All the King's Horses

by Duann Cowart

Framed by ancient stone, Sean Cassidy stared morosely out at the rolling hills of his home, oblivious to the otherwordly beauty that surrounded him. Clad only in a pair of faded blue jeans, the lord of Cassidy Keep stood bare-chested at his window, elbows braced unsteadily against its time-worn stone ledge as he contemplated his fate.

It wasn't always good to be the king.

Silvery light from the swollen moon above washed over him, emphasizing the paleness of his skin and the new shadows in his features. A casual observer with a tendency towards the romantic might have viewed him as a banshee in more than just name, cold and solemn and alone in the night.

In truth, he resembled nothing so much as one of his warrior forebears. Although his battle-scarred chest still rippled with muscles, the layer of flesh covering it grew thicker every year, and his hair, now as much salt as ginger, had grown shaggy since his return to Ireland. The beginnings of a gruff beard now covered his face and throat, disguising his aging patrician features with a deceptive bristly coarseness.

The bitter night winds swirled sheer draperies around him like mist over a lake, but although his skin marbled with involuntary gooseflesh, the man himself barely felt its bite. One hand clenched spasmodically around a half-empty cylinder of dark brown liquor, shakily raising it to his lips to pour harsh poison down his throat, mercifully numbing the dire thoughts which continued to haunt him.

He sighed, and ground the heel of his hand against the cold stone, leaning his weight onto it, consciously seeking comfort in the worn strength of the manor. This was the window of his solitude, the fortress of his strength. No matter how many times life had dealt him unrecoverable blows, he knew that he could come here and let the power of the generations salve his soul.

A faint high-pitched whine filled his ears, and frowning, he slapped at his head, thinking perhaps a tiny insect was the source. It wasn't. Concentrating, he focused his attention. Even dulled as he was with drink, his hearing was still far sharper than most, and the high pitched song emanating from the woods surrounding Cassidy Keep tickled his ears, earning a heartfelt scowl.

It didn't last long. Even bitter as he was, he couldn't begrudge Eamon and his kin the bright joy they took from the dances and rituals passed down among their people for generations.

The lilting melodies brought a smile even to his weary lips, and as he stared out at the grounds something like a weary semblance of peace descended onto his soul. No matter how deep the wound, how painful the scar, the green hills of his home had always worked their power and knit him back together again- try as he might to fight it. The magic of his home was strong enough even to overcome his adamant desire not to be comforted, it seemed.

Ah, he had missed this place, to be sure. There was something about the air here at home that healed, something he had instinctively sought after the dissolution of the school, after the dissolution of his life. Ireland was a balm to his soul, there was no doubt about it. His home was a bandage to the open wounds left behind after the loss of his school, his kids, his pride, his life.

No matter where else he lived, this would always be home. Part of it was in his blood, and part of him was in its stones, and that was how it would be throughout the generations. It almost, *almost* made him forget what he had lost.

He sighed deeply, and with that thought felt familiar fingers of ice twist his gut again as the brief flash of momentary serenity departed as rapidly as it had came. Tonight the wounds were still too raw for solace, and he was in no humor to let himself be soothed by the tides of eternity. Tonight he had only wanted to get, in the charming terms of his once-students, stinking shit-faced drunk.

Judging from the numbness that permeated his extremities, he was doing a damn good job of it. Looking away from the serentity of the hills, he resolutely took another long swallow from his bottle, clumsily wiping his lips with the back of his hand when he was done, savoring the burning trail of fire coursing down his throat.

Here alone in his room, he had no need for the mask of indifference that he'd continually worn around the well-meaning but overly solicitous friends who kept calling and interrupting his solitude. Here he could relax, be his unpleasant self and wallow in his own misery.

So Moira had died, leaving him with a belly full of guilt and a soul leaking despair. So Emma had called it quits- so what? So his kids had scattered to the four winds, with little more than a goodbye hug and a perfunctory thank you for the years and the blood and the tears he had invested in them. What did it all matter, anyway?

He rolled his neck, easing some of the tension which invariably lodged there anytime he considered the close of this latest chapter of his life. In truth, he had no idea why this was affecting him so deeply. This loneliness was nothing new. His entire life seemed to pattern itself around alternating periods of deep companionship and solitude, and this was hardly the first time he found himself back at the beginning with less than nothing to show for his efforts.

This had not even been the most wrenching experience in a lifetime full of losses. He had lost a wife, a lover, a family- he was intimately familiar with the process. He had worked in dangerous occupations with teammates all of his life- as a police officer, as an Interpol agent, as a member of the X-Men, even as Headmaster of Generation X-through the years he had celebrated many a victory, and shed tears together over the passing of many a friend.

Those bittersweet periods of camaraderie with family and teams had been interspersed with times of solitude so severe that looking back he wondered how he had borne it all. Perhaps it was the weight of the years and the disappointment of yet another lost chance to find himself, or maybe it was something as simple as the fact that at his age he couldn't realistically expect too many more at the wheel there was no way to be sure. All he knew was that this last separation had hurt him far more than he had expected it to hurt, and left him pensive and longing to be numb.

It was really no surprise then that he now found himself here at the heart of his family's history. Every time the world wounded him he returned here for healing, and each time he left again a little wiser than before.

Closing his eyes, he laughed humorlessly, and he was not a man who often indulged in calculated laughter. The truth was, he felt tired and old and alone, and all the beauty of his home and all the introspection in the world didn't help tonight.

Turning the bottle up, he drained it with the casual flourish of long practice, then carelessly cast it out of the window into the yard. Someone would pick it up tomorrow, or they wouldn't. It really didn't matter anymore. If this was all he had, he would make the best of it, even if the whiskey wasn't working anymore.

Turning away from the window, he paced around the room. Even though his memories of the long weeks after Moira's death were now shrouded in the merciful fog, try as he might, he couldn't drink away the emptiness of rejection that wrapped him in inertia and regret.

They had left him, every one. They had left the school, and left him. All of them, Emma and every single one of the kids. Angelo, Paige, Jonothon, even Jubilee- all gone without a second thought.

He'd watched them go, stared at their tail lights through the chill in his heart. Not single one of them had looked back.

Emma was the worst. She- *they* hadn't even *asked* what he would do with himself, how he would survive. They'd just been glad to be rid of him, the drunken embarrasment who just wasn't the man he used to be.

Prodding at the painful thought like a newly absent tooth, his heart twisted in his chest. After all they had been through together, she should have at least *asked* if he would be all right.

Growing angrier by the second, his lips twisted in a snarl, and he turned around blindly, crossing the room in several long strides to take another bottle out of the night stand beside the bed. He took several long swallows before slamming it down on the heavy ornamental nightstand, the heavy glass hitting the antique finish with a heavy thud.

The sound startled him, and he stepped back, annoyed at himself for the unexpected rush of emotion. Maybe he'd been wrong all these years. Maybe the electric tension that had simmered between them was just an affectation, the natural result of any man's interaction with Emma Frost. Maybe he'd just fooled himself into thinking that he was any different- she'd gotten what she wanted from him and moved on, that was that. He wouldn't have been the first man she'd manipulated for her own ends, and he seriously doubted that he would be the last.

Two could play that game, though, he thought bitterly as he stared across the room at the window, looking out at a world that was moving on without him. Damn, he missed her-missed *them*, he hastily corrected himself and yawned, stumbling blearily to collapse upon his bed.

Staring at the ceiling, he listened wistfully at the faint melodies of the little peoples' songs. The still small voice of rationality deep inside wondered what the future held for him, if he would find another purpose, another team, or if he would spend the remainder of his years like this, cold and alone.

That thought should bother him, he mused, clinically prodding the long sought after numbness in his soul, but it didn't. His earlier bout of anger had drained him of all sensation, and he felt empty and hollow. He was truly beyond caring now, thoughts as heavy as his spirits-thickened tongue.

It took energy to hate just as it took energy to love, and tonight he wasn't capable of either one for any length of time. Truth to tell, he didn't feel up to any feeling at all.

This numbness wasn't necessarily a good thing, he knew. It wasn't healthy to seek so much solitude after so deep a blow. Intellectually he understood this, of course, even as he shied away these days from any discourse any deeper than flirting with the barmaids or arguments about football at the local pub or discussions with Eamon about the status of his crops.

The red anger edged into gray resignation tinged with orange guilt which permeated the drunken miasma protecting him from his own pain. After all, he had done it all to himself. The last few years had taken their toll, and he simply hadn't bothered to mend the frayed edges of his life before they ripped into tattered tears.

The horrors of the destruction of the school, the loss of Everett and Moira- he had blinded himself to the fact that everything was slowly slipping away. Despite the willing blinders he'd placed on his life, he had known that external fissures were rendering the team and his life asunder, and he had done nothing to stop it. He had compartmentalized his life to the point that it had imploded from his own hypocrisy.

He sighed, crossing his arms behind his head, kicking off his boots so that the traces of rich loamy soil still clinging to their soles wouldn't mar the creamy linen bedspread his housekeepers worked so hard to maintain.

He wished he could just stay good and drunk. It would be a huge relief, he knew. Usually a bottle or two pushed him beyond this border zone of defeat, but tonight- perhaps it was the solitary beauty of the night, or the fact that he had been gone so long- perhaps it was so many different things and nothing at all, but tonight the enormity of his losses weighed heavily upon him.

Now that he had lost almost everything, there remained the question of what to do with the rest of his life. There was always the X-Men, he thought wearily, then immediately shied away from that thought even as her lovely face scored his mind. *She* was with the X-Men, and wherever she was, there he couldn't be. She had redeemed herself, it seemed, and she didn't need him anymore.

A small spark of feeling stirred, worming its way through the drink-induced numbness, and he cursed under his breath. Emma Frost. He snorted, unamused. Even the memory of the woman was contrary enough to pierce the hard-earned fog of peace and bring him crashing back to reality.

Emma. . . at the mere thought of the woman, the lower part of his anatomy stirred, and he groaned, hastily pushing memories of pale skin and white leather and blonde hair far, far away. It would not do to indulge in these thoughts right now, not after so much alcohol, not when the moon was so beautiful and her memory burned so brightly in his mind. Not tonight, not when he was so lonely for her touch, for any touch, and when he missed her- missed them- so much, and certainly not when the mere thought of her was enough to pull him out of the pleasant delusion that he could make himself not feel.

He knew very well where these late-night memories of Emma Frost led, and he'd sworn the last time this happened that he wouldn't make that mistake again. It wasn't fair to any of the number of fair-haired local girls at the local pub who had been more than happy to spend an evening with the dashing, if drunken, lord of Cassidy Keep. It wasn't fair to himself to keep those fantasies alive. It wasn't even fair to Emma to let unknowing proxies fill her place in his mind, and the last thing he needed was to hate himself more in the morning than he did during the night.

Still, though, the temptation was almost irresistable, and for more than obvious reasons. Emma was very probably the only person in the world who understood this latest pain to rake coals across his soul, and she was just as paradoxically the one person who could cut him to the quick just by her presence, or absence. He honestly didn't know which hurt worse.

Either way, he couldn't stand to be around her or even think about her, even if her absence raked his spirit like cut glass. It didn't matter, anyway. He couldn't do anything about it- not now, not after what they'd shared, and lost. Not after she had stood by and let what they'd so painstakingly built crumble to ashes, not after he'd so blindly drunk himself into a stupor every night while he tried to convince himself otherwise.

She was doing well, he'd heard. Different, but well. She had lost her telepathy, Jean had confided during their last phone call, it had *evolved* into some sort of diamond-hard skin tone and fighting techniques.

He didn't believe that for an instant, of course. Telepathy was too much of an integral part of who she was- it had to be some trick. From the dubious tone in Jean's voice, he could tell his old friend thought the same thing, but he hadn't let on. He wouldn't betray Emma again, not here, not now. Not even after she'd betrayed him so by letting him go.

He dropped his chin, twisting to lie on his side, curled up like a child. Betrayal. She had finally done it, as he had known she would. She had betrayed both the children and him, but not in the way that everyone had thought she would. She hadn't sold them out. She hadn't turned on them, hadn't trained them in the ways of darkness, hadn't twisted them into her private army of evil. She'd just let them go, that was all. Let him go.

No- that wasn't all. She had made him care, and then, knowing damn well how he felt, let him go. She had made him realize there was more to her than the cold facade, and then thrown him to the wind. She had bared her soft underbelly to him, shown him the vulnerability beneath the sizzlingly sexual exterior, and trapped him, body and soul. She was one of the world's premier telepaths and most beautiful women. He was only a man whose purported lover lived a continent away, and she had known how he felt, she must have-

Or maybe not, he blinked, twisting the unfamiliar idea around in his mind. She had always respected his privacy, that much was true. She had teased and flirted and used her considerable physical wiles, but she had never tapped into his private thoughts. She had never taken anything that he was not willing to give, and maybe she hadn't known-

He shook his head, grinding his face against the feather pillow. No, she had known. He had seen too much doubt in her eyes, seen too many invitations squashed to suspect that she hadn't realized the effect she had on him. They both knew better. They both knew that it was only a matter of time before they both gave in and succumbed to the gravity of the other's unspoken pull.

He had wasted so much time. Whether it was from a hollow sense of loyalty to a dying woman or a false sense of smug self righteousness about her past, he didn't know, but he had never told her how he felt, and certainly never dreamed of doing anything about it.

No- that last wasn't true. His dreams were swollen with images of her.

He snorted in derision, rolling over on the bed. What exactly was it about her? Was it mere sexual chemistry, the result of his exposure to the air of eroticism that followed in her wake like expensive perfume? Was it his own repressed sexuality, reigned in for so long in Moira's absence? Was it just a plain old animal need for sex, or something far more?

Closing his eyes, he saw crystal blue eyes, the swell of her curves underneath white leather, the perfect smoothness of her pale skin underneath his touch, and his body responded to the image in his mind's eye. Biting his lip, he moaned softly. Intellectually he might understand that this apparently all-consuming need was just loneliness, pure and simple, but his body couldn't quite comprehend, much as he tried to convince it otherwise.

Or maybe he had called his own bluff.

He sat up in the bed, angrily pressing the palms of his calloused hands to his face. Grabbing the bottle, he took another long swallow, barely feeling its sting. No. No more of this. Sod her. He deserved more, he was *tired* of this. There was no reason to be so cold and alone on a night like tonight.

Slipping his feet back in the heavy work boots, he staggered to the wardrobe and clumsily pulled on a thick flannel shirt and overcoat. Buttoning the latter with thick fingers, he shook his head, shaggy hair hanging about his face.

Exhaling sharply, he leaned out of the window, and this time the force of the cold air hit him like a slap in the face. He gasped, then drew in several deep lungfuls of it, allowing the crispness of the night air to shock him a bit out of his drunken inertia.

Enough. There was still beauty in the night, and there was still purpose, even if he didn't quite know where to find it yet. There was still meaning in his life. Perhaps he'd call Theresa in the morning, her evening, and arrange a visit. Perhaps he and Eamon would attend that farming exhibition a few counties over. Perhaps he'd call Rahne and see if she could use some help over at Muir.

Not right now, though, he decided, and felt a rush of relief as his greater burdens caved into the immediacy of the needs of the night. Now he had other things to do. With a smile on his face, he felt the world give way as he leapt out of the window, and the sonic scream which was his birthright set him afloat, soaring high above his home as he made his way towards a favorite pub nestled in the nearby village.

One day, he'd be heal, and this pain would be but a memory. Eventually he would get over the hurt and rejection of a lifetime of losses and put the pieces of his life back together. Until then, he'd live and breathe and work and fly, and do anything else he damn well wanted to until those pieces wove themselves back together, for better or worse.

As the faint sounds of the little people's song faded into the distance, Sean Cassidy smiled. The hour was late, but the place should still be open, and he could surely another drink or two and some company to share the remaining hours until dawn. It beat the hell out of being alone. A faint shadow passed over his features, but he shrugged, and kept his course. It was too damn cold to be alone tonight, and there would be plenty of time to put the pieces back together.

Eventually.

fin

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