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The Ante
Chapter XVIII: Suicide Kings
(Part 2/2)
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“Okay!” Mercy clapped her hands together, stopping before an impossibly large door on the second floor of the house.

It had taken nearly five minutes to reach their destination, crossing through two parlors and passing several rooms that appeared to be loaded with electronics, surveillance equipment and computers – not to mention the half-dozen sculptures that decorated the massive corridor. Thankfully, Rogue had quickly managed to siphon off the nervous knot of tension that was forming between her shoulder blades with the long walk, but the lingering echo of her one-sided conversation with Remy had stubbornly clung near, making her heels heavy. It was a weight that matched that of the Queen of Hearts now crammed into her coat pocket.

Its presence was a burden, and with its weary load, her heart begrudgingly dragged along behind.

The art adorning the mansion, however, was an easy distraction.

Rogue had forced herself to keep walking the instant she’d seen the first Caravaggio. She’d staggered in front of the floor-to-ceiling Reuben’s and barely collected herself enough to follow Mercy’s running commentary of the family’s “collection.”

It had been the Escher framed neatly next to the guest room door that betrayed her utter astonishment, causing her chest to fill with a leaden ache that forced her to settle a hand against the wall lest she fall apart entirely.

“Quoi?” Mercy asked, her ponytail flicking over her shoulders as she looked between Rogue’s gobsmacked expression and the woodprint on the wall.

“Is that…?”

Mercy made a disgruntled sound in the back of her throat. “Dat’s an Escher, yeah. S’ a replacement f’ de one Remy took b’fore he left. De first one was much better – buncha staircases goin’ all over de place? Dis one’s alright, but Remy always had t’ have his favorite.” She cocked her head to the side, peering at it speculatively. “He always liked t’ wake up in de mornin’ and have somet’ing pretty t’ look at.”

Mercy glanced at her, a small smirk causing her cheeks to dimple.

“Where’s –” Rogue’s voice cracked, understanding the double meaning of the statement. Flushing, she cleared her throat. “Where’s Remy’s room exactly?”

Mercy smiled mischievously, opening the door to the guest suite and letting Rogue pass her with tentative, reluctant steps.

“Why, it’s just across the hall, girl,” she answered lightly. “Pleasant dreams.”

With the door shut behind her, Rogue seized the opportunity to swear loudly.

---

When he had left New Orleans four days ago, if anyone would have had the brass to tell him, and if he’d had the slightest bit of sense to listen, he wouldn’t have lifted a finger.

He would have sat the hell back, kicked up his feet, waited for Tante to make him dinner, and maybe read Forbes to pick up a few new “clients” until he got bored and the clubs opened for the evening.

He’d have woken up in a strange smelling bed the next day, with another strange smelling woman in the shower, stumbled home, and the routine would have started again in its vicious, predictable, circadian cycle.

He would have been fine with that, Remy told himself.

Remy paused, cocking his head and listening as Rogue’s footsteps faded away on the second floor and down the East wing.

He really was shaping up to be a poor liar.

Just when the hell had he lost his touch?

Oh that’s right, he thought derisively, the instant Rogue had unconsciously robbed him of his ability to exercise that particular right.

Remy frowned, strolling down the long hall of the Guild House with his hands in his pockets. It had been a while since he’d been here. Such a long time, in fact, that although he remembered the way to the back rooms where Jean Luc kept his office, he was still reluctant to take that long walk and knock on that door.

Remy paused, trying to draw out the moment as long as possible.

He had known this entire situation would be a gamble. He had known that trying to fix things would have risks. He hadn’t anticipated his own reactions. He hadn’t measured the critical loss, hadn’t measured the fact that somehow, Rogue had learned to work him just as he had taught himself to work her.

Just when had the wager gotten so high?

Remy grimaced, raising his fist.

He should have taken his own advice.

“Never bet more den y’ willin’ t’ lose.”

He’d have it tattooed to his forehead one day as a permanent reminder.

With a frustrated sigh, he knocked on the door to Jean Luc’s office.

---

Dreaming again…

Wisps and tendrils of things slide past Rogue’s subconscious. Seated on the back of a large, blue elephant, her knees tucked beneath its flapping ears, Rogue flies – her fingers trailing lazily in thick, cotton clouds that evaporate into ripples of molasses. The clouds drip behind her, her arms growing tired as she continues to pull her fingers through the streams. When she draws her hands back, joyful in the delirium and disjointed lucidity of the subconscious mind as it rests, her fingers come away sticky.

Curiously, she licks her thumb, expecting something sweet and sugary… but it is wrong somehow.

It tastes like metal.

With bleary, dubious recognition, she realizes that it’s not molasses. The dark, viscous coating on her hands is blood, and she is covered in it.

The elephant disappears, and below her feet unfolds something solid – a checkerboard of marble, diamond patterned and severe. The floor spreads to all sides of her, and where it stops, walls build themselves like steam turning solid.

It is then that she smells the heavy, soporific resin in the air.

Rogue remembers, and at the same time, she knows that it is not her memory. This is the property of someone else. She has stolen it from them, and the thought draws a smirk from her, as does the empty space on her ring finger, soon to be filled.

The lines that delineate Rogue’s identity blur where the dream shifts to accommodate that of another. This is his memory, tumultuous and wavering before it settles, solid and heavy once it does. It is Remy who stands before the altar at St. Alphonsus church, but it is Rogue who feels the hard marble steps below her feet, and Rogue who begins to understand and recognize, experiencing as he had, as the story tells itself through Remy’s eyes.

Her hands are clean, bare – and for a moment, as the ghosts around her swirl into form, she is disoriented. The tuxedo she wears is pressed neatly, the tie too tight at her throat, the cummerbund uncomfortable, but she wears it with ease, and she knows she looks good.

Several women in the crowd of onlookers gaze at her appreciatively to reinforce her outward calm. She can’t help but smile back winningly. She winks at one, who titters, turning to a girlfriend and whispering heatedly.

In the front most pew, her adoptive father, Jean Luc, looks on. For him, this is a business arrangement, which leaves the celebration of the union lacking its expected luster, though the church is magnificent and the company resplendent. Members from both Guilds sit on either sides of the church, divided for now by the aisle that has been strewn with white and pink rose petals, but soon, that will change. They bear it. They will learn to get along because there is hope that they can. This union will forge the links between them and make the Guilds strong once again.

Beside her, Henri clears his throat.

“Dere anyt’ing y’ need, Remy?” he asks, and Rogue grins, her gaze fixed on the door as the bridal march blares from the organ overlooking the altar from the second floor balcony.

“Y’ plan on giving m’ tips f’ de wedding night, frère?” she replies good-naturedly.

Her brother gives her a firm slap on the shoulder, and beside him Emil chuckles. “Remy should be givin’ y’ pointers, old man.”

Henri chuckles. “Can’t teach an old dog –”

“Eh, mes amis?” Rogue hears herself saying, her smile widening. “T’ink y’ can save dis lil’ debate f’ another time? I t’ink it’s a sin t’ be talking ‘bout dis sorta t’ing in church.”

“I t’ink it’s a sin t’ ever have done dem sorta t’ings in a church,” Emil shoots back in a whisper.

Henri rolls his eyes.

“Remy, y’ didn’t –”

“Wasn’t m’ idea,” she returns, smiling even wider. Her chest swells, a feeling of happiness so thorough that she could burst. “Belle, she’s somet’ing else.”

“He been sayin’ dat since he was fifteen,” Emil mutters. “Me? I t’ink y’ both crazy.”

Emil’s complaints go unheard. Rogue is happier than she has ever been, a feeling experienced vicariously through the memory. True, she herself has not known a sentiment so strong, so pure; it thrums in her deeply, making her head swim. It fills her lungs and leaves her dazed as through the massive, open doors, in walks Remy’s bride-to-be.

Remy is cotton-mouthed, light headed, but Bella Donna is... Rogue’s breath catches… she is everything she has ever imagined, wrapped delicately in white satin and pearls. It scares her a little — though that is not something she can admit to her brother or cousin, regardless of how close they are. Nor to Mercy, who frequently tries to ply her for information involving her escapades. Bella is not pure, no, but neither is Remy. She, he, they understand one another, and above all, it is not the contract of their marriage, nor what it will do for both clans, but what it will mean for them.

At Belle’s side, his arm cocked at a severe angle in the crisp linen suit he wears, Marius Boudreaux deposits his daughter at Rogue’s side, placing a light kiss on her cheek and offering Remy a glance that carries with it a warning.

Do not trifle with me and my own, it says, and Remy doesn’t care.

Not a lick.

Remy is buoyant, and Belle, smiling, radiant, beautiful Belle who has taken out the rows of knotted braids in her hair for today so that her gold locks fall lightly over her bare shoulders, is an angel.

This love, thinks Remy, thinks Rogue through their symbiotic union in memory, this love makes him want to drown, press his face into Belle’s neck and lose himself in the welcome embrace of the woman who he has known since the tender age of nine, who he has been betrothed to since he was twelve, who he has loved from the age of fifteen, and now – at eighteen – she will be his and he hers. As much as it scares him, somehow, Remy knows that this is right. This is how it was always meant to be.

He has never seen Jean Luc look so proud, sitting in his cream seersucker suit in the first pew. Remy has finally done something to serve his family, to thank them for this life they offered him without question. For once, he is worthy of them.

He doesn’t see the hairline fracture in his père’s smile, doesn’t see the years of orchestration and planning that have come to make this moment possible. Sure, this wedding is part of the nonaggression pact, but all Remy sees is Belle.

She is smiling at him, her blue eyes wide and shining as the Priest begins the opening speech.

---

“Remy.”

“Bonsoir, Jean Luc.”

Sighing, the Thieves’ patriarch re-seated himself behind his desk. Near the door, Henri and Lapin exchanged a glance as Remy entered the room. He did not take the seat that his adoptive father offered him.

“Henri tells me y’ brought a friend with y’.”

Remy concealed his disdain by quirking an eyebrow.

“She didn’t do it either, if dat’s what y’ getting’ at,” he replied evenly.

Jean Luc ignored him, choosing instead to fold his hands before his pencil thin moustache. “It’s dat girl, isn’t it? De one dat helped m’ escape from de Rippers last February?”

Remy looked askance at the series of monitors that lined the far wall. Different parts of the mansion flicked on and off, revealing images of everyone who could be anywhere and at anytime. Jean Luc knew what each and every individual in or around the Guild House was up to at all hours. It was precautionary. It was clever.

Remy made a mental note to disable the cameras in both his and Rogue’s room that night.

“I don’t know what y’ t’ink y’ doing, mon fils –”

Remy forced himself to bite back a snide retort as Jean Luc lingered on the word. “Son” was a subjective term, just like “father.”

“But I can tell y’ dis: since de Assassins were led t’ believe y’ haven’t been back here, it’s obvious t’ me dat y’ either haven’t been mindin’ de treaty, or y’ putting y’ nose back where it don’t belong.”

“Don’t tell me dese are dangerous times, Jean Luc. I seen dat much,” he returned wryly.

“Y’ need t’ be careful, Remy,” he said firmly. “I can’t take care of y’ in dis situation. Y’ not even supposed t’ be in de city.”

“I know,” he said, enjoying, just for a moment, the ire it caused the man before him.

“Den y’ know dat because de nonaggression pact’s broken, de death of dose Assassins is gonna made de streets run again.”

“Dere was more den one?” Remy asked, casting a long glance over his shoulder at Henri for confirmation. He appeared just as startled.

“Two dead,” Jean Luc supplied blandly.

“Merde,” Emil said flatly. “We didn’t see a second. De first one was bad enough.”

“I’ll leave as soon as m’ done what I came for. T’ings’ll go back t’ normal,” Remy said.

“What y’ came for,” Jean Luc said, his tone still decidedly level, “don’t want y’ no more. When are y’ gonna realize dat?”

Remy swallowed, his composure maintaining despite the strain he felt at those words.

“Like always,” he said in a low tone, “it’s been about what y’ wanted f’ de Guild den y’ family, Jean Luc. Guess y’ could say de apple doesn’t fall too far from de tree.”

---

“Whomsoever God hath joined together, let not any man put asunder…” the Priest intones, smiling benevolently at the couple before him. Remy smiles softly, taking Bella’s gloved hand with gentle guidance, and waits for Henri to present him with the ring.

Just as Henri steps from behind him, the sound of panting, staggering footfalls and the clang of metal against marble floors echoes in the quiet sanctuary.

“Stop dis!” Julien shouts raggedly, his voice rising over the startled voices of the crowd. “Dis can’t happen! Putain de merde – y’ get y’ hands off m’ sister!”

“Julien!” Marius roars, standing to full height in his pew.

Most of the church has swiveled in their seats. Necks crane around, people whisper, others point out the sword dragging from the scabbard at Julien’s hip that scrapes roughly as he pulls it free. His arm quivering, he points it at his father while those nearest the blade shriek and lean backwards as he swings.

“Non, père! Dis wedding will not happen so long as I live!”

In an instant, he is racing down the long aisle.

“Marius! What is de meaning of dis?” Jean Luc cries, standing as well.

“Dey mean t’ break de treaty!” someone else shouts. “Dis be treachery!”

“They want the power for themselves!”

“They set us up!”

“C’est la fin de la paix fausse! Vous avez menter!”

Julien bellows, “Belle get away from him! Dat maggot ain’t even blood t’ LeBeau! He’s adopted!”

“Dieu,” Bella breathes beside him, “dis can’t be happening.” Remy squeezes her hand tightly. The crazy coyoon meant to slaughter him right then and there by the looks of it.

“Dere won’t be some urchin runnin’ de Unified Guilds – I won’t have it! I won’t answer t’ him!” Julien rails.

He is nearly at the steps. Pulling Belle behind him, Remy searches for something to defend himself with. As it were, the closest thing at hand is a bible, grasped in the Priest’s trembling fingers, and a bowl of holy water, neither of which seem particularly appropriate to use as a weapon.

“Remy!” someone shouts. From the side of the church occupied by the Thieves, the hilt of a sword sticks out over the crowd.

It is pandemonium as the Assassins surge upwards, the Thieves rising to match as brawls break out amongst the rival clans. In the midst of it, Julien continues to run at him.

“I challenge y’ Remy LeBeau! Defend y’self!”

---

“Dere’s not’ing y’ can do.” Jean Luc continued evenly. “De damage is done, an’ as per usual, it’s gonna be de people y’ left behind who pick up de pieces, Remy.” He shook his head slowly, apologetically almost, but Remy knew better.

“Dis guilt t’ing,” Remy gestured between them, “it don’t work anymore… père.”

That caught Jean Luc’s attention. Though his outward expression didn’t change, Remy had known the man far too long not to notice the slight twitch of a muscle in his neck. It was involuntary, and therefore, an unreliable tell, but Jean Luc had taught him how to read people.

“An’ I suppose y’ got a better solution… mon fils?”

Jean Luc had taught him a lot of things: how to cheat, how to steal, but most importantly, how to lie.

“Somet’ing more valuable den all de artwork y’ got stashed upstairs,” he replied neutrally, pulling out a deck of cards. “What would y’ say if I told y’ dat fille upstairs was de girl who helped y’ escape last year?”

His interest piqued, Jean Luc leaned forwards. “An’ what d’ y’ suppose she can do f’ me?”

Conversely, Bella Donna had taught him how to kill. She was, after all, the daughter of an Assassin.

Remy smirked, splitting the deck with feigned disinterest, his fingers working the cards quickly into a steady shuffle.

Now, he thought, it was time to go in for the kill.

---

“Julien! I don’t want t’ fight y’!”

Remy leapt, soaring into the melee and plucking the outstretched hilt from his cousin’s hand. The sword has barely torn from its scabbard, and Julien is upon him.

In the background, through the din, he can hear the priest yelling, “Please! Please! You mustn’t – this is a house of God!”

The resinous coil of incense, smoking freely from its brazier in the corner, dampens the scent of the roses that line the aisle. Remy flings himself through the roses, tearing past the neat silk ribbons that drape along the pews. Thorns and stems catch on his slacks, slowing his progress out of the fray and out from beneath Julien’s sword.

For a moment, as his ears fill with the grinding sound of steel against steel, Remy wonders where in the world Julien came up with the idea of using a blade to do him in.

It’s far too Shakespearean for his liking: medieval, almost, and Remy’s always been a Star Trek kind of guy. Using his shin to knock Julien’s knee out from beneath him, the swords scrape together again, and he grits his teeth against the force of the blow.

He’d have much preferred his staff — something a little less… sharp.

Belle screams. It startles him. Never has he known her not to fight when the opportunity presents itself, but standing there in her brilliant gown, she is no longer Bella Donna; she is heaven personified – she is an angel who will watch over his death. Remy thinks he’s ready for anything, usually, but for just one second, he doubts he can die for her. He does not want to die for her, no matter how strong he believes his love to be.

Turning to see that she is unharmed, there is a slight miscalculation. Just as Remy twists, as the world around him slows down, Julien lunges forward and the point of Remy’s sword pierces cotton, and then flesh.

He can feel the blade sinking, its path through Julien’s ribcage stilted as the weapon shears against bone. Right next to his ear, he hears Julien struggle for breath – it comes out as a rattle, a quiver as the blood begins to flow over his hands.

Over Julien’s shoulder, he can see the tip of the foil. It glistens darkly, streaked with oxidized scarlet.

---

Jean Luc smiled thinly, leaning back in his chair.

Remy waited, his expression neutral.

At the door, Emil and Henri remained sentinel, not moving, and not making a sound.

Jean Luc cocked an eyebrow, peering at the offering left be Remy’s hand on the desk.

Ante up, he thought. Winner take all.

---

The incense is thick, but it does not cover the copper tang of blood. His feet are sticking to the marble floors of the church. The stain, so dark that it’s nearly black, spreads steadily from the fatal wound. Remy’s hands are covered in it. He can do nothing but stare as Julien slumps to his knees and lands sprawled on the cold, hard marble.

The foil makes am ugly, wet sound as it pulls free from Julien’s chest.

Belle is crying, the sound clear amidst the roar of voices in the background. Sharper still is the Priest; he is begging for the fighting to stop.

“Père?” Remy croaks.

Bella Donna keens, staggering over to her fallen brother. She is babbling.

“No, oh no, Julien! Julien, no… no… dieu, somebody help… Somebody help him!”

“Père!” Remy bellows, the sword still grasped in his hand, the end quivering over Julien’s body – pointing to the atrocity on the floor.

Silence descends, thick and heavy as the nearest Thieves and Assassins both turn to stare.

Bella is crying.

“Père?” Remy whispers, horrified that he has done it again. He has blood on his hands again, and this time, it is not figurative. It is a real stain that will turn the water red when he tries to wash it off.

“Y’ killed m’ son,” Marius Boudreaux whispers, his large form pushing through the crowd. He stares coldly at the body on the floor, his gaze turning to Remy with a look of mingled horror and disgust, and then to Remy’s father.

Jean Luc is shaking his head, his eyes closed.

“Your son’s life for mine,” Marius demands, his voice pitched so low that it comes out as a hiss.

“It was –” Bella Donna hiccoughs, swiping at her running makeup, “an accident!” she sobs.

“T’ keep de peace, dere must be justice!” Marius bellows.

Belle howls, and Remy can’t bear it. Swallowing, he turns from her.

His angel.

From the places he will go, she cannot deliver him.

Silently, Jean Luc concedes, and with a nod, he confirms Remy’s fate.

---

Rogue woke, her chest aching, her feet ensnared in the bedclothes that twisted around her ankles. Pressing her shaking hands to her face, she sobbed, her fingers coming away wet with hot tears.

Thin, pre-dawn light slipped through the curtains, drawing a veil across the suite. Still half-cloaked in darkness, and through the sheen of tears, she had difficulty orienting herself. Kicking at the sheets with a hoarse moan, Rogue finally managed to draw her legs up to her chest where she buried her face into her knees, her shoulders shuddering with the empathic weight of Remy’s burden.

It hurt. It hurt like her heart was being tugged out of her chest.

With the pain came a tumult of something else, something she felt so acutely that it started her sobs afresh just as she thought she’d calmed down.

It was love. A love so strong and so forceful that it would sacrifice itself just to survive a little longer despite the strain of time and distance. A love that turns to bitterness and self-loathing; a love that becomes the mortar for the wall that is built around the heart to protect it in its most fragile state.

A love that can know none other because it had seen its lifespan once, for someone else.

It was not for her.

It could never be for her.

Slowly, shaking with the effort of straining against the sadness of sudden and violent understanding, Rogue extracted herself clumsily from the bed. Setting her bare feet down on warm wood floors, she retrieved her socks, her boots, the clothing Remy had bought her, and her trench coat.

She dressed, swiping at her nose occasionally with the heel of her hand while keeping her eyes downcast, not really seeing the shadows of the room as they shifted.

What did it matter? Like a thief, she had collected a part of Remy that she should never have seen. It meant something far worse – Rogue took a shuddering breath, and moved with deliberate, dragging steps to the ensuite bathroom.

One look in the mirror was all she needed.

Rogue cringed away from her reflection and left the room.

She padded silently into the hall, her boots grasped in one hand to not make a sound as she escaped from the night-bathed mansion and headed for the swamps.

So immersed in the lingering emotions wound tightly into Remy’s memory, the understanding that by kissing him, she had absorbed him, that his powers had failed… she did not see the shine of red eyes in the corner of her room watching her.

A dismantled security camera sat on Remy’s lap.

---

Translations:
Belle: Beautiful/pretty
Belle damme, mon ami: Beautiful woman, my friend.
Bonsoir: Good evening
Bonsoir, mes amis. Ca va? Ou est Jean Luc: Good evening, my friends. How are you? Where’s Jean Luc?
C’est la fin de la paix fausse! Vous avez menter: It’s the end of this false peace! You have lied!
Cher mari: Dear husband
Fille: Girl
Femme: Woman
“Il vous attends,” one of the guards shouted back. “C’est qui avec toi, Emil?”: “He’s waiting for you,” one of the guards shouted back. “Who’s with you, Emil?”
Henri et ses amis: Henri and friends.
Dieu: God
Merde: Shit
Mon fils: My son
Mon Grandpère: My grandfather
Non: No
Père: Father
Putain de merde: Son of a bitch
Quoi: What?
Qu'est-ce que tu besoin: What do you need?
Viens, p’tit: Come, little one
Votre famille, Theoren: Your family, Theoren!

Post Script:
- Suicide King: King of Hearts. So named because in the drawing the king appears to be stabbing himself in the head. (I thought that fitting. Damned Cajun.)
- The Guild House: I’m basing its appearance loosely on Oak Alley, if that wasn’t already obvious. An architectural note, antebellum isn’t a style per se, but refers more to the period in which these houses were built. The “not style” refers to pre- Civil War buildings – symmetrical, a little boxy. Oak Alley is Greek Revival style (columns, frieze-work and all).
- Theoren Marceaux: Alright. Can you say serious liberties with characterization? I can! Please allow me two seconds of feeble justification: He’s never appeared in Evo. As this is an Evo fic, and I require him to hold just a wee little bit of a grudge against Remy for… a particular incident that we will get to shortly… I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for ignoring comic book canon. He has a minor part in the grand scheme of things, so forgive me when I say that this is necessary. For those of you who only know Evo and not comic canon, mores the better. He first appears in #17 of the Gambit series if you’re curious. For now, just go with it. Like everything, just go with it. I don’t like breaking canon, I hate it, in fact, but I’d like to finish off this story in 30 chapters instead of 50. Small sacrifice. The end justifies the means, ad nauseum.
- “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date.” Largely thanks to the White Rabbit in “Alice in Wonderland” and the convenient parallel made with Lapin.
- Symbiotic (relationship): Tip of the hat to ishandhalf.

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