Disclaimer:
This story is a work of fan-fiction based on fictional characters and settings
owned by Marvel Comics. No profit other than what may be inherent in the process
of writing or reading the story is intended; no financial or material profit is
intended or expected at all. Please send feedback or requests for permission to
archive, pop-up, or MST to me at persephone_kore@yahoo.com
. Many thanks to the
assorted people who betaed this for me, especially Abyss, who sent the main one,
and Duey and kaleko for the title help. All remaining errors or areas for
improvement are still my doing.
Poison Light
by Persephone
She rose out of
a pool of light like the Lady of the Lake rising from the water, sword uplifted
over her head and bright flowing hair and bright armor shining in the sun, and I
thought she was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen, and rejoiced that she
wasn't dead after all.
I should have
killed her.
Then, when first
I glimpsed the chill in those triumphant blue eyes, the chill that drove away
even the warmth of a midsummer afternoon.
She seemed so
innocent -- no. Never that, after her first sojourn in that ghastly otherworld,
after its foul fingers of miasma first raked through her hair. Never innocent
when Limbo lay chained to her soul. She seemed so desirous of being innocent,
seemed to long for freedom from the taint she had taken on.
She seemed.
Perhaps it was true once; perhaps in some corner of her heart she regretted, she
loathed what she had become.
As the world
loathes what it let her make of it.
It was easy to
look at the illusion -- no, the truth that she had never wanted this, that she
was driven to it step by step by circumstance beyond her control -- it was easy
to accept that and try to forget what she always knew, that she'd made each
choice and taken each step, aware, and that the circumstances that drove her
along were no absolution and regret could never help unless she found way enough
and will enough to leave the path she'd taken. It was easy to pretend she was
innocent, a victim, to pretend until pretense became belief of both though only
one was true.
She regretted
once at least.
I should have
killed her, when she warned me of what she would do, one night, and begged me to
cut her throat, to stop her heart, anything, before she did it.
An aberration.
She planned it all along. I should have known. Perhaps even her brief regret and
change of heart were a plot and she laughed me to scorn in what was left of her
heart. Perhaps she knew I wouldn't harm her.
Perhaps I would
be dead if I had tried. I wish I had.
Can anguish that
deep be false?
Maybe not. Her
anguish need not have been a sham even if she had utterly lost remorse by then.
I am learning that.
The telepaths
were first. She had grown in power, as we all learned so bitterly, and I suppose
she must have studied what she calls mind-spells. Normal telepathy could not
touch her mind after her return; it struck only blinding-bright smooth eldritch
silver, and she could spin smoky silver darkness about others, or break them, or
tantalize them by proffering their secret desires, or simply take them through a
stepping disc and....
Never mind that.
She freed the
Shadow King first of all, tricked Betsy into losing her grasp. We didn't realize
it at first, for she fought him, sword flashing impossibly against blackness on
the Astral Plane, how we never knew... and then she bound him to her and we
began to realize the world would be hers.
She used him
against the rest, against the other telepaths and against the world, as a weapon
and a shield, and alongside her sorcery he made her irresistible.
There was no
hope.
None at all.
That sword broke
any spell that tried to hold her; time and space formed no boundaries to her.
The foulness
began to seep from her world into ours. We had never understood; we left her to
it and it took her, or she yielded finally to the allure of its own peculiar
power, and she was lost and we with her when she made her move.
The taint on the
air, the taste of sulfur and the hint of darkness in broad daylight, these were
nothing. We barely noticed them at first. It was the taint that leaked into the
soul, the essence of the dark magic, that let her conquer the populace -- and
our souls gave her the means to subsume more and more of the physical world.
I suppose it
conquered her, first.
We failed to
notice the deeper, subtler taint initially, too.
And that made
all the difference.
It was insidious
at first. Oh, there were those she forced or seduced to her side, those she
deemed powerful enough to resist anything short of a direct assault, of her
personal attention.
Madelyne, spirit
crushed and twisted, knelt before her.
Selene,
defeated, paid her homage. And the gleaming Darkchilde, remembering how the
ancient sorceress had humbled her in time past, shook back her bright hair and
laughed.
Apocalypse -- no
one is entirely sure what happened to Apocalypse. Some say he is dead; others
claim that he bides his time, or sleeps, and simply awaits her demise. Others
still argue that his vaunted strength has never been suited to resisting this,
for it does not lie in purity of heart, and his formidable will does not direct
him so far from Limbo's aims that his acts cannot be brought silently into
alignment with her purposes.
When anyone
dared to ask her of him, she only smiled. That was all.
No one asks her
now.
Those she
thought she could not corrupt... were slaughtered. Any who showed mercy after
the first six months were given special attention, and broken... or fed to her
servants at the last. And still her shining beauty, majestic now as the world's
queen, captivated me even as I shrank back from her acts, even as I reveled in
them.
But the rest she
left to hints, to creeping influences, to the slow encouragement of all the
worst in us. To the miasma surrounding.
The worst is
liking it. I see those I respected laugh at others' pain, enjoy causing it.
I see it in
myself. All the pettiest things -- there can be more evil in petty spite than in
fiery rages or grand and cruel schemes, for the smaller cruelties are so easy to
fall into and gnaw so bitterly into all that is noble in the soul.
And we begin not
to care, begin to enjoy inflicting suffering, for any reason or none, or only to
lash out of our own misery.
I like it. What
is left of who I was shudders at the thought, cringes and shrivels away from
what I am becoming. What I have become.
That is why
there is no hope left.
No hope.
Not because she
destroyed it.
No.
Because we let
her.
I had seen my
own dark side before; with the X-Men or associates, that was almost inevitable.
I knew I was capable of horrors, had seen some of them wreaked or plotted, had
fought the evil twin of my soul to submission.
I never knew how
miserable it would be to live it. I never knew the crawling nastiness and the
loathing even evil has for evil, never knew how remorseless mocking glee went
along with the sure knowledge that genuine joy was forever and always out of
reach.
She taught me
that.
She took the
world.
We have no hope.
I should have
killed her.
She was so
beautiful.
I should have
killed her.
It was so easy
to believe she was innocent.
Innocent through
victimhood.
Not her fault.
I should have
killed her.
But she seemed
so innocent....
So innocent...?
...Why did that matter again?