DISCLAIMER: Magik, S’ym, Limbo, and all related aspects and characters are copyright of Marvel Comics and Marvel Entertainment, Inc. Any resemblance to original characters and pre-existing ones are purely coincidental. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only, and gathers no profits from its use.

She’s beautiful.

Even now, even in the throes of her Darkchilde state, she’s beautiful. Her black and gold uniform is gone, replaced by a silvery breastplate and a split skirt. Silver-plated horns crown her head, and her eyes have faded to a blank, demonic white. I can see where her teeth have sharpened into fangs -- she’s bared them in a snarl as she lays about her with a glittering, double-edged sword -- the soulsword, ultimate expression of her power and passion.

It’s a sight that would terrify most people, and there is indeed something terrifying about it. But there’s a savage beauty there as well. As cliché as it sounds, she looks like a barbarian princess, and I suppose that’s not far from the truth. She is the ruler of this realm, and she crushes all who stand against her.

I watch her. And I wait.

Magik brought her sword back to guard position, breathing heavily as she watched the last demon dissolve into smoke. She stood for a moment, catching her breath, then raised her head to regard the purple-skinned demon who stood a ways apart from her.

"Is that the best you can send against me, S’ym?" she called tauntingly. "Why don’t you come and get me yourself?"

The demon S’ym cocked his head, eyeing her for a moment. "Careful what you wish for, Darkchilde," he called. "Things have changed since you were gone. S’ym might just have a little surprise for you."

"It’d be a surprise if you can do anything but talk me to death." A feral grin split her lips, her sword’s point leveling towers him. "So come on, S’ym. Surprise me."

"Special request by the lady!" S’ym’s speed belied his large frame, closing the distance between them, but Magik was quicker. Her soulsword opened a slash in the demon’s belly -- but to Illyana’s horror, the wound closed up almost immediately. Clawed hands caught at her throat and wrist, trapping her sword arm and lifting her up in the air.

"Surprise surprise, sweetie! S’ym’s techno-organic now! Your soulsword can’t disrupt me!" The demon laughed mockingly as Magik struggled to free herself from his grip.

"Nice trick, demon," she gasped through the stranglehold on her throat. "But it won’t help you! I’ll find some other way to destroy you!"

S’ym actually seemed to contemplate the thought. "You just might at that, Darkchilde. But S’ym’s not so easy to kill -- no demon is. Transmode virus has made S’ym even harder to kill. And now there are hundreds like him. You can’t hurt S’ym, but S’ym can hurt you."

She could see the new demons S’ym was talking about beginning to gather around them, crawling out from the rocks and the shadows. The deathgrip on her throat continued to tighten, slowly but inexorably, sealing off her breath little by little.

"But S’ym doesn’t want to hurt you," the demon continued. "You were made to rule Limbo, Darkchilde. Belasco saw to it. Why don’t you give in to what you are? Embrace your true heritage, become one of us. There’s really no other way. You can’t win!"

Illyana felt power thrumming beneath the techno-organic flesh, flesh that was now beyond her ability to destroy or even harm. She saw the hordes gathering around them in a circle, equally impervious to her power. A black web began to swim through her vision, her brain beginning to suffer from lack of oxygen. And in that moment, she felt ice-cold despair slip into her heart. After all these years, S’ym might have been right all along.

It’s that moment that decides it for me.

Up until then, I had been willing to stand and watch, unsure if I was really going to go through with this. Even when I saw her childhood tormentor catch hold of her, I waited. But as I watched her eyes, demon eyes that can show nothing and everything at once, what I saw there cemented my decision. For the first time, I saw her defenses crack, saw despair seep into her heart. She was hurt… scared… vulnerable. It was more than I could bear to watch.

I make my move.

"You really should have learned by now that it’s no use fighting," S’ym crooned mockingly, feeling Illyana’s struggles getting weaker. "Give in, girlie. It’ll be just like old times."

Rage hardened Magik’s resolve, and the fingers of her free hand curled; the spell they would unleash would rip S’ym’s guts out. As soon as I’m free -

What she would have done as soon as she was free, she never found out; a lance of blue flame shot down from above, tearing into S’ym’s shoulder. S’ym howled in pain as a sickening mix of ozone and burned flesh filled the air, clawed fingers spasming open. Illyana dropped to the ground, scrambling to her feet even as she coughed and gagged, her sword wavering unsteadily.

"Who dares… ?!" S’ym craned his head, glaring up in fury towards the origin of the blast. Magik half-turned her head as well, not letting S’ym out of her sight.

Standing on a high cliff and silhouetted against Limbo’s moon, a dark figure stood tall, gazing down at them. Illyana couldn’t see any details from where she was – the long dark coat it wore obscured its body, just as the long dark locks obscured its face. She could instinctively sense the figure was male, and she thought she caught a flash of silver through the swirling locks. A mask, perhaps?

But that wasn’t what made the hairs at the nape of her neck prickle warningly. As Sorceress Supreme of Limbo, she had an instinctive sense of all its inhabitants, native or otherwise. She knew that what she saw above her wasn’t a demon, but didn’t seem totally human either. This newcomer was an outsider, and a powerful one at that; she could feel it. Anyone who wielded power in this realm was a threat.

"Whoever you are, stay out of this!" S’ym shouted up to the lone figure, unable to sense what Magik had. "If you want the girl, you can have her after we’re through with her. But if you cross us, we’ll tear you apart!"

A guttural murmur rose from the ring of demons surrounding them, but the outsider seemed to pay it no heed. He stood motionless for several seconds, long enough for the horde to stir restlessly, turning their attention back towards their quarry. Magik took a deep breath and gripped her sword tighter.

Looks like rest break is over, she thought to herself.

A sudden flash brought their attention back to the cliff peak, and both human and demons whirled, bracing against another attack. Illyana could just make out a silhouette standing against a shining silver light. Then the light enveloped him, and left only empty space behind as it winked out.

"A stepping disc?" S’ym had only enough time to gape before the black-gloved fist smashed out from the front of his chest.

Magik whirled back around, staring at the dark-clad figure who now stood behind S’ym with his arm driven through the demon’s back. S’ym looked equally surprised, the expression almost comical as he stared down at the fist protruding from his chest. Then the demon began to grin, turning his head to talk over his shoulder.

"Big mistake, handsome. You were better off throwing lightning bolts. Now that S’ym’s touching you, he can infect you with the transmode virus. Drain you dry, or make you one of us."

The outsider continued to stand with his arm punched through the demon’s body, head bowed slightly. The silver flash had been a mask, Illyana realized, and the eyes that showed through the holes were calm, unaffected by this revelation. The voice that answered was equally calm, soft and pleasant.

"Do I look infected to you?"

S’ym blinked, then frowned in effort. Another look of surprise, this one mingled with a thread of fear, flitted across his face but quickly vanished.

"Doesn’t matter if S’ym can infect you or not," S’ym noted offhandedly. "There’s an entire army here ready to tear you to shreds, and there’s nothing you or the Darkchilde can do about it. Transmode virus heals us as quickly as we’re hurt. S’ym is immortal!"

The demon began to laugh, a grotesque sound that made Illyana grit her teeth, wanting to slice the sound from S’ym’s throat. The other demons joined in, claws and fangs clacking in anticipation of the feast. Oddly enough, the stranger only smiled a little, head tilting slightly.

"I’ve got something to tell you," he said casually, his low voice cutting effortlessly through the demons’ laughter. Still grinning, S’ym looked smugly over his shoulder.

"Oh? And what’s that, hotshot?"

The stranger leaned forward, the hand protruding through S’ym’s chest turning palm-up, fingers curling in a pattern that Illyana recognized. And even as she threw her arm up to shield her face, she could make out the conspiratorial whisper effortlessly:

"Your arm’s not healing."

Illyana could almost picture the look of confusion on S’ym’s face, confusion that would surely be followed by horror. Then a blast of raw white light assaulted the edges of her vision, singing her eyes even though her arm protected against its brunt. A scream, raw with terror and agony, seemed to rip the air itself apart. Illyana was horrified; that had been S’ym screaming, had to be, but she had never heard anything -- living or demonic -- scream like that. She opened her mouth, but just as quickly as it started, the white light snapped out.

Illyana lowered her arm cautiously, and was greeted by the sight of ash sifting through the air, falling to pile at the outsider’s boots. He casually brushed the grey ash -- all that was left of S’ym -- from his sleeve, then turned to face the horde.

"Does anyone else think they’re immortal?" he inquired. Motion caught the edge of Illyana’s vision; she saw one of the demons with its fanged mouth gaping wide, energy beginning to gather at the back of its throat.

"Look out!" she shouted, darting forward. She reached the stranger’s side just as the demon unleashed its blast, and the soulsword’s flat batted the energy bolt away.

As if on cue, chaos erupted around them. Illyana began slashing left and right with fury-tinged desperation; if she was going to go down, she was going to do as much damage to these monstrosities as she could. She quickly discovered, however, that they weren’t completely beyond her ability to harm. Deep wounds and slashes healed almost as quickly as they were inflicted, but severed limbs and heads were another matter. Soon bodies were falling all around her, and stayed unmoving where they lay.

She risked a glance from the corner of her eye, and saw the outsider battling beside her. He dodged and ducked body-shifting attacks with frightening ease, smashing into demons with fists ringed with blue fire. He threw out his arm, and an invisible wave crashed into an entire line of attackers; she took her cue from him, and switched to sorcery. Gaping maws opened themselves in the ground, swallowing entire groups. Clawed fists formed from thin air, smashing demons flat; these, too, stayed unmoving. She felt a savage exultation fill her; these things were vulnerable after all!

Hours passed, or perhaps only minutes; it was all the same through the battle-haze. But little by little, the lines of attackers began to thin out. And then abruptly, they were gone. Magik stood with her sword clutched in her hands, panting heavily as she surveyed the horizon littered with bodies, looking for more attackers. Blood trickled from a set of claw-marks on her cheek; each breathe ached from a punch that had broken through her guard and jarred against her breastplate, bruising her ribs. But somehow, miraculously, she had managed to escape without serious injury.

"Thanks for the warning," the stranger offered. He didn’t even sound winded. "I guess that makes us -- " He turned, and immediately found the glittering point of the soulsword at his throat.

"Who are you?" Magik demanded. "You’re no demon, you’re no sorcerer, and the only mortal who commands the stepping discs is me!"

He didn’t seem at all surprised by the sudden turnaround, or even afraid of the weapon pressing against his skin. Illyana didn’t like that; now that she could take a closer look at him, there was obviously more to him than there seemed. The black coat he was wearing, for instance; the light seemed to glimmer on its surface with a fluid shine, as if it had been made from liquid obsidian. And the mask he wore, which covered him brow to jaw and left only the eyes and mouth open, glittered with a silvery light she was all too familiar with. She had already been surprised by a random element this day, one that had almost cost her her life; she wasn’t about to give this one a chance to do the same.

"I’m your ally," the stranger replied calmly. "And I am a sorcerer, though of a type unfamiliar to you."

"You didn’t use magic to call the stepping disc," she noted, her blade unwavering.

"No, I didn’t." He seemed content to leave it at that, and Illyana, still in her Darkchilde state, hissed in fury. She pressed the soulsword harder against his throat, pricking the skin and drawing a drop of blood.

"Tell me why, ally of mine, I shouldn’t drive this sword into your double-talking throat." A forked tongue flicked unconsciously through demon fangs; her eyes remained riveted on his, looking for the one warning, one excuse to end his life.

Black-gloved fingers slowly came up to touch the tip of the soulsword, catching it between fingers and thumb and gently moving it away. "Because I am your ally," he said calmly, his gaze unmoving from hers. "And in this place, you need every ally you can get."

Tension froze the air for a brief, heart-stopping moment. Then Magik sighed, her sword dropping.

"I guess I do at that. And if you’re really trying to kill me, I can deal with you later. Not that it really matters right now." The battle-haze finally dissipating, Illyana felt weak and tired. She jammed the point of her soulsword into the ground, leaning against it as she looked out over the carnage.

"The transmode virus," she muttered. "The damned transmode virus! Magus must have brought it here when he… hell and damnation!"

The stranger looked at her, gloved fingers wiping at his throat. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. The fight to save my soul just got a whole lot harder, that’s all." She slowly sunk to the ground, drawing her knees up to the chest and wrapping her arms around them. She looked up at the stranger, struck by a sudden thought. "How did you do that to S’ym anyway? I know the spell you used; it destroys living flesh. S’ym’s techno-organic body shouldn’t even have been affected, and even if it was, it could have repaired itself easily."

The stranger shrugged and sank down to the ground on her opposite side, the soulsword a silent chaperone between them. "My magics have a code that organizes techno-organic matrices and keeps them from reconstructing. Makes them vulnerable, and keeps them from instantly healing. S’ym should be out of your hair for some time. I could teach you the code, if you wanted."

"Maybe." Illyana sighed, sinking her head down on her arms. "I’m wondering why I should even bother."

He tilted his head. "You don’t really mean that, do you?"

"Why not?" She raised her head, smiling bitterly. "First it was Belasco, then S’ym, and now this. Every time I think I’ve beaten this place, something new rises up out of the darkness. Even if I defeat S’ym, someone else will probably come along to challenge me." Illyana sighed, resting her cheek against her palm.

"I can’t surrender to him, though," she murmured to herself. "I won’t become what he wants me to become. But maybe I should just walk away from all this, get out while I still have a soul left. Hand Limbo over to S’ym and say, ‘Hey, it’s all yours.’ No more mutant powers, no more magic. Just live a normal life, as a normal girl."

She sat for a moment, thinking about it. Living as a normal girl with her brother, the way she used to. To walk in the sunshine, and not have to worry about the darkness that was waiting for her. To be happy again. More than anything, she wanted that. The alternative was a life of endless struggle, her soul carved out bit by bit. And for what? A realm she had never asked to be a part of, a legacy she had never wanted?

What choice was there, really, when you thought about it?

Something rustled at her side. She turned her head, and saw the stranger had risen to his feet. He now stood with his hand outstretched to her. Glowing softly on the ground behind him, a stepping disc awaited.

"Come with me," he said. "I want to show you something."

She looked up at him distrustfully. She couldn’t sense where that stepping disc led to. "What?"

"Better to show you; you wouldn’t believe me if I explained it." A pause. "If you’re afraid… "

She felt the beginnings of a snarl at her throat, and quelled it, turning it instead to a wry grin. He had managed to strike just the right button, and somehow she could feel that it hadn’t been entirely accidental.

"I’m not afraid of anything, pal," she returned. "Least of all some creep in a black coat offering rides to little girls."

"Well then?" His voice was still calm, his hand still outstretched. Ignoring it, Illyana pulled herself to her feet, and withdrew her soulsword from the ground. She stepped past him to the center of the stepping disc, waiting as he did the same.

"So much for not going off with strangers," she noted as she began to sink into the portal. And the last thing she saw before they submerged completely was a strange little smile on his face, as if he somehow found the idea of his being a stranger amusing.

They emerged into cool evening air, a far cry from the stagnant cold of the battlefield. Illyana gazed around her in surprise; gone were the rocky outcroppings and war-torn ground. Lush grass carpeted the floor, and the beginnings of a night-darkened forest stood a ways in front of them.

"I’ve never seen this place before," she murmured, glazing admiringly at the cool green that surrounded them. The stranger shrugged, and began walking towards the edge of the forest.

"Limbo is a place of infinite doors to infinite rooms," he replied. "If you were aware of every aspect, you’d probably go insane."

"What about this place isn’t insane?" Magik asked, wry grin quirking her lips.

"You are," the stranger replied matter-of-factly, pausing to look over his shoulder. "If you were, S’ym would have already won. Are you coming?"

Illyana stared at him for a moment, then shrugged and walked to catch up with him. She soon discovered that the outer fringe of the forest had been deceptively mild; what had looked like a sylvan grove quickly thickened to a night-dimmed rainforest. Guided by starlight, they carefully made their way, stepping over roots and pushing aside branches. Occasionally, when the underbrush became too thick, Magik’s soulsword cleared their path.

As they made their way, Illyana found herself glancing at her guide. A thousand questions were crowding her mind, but he didn’t seem like the type who would be willing to answer them. After a few minutes, however, he surprised her.

"You have questions." He kept his eyes forward as he spoke, seeking out their trail, but she could hear the smile in his voice. "Ask what you will. I can’t promise I’ll answer everything, but I’ll say what I can."

She thought for a moment of where to begin. "How come S’ym couldn’t infect you with the transmode virus?"

He shrugged. "The same reason he couldn’t infect you. My coat and gloves protect me, the same way your armor protects you."

"And your mask, it’s… ?"

"Yes." He nodded. "It’s the same material as your armor."

There had been something about the mask that had been bothering Illyana, something she couldn’t put her finger on. But his confirmation drove those nagging thoughts from her mind; she caught his arm, stopping him for a moment.

"What is this stuff?" she asked, leaning forward urgently. "Where does it come from? It’s been with me for years, but I never created it! And how did you get it?" She was hoping for at least one answer to the mysteries that had plagued her life, even if it was just a minor one. She was disappointed however, as he shook his head.

"I don’t know," he replied, sounding genuinely apologetic. "I have it, and it serves me. I never really needed to know more. I’m sorry." He turned back, pulling his coat tighter around him as he carefully stepped through a patch of brambles.

"You said you were a type sorcerer I wasn’t familiar with," Illyana asked after a moment, catching up with him. "What did you mean by that?" But he only shook his head; Illyana took it to mean that he was unwilling to answer. "You know, for someone claiming to be my ally, you sure aren’t being very helpful."

"How’s your throat?" he asked offhandedly. She blinked, then smiled wryly.

"Okay, I take that back. Thanks, by the way." She paused. "Hey, do you have a name? Or do I just keep calling you ‘my ally?’"

He glanced back. "You can call me Arkhaine. We’re here."

"Here" was a clearing in the woods, moonlight filtering down between the branches of the surrounding trees. Frowning, Illyana opened her mouth to ask, but stopped as the undergrowth began to rustle. Her soulsword was immediately out and at the ready -- but as figures began to emerge into the grove, the sword’s point lowered to touch the ground, the strength leaving her arms.

"What… what are they?" she whispered, staring with wide eyes.

"Resistance," Arkhaine replied, stepping to the side as the group gathered around them.

Elves, slender-limbed with moonlight-pale faces. Short and stocky dwarves, hands stroking thick grey beards or hooked into belt loops. Scurrying gnomes, chattering excitedly as they waved and pointed at her. Creatures of myth and whimsy, creatures from a time of innocence and wonder -- from childhood tales told to Illyana by her best friend, Kitty Pryde. And now they were here, right before her eyes.

They were still Limbo’s creatures, though, and darkness tainted their beings. She could see it in the cruel and arrogant beauty of the elves, the merciless glint in the depths of dwarven eyes, the way the gnomes glanced around with suspicious, animal cunning. But they were a far cry from the hordes of demons she fought against, and she sensed no malice from these creatures. Only curiosity, a curiosity that soon gave way to awe.

"My lady," a dark elf in noble’s clothes whispered, staring with wide eyes and slowly falling to one knee. "Is it truly you?"

"Of course it’s her, you pointy-eared buffoon!" a dwarf bellowed. "By the Void, get on your feet and tend to her! She’s wounded, and half-dead with battle fatigue!"

They crowded around her, and again Illyana tensed. But chattering voices were filled with concern, and tugging hands sought to guide, not attack. She let them guide her to sit on a moss-covered stump, let them drape a warm blanket around her shoulders and press a steaming mug into her hands.

"Is she hurt?" one of the gnomes asked, staring up at her with worried eyes.

"No," another dark elf, this one a maiden in robes, replied as she examined Illyana. "Her wounds are not serious. They should heal with no trouble." She dabbed at Illyana’s cheek with a cool cloth, easing the burn of the scratches there.

Dazed, Illyana took a sip from the mug in her hands. She tasted spiced cider, the kind she hadn’t had since she was a child growing up in Russia. Everything felt unreal, like she had suddenly wandered into the middle of someone else’s dream. Part of her recognized that she had shifted from her Darkchilde form, returning to her human form and dress. But that realization, like everything else in her mind, seemed dim and far away at that moment.

"Who are you?" she asked, unable to keep herself from staring at the throng around her.

The first elf shrugged, gesturing to Arkhaine, who now stood at the far edge of the clearing "That one described it as aptly as anyone. We are resistance. Resistance in the war against S’ym."

"What are you talking about? I’ve never had anyone helping me! I’ve always fought against S’ym alone."

"Is that what you thought?" Arkhaine called from where he stood. "Did you really think that with the legions of demons at S’ym’s command, he couldn’t have crushed you by now through sheer numbers? You’re good, but not good enough to fight off an entire army."

"We gather when you appear," the elflord agreed, "and keep the bulk of S’ym’s forces at bay when he engages you."

"We make sure you don’t see us," the gnome at her knee added, chest swelling as though he were proud of this fact. "We know it’s important for you not to get distracted when you fight."

She nodded in agreement; the stakes of her battles were never far from her mind. She finally felt herself begin to calm, as her thoughts -- and her heart -- began to accept what she saw and heard as the truth.

"A resistance movement. Unbelievable… " She shook her head, taking another drink of cider. "How long have you been here?"

"Ever since you overthrew Belasco, my lady," the elflord answered. "Ever since you took your place as Sorceress Supreme, and S’ym rose up to oppose you. We’ve tried our best to -- my lady? My lady, what’s wrong?"

Illyana’s hands shook, the mug falling from her fingers to spill unnoticed in the dirt. Tears welled in her eyes as she felt the weight of years pressing in on her. Memories of blood and steel flooded her mind, sights and sounds of battles that haunted her dreams. Memories of S’ym’s mocking laughter, of her horror at discovering the growing changes in herself, of her continuing fear that her next breath might be her last. Tired and hurt, stunned by revelation after revelation, it was more than she could bear.

"Why didn’t you tell me you were here?" Illyana cried in anguish. "I thought I was alone for so long! I didn’t have to face S’ym alone! I didn’t have to do any of it alone! Why didn’t you tell me?!"

Silence filled the grove, and Illyana struggled not to sob in the stillness, burying her face in her hands. Then a voice spoke, rough in quality, soft with kindness and understanding.

"Lass," the dwarf said gently, "ye never bothered to seek us out."

Her head snapped up, eyes wide; the simple statement struck her like a crossbow shot, its truth piercing her soul. Ororo, Kitty, Peter… their alternates twisted, slain by her own hands. After them, she had just assumed she would have to fight alone against S’ym and his legions, and against her own inner demons. It had never occurred to her to seek out anyone, either in Limbo or on Earth, who would be willing or able to help her through her trials.

"You weren’t alone then, and you aren’t alone now," Arkhaine called, as if reading her thoughts. "Your mentor, your friend, your bother, they all died with one goal in mind: to protect you. They loved you, and you loved them; you struck them down to save them from what they had become, freeing their souls and letting them die with dignity instead of live as Belasco’s puppets."

"We love you, too, lady," the gnome piped up, tentatively putting a hand on her knee as he gazed up at her. "We’ll fight for you, and die for you if we have to." A murmur of consent ran through the crowd, heads nodding, eyes shining with loyalty and conviction.

"And they aren’t the only ones," Arkhaine added, working his way through the crowd to her side. "Even now there are those who are ready to fight by your side. Your nature scares them, but they have never failed you when you needed them, and would gladly stand by you if only you let them."

"Dani… " Illyana whispered to herself. "Sam… Roberto… even Rahne. She’s so scared of what I am, but every fight she’s right there by my side. She’s never failed me… " None of them had, she realized. She stared down at her hands, lost in thought.

"Lady?" She blinked and stared down at the gnome tugging at her hand. "Will you stay here with us? Will you lead us into battle?"

"Aye, lass!" The dwarf’s eyes glittered at the thought. "With you leading us, we could crush S’ym and take this realm once and for all!"

An excited muttering ran through the crowd, but stilled quickly as all eyes turned towards her, waiting for an answer. Illyana bowed her head, quiet for several moments.

"I’d like to," she finally said softly. "I want to be free of all this, and I wouldn’t mind fighting anymore. Now that I know I’m not alone. But Sam and Dani and the others… they’re waiting for me, counting on me. I can’t stay here."

Another mutter ran through the crowd, this one not so pleasant. She could even hear one or two hisses of "traitor" running through the ranks. Illyana bit her lip, her head still bowed, hair falling over her face. But as quickly as the mutterings rose, they stopped. She felt a light touch on her arm, and she raised her head to find the slanted eyes of the elflord staring into hers.

"Do what you must, my lady," he said gently. "We can fight on without you, as we’ve always done. But if your heart fails you, you will fall. And we are nothing without you."

"Aye, he has the right of it lass," the dwarf rumbled. "Do what ye must. None here will fault you for it." He looked at her for a moment more, then broke into a toothy grin. "Now, don’t worry your pretty little head over us! We’ve a few tricks yet, and more than enough iron to stand against S’ym and his lackeys!"

"We’ll win one day, lady!" the gnome chirped. "You’ll see! We’ll win this war for you!"

"Aye, that we will!" The dwarf drew his war-hammer from his belt, thrusting it into the air. "For you, lass! For Illyana Rasputin!"

"For Magik!" shouted the gnome.

"For our queen!" cried the elflord, raising his sword aloft.

"FOR THE QUEEN!" The forest echoed with the roar as the crowd raised their weapons high, shields clattering, shouting and cheering. Then one of them began to sing what sounded like a battle-song, and as the others took it up one by one until the entire forest rang with the words, Illyana recognized it for what it was. The song that had always filled her heart with pride and hope. The song of her country, the Russian anthlem.

Tears welled up in her eyes again, and this time she let them stream down her cheeks. She opened her mouth to join in the singing, but her throat closed, and she choked on something that was both a sob and a laugh. She felt a hand at her arm, and turned to see Arkhaine smiling at her, mouthing the song even as he nodded to the side. She saw the stepping disc glowing on the ground and nodded, turning for one last look. Then she walked into the disc, the song following her down into darkness.

Arkhaine stood behind her, waiting as she wiped the tears from her face. They were back at the battlefield, the littered corpses having since then been removed, the signs of carnage erased, leaving it a cold and rocky plain.

"Well?" Arkhaine asked quietly.

"I’m not alone," Illyana whispered, half to herself. "I’m not alone."

"Is that such a surprise? Limbo reflects its master. Even as there’s a part of you that rebels against what you’ve become, strives to become better than what Belasco made you, that part finds form here, on this plane."

"So, what? They’re not real?" Illyana looked at him. "They’re just some part of my subconscious, some inner wish given form?"

Arkhaine shook his head. "Limbo’s form is determined by its master, not its nature. The creatures you saw are shaped and guided by that secret part of your soul, but they are as alive as you and me. Their mission came from your heart, but it’s carried on in theirs. Now do you see why you have to keep on fighting?"

"I have to," Illyana whispered, looking in the direction of the forest. "If I give up, S’ym will kill them. They’re counting on me."

Arkhaine clucked his tongue at her, shaking his head again. "You still don’t see. Oh, make no mistake, that’s a good reason. But it’s not the most important one."

"What, then?" Illyana shook her head slowly. "What else could there be?"

"You can’t give up the fight because you can’t give up hope!" Arkhaine replied, stepping towards her. "Until today, you thought you were all alone, that no one cared or even knew about the fight to save your soul. But today, you realized that you weren’t alone, not in this world, not in the other. You were so cynical, aged beyond your years; you thought you knew everything, but you didn’t know about this. That should show you that even here -- especially here -- anything is possible. Even salvation."

"What if it’s too late for me?" Her voice was little more than a whisper, giving voice to her greatest fear. "There’s so much evil inside me. What if I’m too far gone for hope to save me?"

Arkhaine tilted his head. "When I hit S’ym with that spell and he started screaming, you were going to shout something at me. Were you going to encourage me, or tell me to stop?"

Illyana raised her head, opening her mouth -- and fell silent, emotions warring in her eyes.

"It galls you to think you could care anything about that monster," he continued. "The Darkchilde certainly wouldn’t. But S’ym is alive, too, in his own way. And no true heart could bear to see any living thing suffer. You’re not as far gone as you think."

"’No true heart.’ Where do you come up with these things?" Illyana muttered, but she smiled as she said it.

"Give me a break, will you?" Arkhaine tried to sound injured, but he was also smiling. "It’s not like I have speechwriters for this sort of thing. Besides, am I wrong?"

"I guess not." She took in a deep breath, wiping her eyes one last time before looking up at him.

"Why did you do all this for me, Arkhaine? What part of my subconscious shaped you? Are you… " She paused, the sudden thought seeming totally impossible, yet completely possible at the same time. "Are you… me? Another version of me, somehow?"

But he was smiling again, and shaking his head. "Ever have someone tell you the whole world doesn’t revolve around you? Well, that’s true even of a world like this. Not everyone here is a player on the board, Magik; I’m just someone who decided to stop in and give a friendly word."

"I’m glad you did," she murmured, giving him a small smile. Then she glanced to the side. "I should probably be getting back. I’ve been gone a long time, and the others are probably worried about me."

"I’ll open the way for you," he offered, gesturing off to the side. A stepping disc appeared on the ground, and Illyana nodded, turning to walk towards it. Just before she reached its edge, however, she paused. She spun around, running back and throwing her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much, for showing me I’m not alone."

Arkhaine stiffened in surprise, arms sticking out awkwardly. Then he chuckled, closing his arms around her shoulders and hugging her back.

"You’re very welcome, Illyana," he replied. "I’m glad I could help."

She stepped back, grinning up at him before turning towards the stepping disc. She walked to its center, felt herself begin to sink into the portal. Looking over her shoulder, she waved at him in farewell, his returning wave the last think she saw before sinking out of sight.

And then she’s gone.

I sigh as she disappears, the stepping disc closing, and I let my hand fall. There’s so much I wanted to tell her about what she would face in her future. About N’Astirh’s treachery, and her fall to the corrupted part of her soul. About her sacrifice to save the Earth from demonic rule. About her younger self’s tragic fate at the hands of the Legacy virus. But I couldn’t tell her any of that, any more than I could destroy S’ym permanently. I didn’t have the right.

I remove my mask, letting the wind play over my face; as I do so, my hair fades to gold-blonde, my eyes lighten to blue. I was afraid that she would see through my disguise spell, but here in Limbo, my powers are at their strongest. And I had a good teacher to show me how to use them.

Infinite doors to infinite rooms, I told her, and that’s truer than she will ever know. This room is not mine; this is not my Limbo, and she is not my Illyana. Her fight is not my fight. The best I could do was pass on the lesson that was given to me, bringing things full circle: to never give up hope, to always keep fighting. And of course, that she’s not alone. I pray she will carry this message in her heart, even though her darkest hours.

I remember my own fight waiting for me, and I replace the mask on my face. I raise my hand, calling the stepping disc. I know what I’ll be returning to, but I’m ready to face it.

I am Gavriil Rasputin, son of Illyana Nikolievna Rasputin. I am Korboros, demonic creation of the dark lord Azaroth.

I am Arkhaine.

And I will never give up the fight.

A last look at this world, a last thought towards what I’ve done here today.

And then I, too, am gone.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I hope you readers won’t think me too presumptuous for giving one of the main characters my Internet handle as an alias. It wasn’t until I was thinking of possible names that I realized just how well the name actually fit. So I figured, "why not?"

Anyway, this is my first time contributing to this forum, though not necessary my first attempt at fan fiction. Feel free to let me know what you thought of this piece, and e-mail me at arkhaine_p@hotmail.com. Especially let me know if you’d be interested in seeing more. Looking forward to hearing from you.