar favored among the rest of the pantheon. Even when she received their reluctant invitations and joined them among their vaunted ranks, she rarely partook. The flavors were dull and lifeless on her tongue. The others did not want her among their number and their food held no sway.

Nor was this the food of her realm. It was neither the shade nor memory of meals once consumed. Her usual fare held the flavors of memories—a favorite cake made by one's mother, the chicken noodle soup offered by a friend when ill, recipes lost and never repeated, secret ingredients and family recipes without an heir to inherit. Here she could indulge in taste and flavor, brighter and bolder than anything tasted among the Mortal World, but the food was without substance. It dissolved on the tongue like candy floss.

No, this was a proper meal. A spicy gumbo filled with shrimp and okra in a savory, deep red broth. Cornbread. And a pecan pie—sweet and sticky, set in a flaky crust. The whole meal was cooked to perfection. As the food touched her tongue, for a sublime moment, she felt as though she was wholly alive.

While she was not one of the shades which haunted her realm, nor was she one of the memories and psyches which lingered in her mind, yet, it had been a long time since she felt she had been truly alive. Most days, she existed. She drifted. She did not live.

This day, this glorious moment of time, with the feast laid out before her, she lived.

With the meal finished, all which remained behind was a single playing card. A fond smile, as sweet as the taste of tea which lingered, graced her lips. Rogue palmed the card—the King of Hearts, with eyes a distinctive garnet on onyx. Her Thief had once again proved capable of the impossible.

As she went about her duties, she carried the King of Hearts near her heart. Through the days were long and her duties arduous, the presence of his memory warmed her. Though her rational mind told her to forget him, to not seek the impossible, the seeds of hope which had burrowed deep in her heart started to take root.

Several days later, the scent woke her. Sweet and heady, it drew her in like a bee to honey. Following the scent, she trod the familiar path to her throne room. The cavernous chamber was festooned with flowers. Heavy boughs of white flowers wound around the priceless gems and precious metals. The glint and gleam of jewels appeared cold and dead surrounded by the vibrant blooms.

Cautiously, she brushed her fingers along the silken petals. Magnolias.

She closed her eyes and envisioned her childhood home. A grand old magnolia tree held pride of place in the front yard. When her tasks as Lady of the Underworld grew heavy and her heart could no longer bear under the weight of stolen memories and whispering psyches, she would close her eyes and breathe in the fading memory of that scent. She would recall how she had found respite from the heat of the day and her unhappy childhood under the grand old boughs. How she would while away summer afternoons during the days she had gone by yet another name. A name which had not been uttered by neither Mortal nor Immortal tongue since the day she became Legacy. Reaper. Death.

For the first time in generations, she inhaled the familiar comforting scent as something other than a dusty memory. Reveling in the presence of life—of growth—in her realm of death and stone, she cupped the nearest bloom in her hands and breathed deeply. The blooms did not wilt and rot under her touch.

How?

She followed the blooms, the boughs, to a sturdy trunk. Down the trunk, she discovered roots buried impossibly deep into the foundation her realm. Unlike a tree in the mortal realm, the roots did not buckle or crack the cavern floor. There was a harmony. A melding. Life and death. Warm and cold. The past and the future existing in the present. They did not die, because they were so full of life.

Her Thief had done it again. He had defied the rules of her realm and given her the gift of life where none had been before.

Settling on the ground beneath the sturdy boughs like she had as a child long ago, she stared up into the network of limbs, leaves, and blooms. The neighboring branches created a perfect bower. A soft smile settled on her lips as she relaxed into the privacy of the sweet scented haven and felt the weight on her heart begin to lift.

Above her head, in the crook where a branch separated into a 'y', she caught the flicker of red where it did not belong. Reaching up, she freed another playing card from its hiding place. It was as if he could read her mind and knew she would seek sanctuary here. She ran the pad of her bare thumb over the glossy surface. This time, the card was the mate of the first card he left her—the Queen of Hearts. Instead of the traditional wimple covering her head, the Queen bore an all too familiar visage with a head of white and cinnamon curls.

Retrieving the King of Hearts, she pressed the matching pair of cards to her lips. No matter how futile the wish, she longed to see her Thief again. But, after a moment, she banished the desire to the depths and secreted the cards back to their place over her heart. It was of no use to hope or dream about what could never be. In the end, a dream, no matter how lovely, was naught but a dream and could not remain in the light of the morning.

She was wrong.

The dream did not fade with the waking. The longing persisted. The seed of hope bloomed like the magnolias which did not only remain in her realm, but thrived.

When she returned to her Realm after a particularity arduous day, there would be a feast laid out on her table. Lilacs, daisies, and tulips joined the magnolias. Her cavernous realm became a garden brimming with life. Scarcely a day went by she didn't spy some new evidence that he had been there.

How he entered her Realm without her detecting his presence remained a mystery. Though she sought answers with the zeal of a devoted acolyte, she was no closer to discovering his secrets. He truly was a master thief. What little of the mystery she had managed to unfold burned brightly in her pocket. Her own tears had bathed his original fare, paying his entry fee a tenfold more than he could ever begin to use in this life or the next.

Only one thing was remained clear. Her Thief was no ordinary Mortal.

Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the back of her throne. Her throne room was no longer a forbidding place. The fresh flowers softened the hard lines and rough surfaces, while the warm, tantalizing aromas of home cooked meals created a welcoming allure. And yet, she remained lonely.

She had no one she could share these new treasures with. Common wisdom told her that what she longed for was impossible. Forbidden. Still, she could not shake it. Could not forget him. The more she tried, the more his memory wormed deeper into her psyche.

A soft mewing startled her out of her reverie. Opening her eyes, Rogue sought the source of the small, foreign noise. The mewing began anew, echoing off the cavern walls giving the impression of not one, but three.

With a heavy sigh, she chastised her over active imagination. All the longing in the world would not change the facts. She was fated to rule her realm alone. Still, she persisted in her search. As she moved about the chamber, the hem of her inky cloak brushed along the edge of the pathway and stirred a cluster of verdant, new growth. The movement released an infusion of lavender into the air. She sank down and gently rubbed the purple blooms between her fingers and delighted in the fact they did not wither at her touch. Despite evidence to the contrary, no life save hers alone could survive in this forsaken land.

Her cloak rustled as she caught the flicker of movement from the corner of her eye. Reaching for the disturbance, her fingers brushed against short, silky fur and a living, breathing side. In a moment, the flowers were forgotten as she turned to find a grey cat nuzzling her palm.

"Hello there. Who might you be?" she cooed softly.

Though she wasn't expecting a response—at least one she could understand, she was almost disappointed when he didn't reply. After all, these were the days of miracles. Life had entered the Underworld and it had not only existed—it thrived.

The cat did not protest as she picked him up and settled him in her arms. He purred a contented rhythm against her chest. Under her fingers, she felt the strong, steady beat of his heart. Each beat was a refrain proclaiming, I'm alive.

A collar of buttery soft leather encircled his neck. Scarlet thread, stitched into the black leather, offered an answer to her question.

"Oliver," she tried the name and liked how it sounded when spoken aloud. "It's nice to meet you, sug."

"Me-ow," Oliver responded with an insouciant stretch, though he made no move to escape from her hold.

Again, the cry echoed around the room. Except...

No.

The sound did not echo. The garden absorbed the sounds and dampened the echo which had previously been her only companion. Oliver had not taken up residence in her Realm alone. He had brothers. Two of them. Their heartbeats called to her.

Down around her feet, an orange cat wound his way in her wake. Searching for his collar, she found his name likewise stitched in red thread. This one was Lucifer. The third of the trio was more difficult to find than his brothers. He had hidden among the branches of the magnolia; his white fur blended in among the blossoms.

As she neared his hiding place, the white cat leapt from the branches and landed on her shoulders. Unlike Oliver, he was not content to remain in her arms. He squirmed and fought against her hold until she placed him on the ground beside Lucifer. In his struggle, she caught a glimpse of his name. Figaro completed the trio.

"How did you get here?" She mused aloud, not needing to ask who left them here to keep her company.

Beside each name, a red heart was stitched into the collar. With a purring Oliver cradled in her arms, and with Figaro and Lucifer following in her steps like royal attendants in service to their queen, she returned to her golden throne. Tucked among the jeweled encrusted whirls, she found another playing card. This time, a Three of Hearts. A heart for each of the boys who now resided in her home.

A smile curled on her lips. The small gesture softened her expression and lightened her heart.

Her Thief continued in his quest to achieve the impossible.

In doing so he invoked even more than he have ever hoped or dreamed.

"Meine schwester," Nightcrawler said as he bamf-ed into her realm, bringing the scent of brimstone with him. "Rumors have reached us that the nature of your Realm is changing."

"Hello to you as well, sugah." A bemused smirk rested on her lips as Rogue observed her brother's reactions to the changes in her Realm. He stared slack-jawed at the indulgence of greenery filling the once barren cavern. A puzzled gasp escaped from his lips as he contrasted the warm explosion of colors presently blooming throughout the chamber to the shimmering, cool gleam of precious gems and metals which had previously been the caverns only adornments. His gaze did not stop roaming her throne room until it settled upon where she sat on her throne.

Oliver, the most affectionate of the feline trio, laid on the arm of her throne as she pet him. Figaro wound about her legs while Lucifer ventured forth to examine the newcomer.

Nightcrawler started as Lucifer nuzzled against his leg. After a moment of hesitation, her brother ran a hand through the orange fur. He stilled at the steady beat of the cat's heart and the even rhythm of breath. Lucifer purred in approval of their guest.

"It lives," Nightcrawler whispered in scarcely contained awe. "How?"

"He does. His brothers likewise." Rogue stood and gestured towards her private chambers. Leading the way, she escorted her brother towards her kitchen. Before now, none of the others had ventured beyond her Throne Room. "As for how, that is a more complicated question. One for which I do not have a complete answer."

"What do you mean?" Curiosity warred with concern in his voice.

Though the Garden of her Throne Room did not extend beyond the grand cavern, the cats followed as they had made her chambers their home as much as they were hers.

In the kitchen, Rogue poured two tall glasses of sweet tea and handed one to her brother. "I don't know how any of this is possible, but I know who is responsible for the changes."

"Then, who is responsible?" Familiar with the unsatisfactory nature of the food from her realm, Nightcrawler frowned at the drink.

Rogue rolled her eyes and took a long, refreshing drink. Ice cubes clinked against the side of the glass. "Drink up. Then I'll tell ya what I know."

With an impatient sigh, he took a polite sip of the tea. When the taste did not dissolve on his tongue, he took another before greedily finishing the glass. "How is this possible?"

"You're sounding like a broken record, but I suppose the answer to all your questions is the same." Rogue began warming two servings of leftover shrimp étouffée and cornbread. "Gambit."

"What kind of gambit? You are not making any sense. Have we left you too long alone?" His nostrils flared at the enticing aroma of warming food.

"I ain't crazy." The serving spoon clattered to the counter as she placed her hands on her hips and leaned in close to her brother. Instinctually, he backed up a step to leave the prescribed distance between them.

"I didn't say that, but this is impossible. Our Realms do not change." His sharp, claw-like nail tapped an anxious tck-tck-tck against the glass. "Our Natures are immutable."

"Well, maybe I'm mutable," Rogue huffed. She blew a wispy tress of white fringe out of her eyes. "Who says we can't change? We've all changed at least once in the past. I mean, that's how we became all this—" With a wave of her gloved hand, she gestured at the space between them in an all encompassing sweep.

"Ja. That is true." Nightcrawler nodded slowly. His brow creased in concentration. "It still does not explain the how. You mentioned you took a gambit. Is that wise?"

"Not a gambit. Gambit." Filling shallow bowls with the now warm food, she handed one to her brother. She hesitated before finishing her explanation. "He is a Mortal. He found his way into my Realm."

"All mortals find their way to your Realm in the end." With less hesitation than had proceeded his first sip of the sweet tea, Nightcrawler tried the étouffée.

Shaking her head, she attempted her explanation again. "He ain't dead. He's alive. As alive as you and I are. Maybe more so." The energy of his presence still burned bright in her memory and danced upon her skin though they had never touched. A smile played at her lips as she thought of her bold Thief. "He snuck into my Realm and asked a boon of me."

"A boon? He is a bold one." Her brother chuckled to himself. "What did he ask for?"

"A kiss."

A loud clattering echoed about the room as the fork slipped from Nightcrawler's fingers and fell to the floor. Lucifer, the boldest of the cats, darted from he watched, sniffed at the dropped shrimp, and ate it before his brothers could steal the treat. "A kiss? Is he crazy?"

Rogue harrumphed. "Watch who you're calling crazy? That's his cooking you're eating."

As her brother studied at the food with a new eye, Rogue leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. Her shoulders hunched and her head bowed as she attempted to pull into herself. "Is it really such a crazy thought someone might want to kiss me? Am I that undesirable?"

"Nein. Nein. That's not what I meant." His eyes went as big as saucers. Setting his bowl aside, he approached her as close as he dared and placed a three fingered hand on her shoulder. "Est tut mir leid. It's not crazy. Just, unexpected. Does he know about your—?"

"My Curse?" Rogue bit out the word with a bitter laugh. "Yeah, he knows. He saw me. He sought me out knowing what I could do. So, yeah, he knows."

"And still, he did all this?" Nightcrawler gave a wave of his hand which encompassed the entirety of the changes to her Realm.

"He brought it about—somehow." Rogue picked up Oliver who had emerged from his hiding spot when he sensed her distress. He settled in her arms and nuzzled his head against her touch. His purring soothed her anxious thoughts. "He gave me Hope where none existed. He brought Life where there had previously only been Death."

"The food, the flowers, and"—Nightcrawler counted the gifts off on his fingers—"the cats. That is three. Three personal gifts. Three impossible gifts. What are you going to do?"

"I know." Pressing her cheek against the top of Oliver's head, Rogue took a deep, steadying breath. "I will send for him."

"And then…" Nightcrawler prompted. He appeared to vibrate with a giddy thrill. Customs as old as Time itself were rarely remembered, rarely enacted. Signs, Gifts, Quests, when performed in Threes, held a Power which could not be denied.

"I will test my Thief as is our custom." With her proclamation, a silent chord rang out sealing her words into actions.

Far away beyond the Gates of the Mississippi, in the Realm of the Mortals, Gambit felt a tug at the strings of his heart. A summoning of the Fated. A calling to Home and Harbor.

Leaving all behind, Gambit made his way back to His Lady.