Passion of Death
Chapter 4
by
Lornadane
Disclaimer: All X-men and X-villians are Marvel's characters. Please don't sue me. This was just fun to write. Aerin is my character.
Notes: If you're offended by this material I apologize. I don't condone non-consensual sex, this just fit into the story. It's pure fantasy and would not wish it to happen to anyone in reality.
She woke alone in the cold dim light. He had left without waking her and she felt vaguely annoyed and disappointed. But he had left her wrapped in a blanket and her head cradled on a pillow, showing some concern for her comfort. She rolled over on her left side pulling the cover tightly around her luxuriating in the warmth. It was amazing how something so simple could feel so wonderful. She raised her arms to stretch a little and felt the chill of the collar he had replaced around her neck. A flash of anger went through her. How could he? But she relented a little has she realized he wasn't in complete control of the situation. That man in the gallery was the one in real control. Perhaps Death feared punishment for removing the collar. She smiled at the thought of him fearing anything. He was pure strength. Pure courage. She sat up startled at her thoughts. She found things to admire in him. She admired him. After all he had done to her, all he had taken from her, how could she feel this way? But something had changed last night. His tenderness, his concern for her this morning. She was falling for him. She knew it in the depths of her soul. She was his and that man, his master, her "grandfather", had won. She grimaced. Distasteful, repugnant as the thought was, she knew, really knew that she would follow Death where he led.
Aerin smiled slightly knowing he would come for her tonight. She'd be willing under his guidance. It would be difficult to deny him anything. A thought came to her from a long forgotten trivial memory. A terrorist captive sometimes became sympathetic to the men holding them against their will. Had that happened here? she asked herself. Had she become sympathetic toward Death? Was that the cause of her growing admiration and infatuation. Perhaps. Perhaps she was just so tired of all the torture she was willing now to put herself in his control, making her life a little easier. But his gentleness toward her, his loving strokes that brought her body alive. She couldn't deny the arousal she felt. A warmth went through her as she remembered his touch and last night. And the way she had felt alive toward the end when he had removed her collar. She brushed it lightly, wondering why they kept it on her at all. A sign of her enslavement? She couldn't comprehend the buttons and notches she felt around its edge. Was it a way to control her somehow? The "Master" had called her a mutant. But she refused to believe his words. After all she was twenty-three. Mutants manifested their power in adolescence. Most people knew this. But she had had no power raging from her when she entered puberty. No ray beams shot from her eyes. No grotesque deformities grew out of her. No plasma bolts fired from her fingertips. She couldn't read minds. She couldn't control the elements or raise things off the ground with a thought. They must be wrong. Maybe they had mistaken her for someone else. Maybe they had gotten the name wrong. She snickered at that. All this mighty technology and they had gotten the wrong name, maybe the wrong address. No, she wasn't a mutant, and she wasn't the master's progeny either. They had to be wrong.
She rolled on her side, humming softly to herself, "Spend all your time waiting for that second chance..." The waiting would be difficult. Soon she was dosing.
She was awoken to a guard bringing her food. For the first time since she had been put here she ate ravenously. It wasn't much of a meal. Some sort of porridge, a few dates, a glass of water and a piece of bread. But to her it was like a steak dinner. She laughed at that thinking the first request she would ask of Death was a steak dinner. Under his control or not, surely he couldn't deny her a simple feast. And a shower. She knew she must reek from her sweat and dried blood, urine and filth. The cell had a small drain where a guard must have rinsed away her body elimination each day. But she had been left with nothing to clean herself. She wondered how Death could bare the smell of her night after night. Well, a willingness on her part to meet his demands and perhaps he'd be kind enough to fulfill her simple requests. She could but ask.
Death. She fell asleep again with his name on her lips and her dreams full of the sight of him, caressing her, needing her, loving her. Again she was awoken by food being brought. The guard silent and stern. The meal much the same as before, only an orange replacing the dates. Noonday meal? she asked herself. She wondered again when he would come. After dinner? She ate quickly, not really savoring her food this time. Then she stood up circling the room. Nothing to do but wait. She grabbed the black leotard off the bed and put it on. Each time the guard had entered the room she had stayed under the blanket. She had eaten with it wrapped securely around her. Now she had to do something. With a renewed energy brought on by the repast she felt an urge to exercise. She bent down onto the floor and began doing pushups. Then sit-ups. She stood again and practiced some lunges. It felt good to be doing something. Next she jogged along time around the room until she felt out of breath. She sat on the bed catching her breath. Then standing again she began to kick box at her shadow. Punch, punch, kick, kick, kick. She kept this up for several minutes. She wasn't in great shape and she soon had to catch her breath again. Working twelve-hour shifts at the hospital had made her lazy. Well, if she ever got out of here her lifestyle would change, she swore.
She lay down again. God, the waiting was driving her mad. But within minutes her eyes closed and she was dosing again.
She woke to silence. The dim light in her room had gone out and she could hear nothing. Occasionally she had heard guards marching past her door, or speaking outside in some strange language she couldn't understand. But now there was no sound. Not even the hum of the ventilation shaft she knew existed somewhere above her head, but couldn't see. A tremor of fear shot through her. Something was different. Something wasn't right. And still he had not come. She lay in the dark not moving. She couldn't see her hand in front of her face and this frightened her even more.
She lay on the bed for what seem like hours, her emotions alternating between terror and anger. And still he did not come. Had he forgotten her? Had she been discarded? Perhaps they had finally realized they had the wrong person. Why didn't he come? What if no one came? Two days, maybe three was all she had until dehydration killed her. How ironic she thought, to have fought day after day against an overwhelming opponent only to be left to die of starvation. Forgotten in a prison cell in God only knew what country. She began to weep softly, but forced herself to stop knowing she couldn't afford to lose the moisture. Maybe someone would come.
A few hours later she made her way to the door in a fit of anger. "Hey!" she yelled, hitting the door with her fists. "Is anyone there! Let me out!" She slammed her fists harder and harder unable to control the rising rage in her. "Open the door! For God sake, at least bring me some water!" No answer but the silence. Furious, her fists bruised by the battering, she slammed her body against the door, screaming in frustration. No one was there, she knew. No one was coming. Faster and faster she rammed the door, until her head impacted and she slumped to her knees, her brain ringing from the collision. She sobbed. She would die here. After a few minutes she crawled to the bed and climbing onto it fell into a fitful sleep.
Sadly, her assumption had been correct. She had been forgotten. Death, returning to his teammates at Charles Xavier's mansion, on a mission to collect Mikhail Rasputin had been trapped when his transmat teleportation device had been smashed by Cyclops, forcing him into the Morlock tunnels to escape his old friends. Several of the team had followed him into the tunnels seeking to save his soul and bring him out from under Apocalypse's conditioning. They had been successful and now having rejoined the X-men he was on his way to save the Twelve. Suppressing the Death persona deep into himself, he found his memories of the last few months garbled and vague. Least in his mind was a young girl he had been ordered to bend to his will.
Having not returned from his mission, the guards saw no reason to take care of Death's chosen consort. Apocalypse, busy with his own plans of bringing to life a universe in which he would rule supreme, had found her life insignificant. If Death did not return, there was no reason to keep her alive. And no reason to waste energy on killing her. He simply left her to starve alone in the dark, that portion of his fortress no longer needed. Energy rerouted to more important areas of the compound.
Again she had awoken to the darkness. The room had become warm and stifling. Weakly she threw off the blanket. Alone. She was completely alone. Weak, listless and dying of thirst. She had no tears left to cry. How long had she gone without water? Her lips felt cracked and raw. She ran her tongue over them. Not even a drop of saliva to ease the dryness. Her hunger was growing, but the thirst was unbearable. How long had she been asleep? Her eyes felt sunken in her head, but it didn't matter because there was nothing to see. Only the comforting darkness she thought deliriously. Her only companion with the silence. How long did she have? She mouthed a small prayer. Strange she hadn't prayed before during all this horrible mess. "Forgive me." she said to no one in particular. No miracle would save her. One more day and she'd be dead. This room her grave. With a moan and a sigh, she fell asleep. Her one true comfort now. Waiting only for death to take her.
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