The Vengeful Soul: Part Four

by Kerri G.

Logan was descending the stairs early the next morning when he caught sight of Charlotte leaving the house. He watched her from a window heading down towards the lake. She disappeared through the trees quickly, reminding him of Betsy and her shadow sliding.

He checked Remy's room first, finding Ororo sitting with him. She raised her head from the book in her lap and smiled.

"Good morning, Logan."

"Mornin'. How's he doin'?"

"Better now. Henry said he had a difficult night." She rested her eyes on Remy fondly while he slept. "He wore himself down."

"Ya want me to sit wi' him now? Ya can go get some sleep."

"I did sleep. I relieved Henry and Charlotte a little while ago. Henry has gone to bed and I believe she said something about exercise. Perhaps later."

He nodded and left her.

Stepping out on the porch with a cup of coffee, he looked over the area. From this vantage point he could see nearly the entire valley and part of the lake. The morning was fresh, still. Surrounding the whole were the silent giants, the huge trees that had never known a logger's presence. It was easy to believe that the outside world didn't exist.

He finished his coffee and left the cup on the porch railing. He was going to find Charlotte.

Towards the water he heard a strange sort of music, almost like wind song. He followed it, letting the sounds draw him closer.

Stepping into a small clearing he found her. She was dressed in black, tight fitting leggings and shirt, her hair braided and twisted around her head. In her hands she held a sword.

The song came from the sword, as she swung and circled it around her body in stretching exercises. The early morning light glinted off the blade. She handled it easily, the weapon an extension of her body. She moved cleanly, almost lyrical, no wasted motion.

He watched her for a long while, admiring her form, her manipulation of the blade. He'd seen very few with the confidence to handle such a weapon in his lifetime. Her skill was on par with Betsy's, he wondered briefly how they would fare against each other.

He moved around the open area silently to face her. Her eyes were closed, her concentration focused on the task at hand. He could clearly see the killer in her now, in every line and muscle that responded exactly as she commanded.

As quiet as he was, her attention shifted to him. Her hands kept moving, but her eyes opened and looked straight into his. The hunter in him became the hunted when the killer lurking behind her eyes focused on him. He felt vaguely uneasy, even as he admired her skill.

Taking a soft breath, she shifted her stance and began swinging the blade in loose, one-handed circles, the sword dancing around her body in ever tightening arcs, her eyes not leaving his, drawing him into the blade dance with her.

Ten yards away he felt the blade coming closer, the sharp edge skating just over his skin. He felt the hilt in his hand, the total mind focus, could smell leather and sweat.

She shifted the grip to the other hand, the dance halting abruptly, the sword held downward in her grasp, offering him the hilt. Offering him her soul.

After a long moment he stepped forward, not taking his eyes from hers. He understood now. This was the killer, not the woman they met on the road. This woman would slaughter without a word. There was no anger in her now, no distraction. A born predator, this Charlotte would not be goaded into foolish action. This woman didn't need words to articulate her intentions or deal with her fury.

This Charlotte he met in Austria.

He took the sword and stepped back. Her eyes blinked, then a slow smile crossed her face. "Morning."

"Mornin'," he told her quietly. "Quite a show, darlin'."

She picked up a towel from the ground next to her, wiping the sweat from her face and neck. "Just keeping in practice. Never know when you might find yourself in a situation calling for extreme force." She shot him a look. "Want to practice with me?"

He looked down at the weapon in his hand. It was a broadsword, with cross hilt and a leather-covered grip, the raven symbol etched into the hilt. The double-edged blade was honed to a lethal sheen. "Mebbe another time." She sounded like she expected to find herself in one tomorrow, even hoped for it.

Charlotte shrugged. "Okay." She took the sword from him and re-sheathed it in a scabbard she picked up from the ground and swung it over her shoulder. "Come on."

They walked leisurely down towards the lake, the utter stillness of the valley surrounding them. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She moved easily, as though her centuries here had allowed her to absorb the very essence of the forest. She belonged here, it was a part of her. She made *him* feel old and out of place.

Charlotte took a seat on a rock by the water's edge, slipping the sword over her head and resting it against the rock by her side. He stood a ways from her, still faintly uneasy and drawn to this side of her persona, all at once.

"I don' remember Indians ever usin' swords," he said.

"I couldn't speak for them all, but I didn't learn from the tribe. Picked it up just after the turn of the century, both Thomas and I learned. Raven taught me to fight with a knife, among other things." She smiled with the thought of 'other things.'

"'Ro said you were up wi' Gambit again last night."

"Hank got me just before midnight to help calm him down." Remy had charged the bedclothes again. The nights were the worst for him. She might have gotten him back alive, but the battle for his life was proving harder to win.

"How come no one woke me up?"

"Didn't realize you'd want to be part of the party. There didn't seem to be much point for everyone to be awake. We let you and Ororo sleep so we could get some rest later."

"Ya ain' restin' now."

"I'm still working on my anger." Her hand briefly touch the sword at her side. There was still a lot of rage inside, rage against the one who left Jean-Luc's child to die.

After dusk Thomas appeared, his face shadowed and exhausted, but peaceful. He nodded to his mother than turned to Hank. "We are extending an invitation to you, Logan and Bishop to join us for dinner."

Hank looked pleased. "I am unable to speak for the others, but I gladly accept."

Logan agreed to go, along with Bishop.

Charlotte and Ororo were left looking at each other over the kitchen counter.

"A male-only gathering?" Ororo commented with a lifted brow.

"It's traditional. Women's Lib has no place here." Although outsiders weren't generally welcome, either. What was going on? "It'll give us a chance to talk."

"I haven't thanked you for what you've done for Remy and for letting us stay here."

"Please don't thank me."

Ororo gave her a questioning look.

"Let's go sit in the library."

Ororo took a seat in a chair to the side of the fireplace. Logan had started a fire to ward off the chill that followed the sunset. She looked up at the painting over the mantle. "Is that your son?"

Charlotte smiled wistfully. "No. That's Raven, Thomas's father."

Ororo examined it carefully. His face was dignified, handsome; the face of a man who knew life intimately and was content. His hair showed some traces of gray at the temples, his eyes a liquid black. It was clear that whoever painted this portrait did so with a great deal of love.

"Thomas does bear a remarkable resemblance to him."

"Both in his appearance and his temperament. He was a very good husband."

"I didn't realize you had been married."

"It was a long time ago."

"What is it like to live three centuries?" Ororo sat back down, accepting a glass of port from Charlotte.

Charlotte took the chair on the other side. "It's had its rewards."

The weather goddess looked down at her glass. Perhaps her question had been too personal.

"Living a long life when those around you don't is a very special cruelty. It seems I'm always saying good-bye to someone I love, either in death, or before they notice I'm different. It hurts."

"On the other hand, I've been able to pursue my interests to my heart's content. I've had to give some things," her eyes rested on the portrait, "but I gain as well as lose. I have the unique pleasure of having my son as my friend, something more parents and children should experience. I have been able to travel to every place that interests me."

"It sounds like a wonderful gift."

"It does, and it can be at times, but it's very lonely." Charlotte said. "I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

Thomas led them through the pass to the next valley. The village was still there, just as it was the last time any of the tribe lived there. It was now a meeting place for their bi-yearly gatherings. A place of tradition, where the magic seemed to seep up through the ground and shimmer on shafts of sunlight through the trees. The cluster of lodge dwellings were quiet, save for the large building in the middle of the compound.

Far from the solemn attitudes they'd arrived with, the group was rather jovial. Now that the rites were successfully executed and their pact with the magic renewed they celebrated.

They'd all stripped down to brief loin clothes, even the oldest among them who put men a third his age to shame. As a race, the Quapoan men were tall, lean-hipped and broad shoulders, thick with muscle that spoke of active, vibrant lifestyles. These men were the among the finest examples of manhood produced by any race on earth.

Thomas pulled off his clothes and accepted an earthenware bowl, drinking deeply from it. He offered it to Hank.

Hank took it, giving it a careful look. "What is this?" he asked.

"Honeyed wine."

Hank took a breath, and drank. He handed it back, then his eyes widen and he shuddered. "That's wine?" he gasped, as the fiery aftereffect danced along his nerve endings in exquisite pain.

They all laughed. "A very potent wine," one of the shaman answered.

"Pass that over," Logan said, his eyes glinting with interest.

Bishop sat back out of the way, watching the others. He'd refused the wine, preferring to keep a steady head. They all seemed quite happy, eating, drinking, laughing easily. Logan and Hank fell into the spirit of the gathering rapidly, both wearing nothing but their boxers. While Logan seemed eerily at home within the group, Hank's Xena boxers did nothing to elevate the conversation of the members. Bear asked him where he got them, the elder a huge fan of the sword wielding female. Hank promised to send him a pair from the store where he purchased them. Bishop knew it would be up to him to remind Hank of his promise, the wine going immediately to the large mutant's head. He seriously doubted Beast's chances at remembering his own name by morning.

Logan fared only a little better with the alcohol. It was fast overcoming his healing factor, would outstrip it soon enough. A nasty little devil in Bishop hoped the older man would experience something of a hangover before the effects were negated.

He noticed each of the Quapoan men speak to Logan individually, questioning him about himself, pressing more wine and food on him. His suspicious nature frowned, the nasty little devil relegated to the dust bin, for the moment. He took Thomas aside at one point and asked him why.

Thomas motioned him outside the lodge where the air was clear and the laughter not so loud.

"Why wouldn't they want to know more about him?" he responded. "They know he's Charlotte's chosen, even if he's not wearing the bonding medallion now. It's a matter of time before he will be again. My father has been dead for nearly 150 years, but she is still a shaman's woman and subject to certain rules and conditions. Every man in there has a stake in this, and before the bonding is complete every shaman will have to agree to the marriage."

Bishop scowled. A wave of ribald guffaws from the lodge.

"She's not just another woman here. She is the reason we still have our history, our culture, the reason we can still practice our faith. Do you realize we may be the only tribe left that still has possession of our ancestral home? She staked the land early in this country's history, then shielded it to hide from speculators and land barons. She's held the land in an unspoken trust until the laws changed and I was able take possession."

"We take care of our own. It is important those men in there like and respect Logan."

"And if they don't?"

"Then he'll have to fight for her, if he wants her badly enough." Inside, singing started. Incredibly, Bishop heard Logan's gruff voice raised in a bawdy drinking song. "I don't believe acceptance will be a problem," Thomas concluded. "I invited him here now so they could inspect him. He's not what they expected, but he is her choice. They will make allowances for him."

Near the early dawn, Storm was awakened by something large and heavy hitting the front door. She looked over at Charlotte, who dozed in the chair on the other side of Remy. She had Remy's hand in hers, having fallen asleep while comforting him through a restless period. Remy had clutched her hand tightly, Ororo could see faint traces of bruising along the exposed portion of Charlotte's hand, corresponding marks to her own.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes, the movement stirring Charlotte, who yawned. They both bent over Remy. He was sleeping quietly now, his breathing still faintly raspy and shallow.

"I thought I heard someone outside," Ororo said.

"Did the men come back?" Come to think of it, the men hadn't shown up all night. She thought perhaps they bedded down with the others at the lodge.

Curiosity got the better of them. They walked out to peek at the front porch.

Logan and Hank were both sound asleep, snoring heavily. They were still dressed in only their underwear, dropped in heaps on her front porch. Bishop was nowhere to be seen.

"This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," Charlotte told Ororo. "Believe me, when those come around, you don't pass 'em up." Blackmail potential. She could smell it, along with the odor of stale smoke, just like Coyote's special blend, and drunken male flesh.

She stepped into the library and came back with a camera. "Every special occasion should be marked with a picture and blown up to poster size."

A small smile crossed Ororo's face. "That would be most unkind."

"I make it a practice to be unkind as often as possible. Especially when I see Xena underwear on a furry blue butt."

[next part]

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