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White Rose	By : CeeCee Category: X-men Comics > FemSlash - Female/Female Views: 10605 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the X-Men fandom. Marvel Entertainment owns these characters. I make no money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Summary: A father’s cruel choice.
Author’s Note: *listens to crickets chirping in the background* Hello? Helloooooo?
Hope this fic is entertaining. For whatever the reason, it appeals to my muse to throw this one out there. I love fractured fairy tales and I love the X-Men. If anyone noticed the little Easter egg that I dropped last chapter, the Beast’s “servants” are populated by the younger characters in the spinoff titles.
Emma rushed upstairs with the pot of boiling water and an armload of towels and clean rags, heart pounding. She hissed at the stray droplets of steaming water that splashed onto her nightgown, but she didn’t have time to indulge the painful sensation. Her brother’s suffering dwarfed any of her own discomforts.
He’d been beaten.
Emma had reached the door first when he practically fell through it, coughing and bleeding from the mouth. His light blue eyes, so much like Emma’s, appeared glassy and vacant. She was heedless of how dirty he was, grime mingling with bloody scratches across his lean cheeks, and she didn’t care if her own clothing became soiled when she rushed forward to support him. Cordelia came into the foyer at the sound of the scuffle at the door, took one look at her brother and screamed.
“CHRISTIAN! Dear God! What happened?”
“Help me,” Emma hissed, jerking her head around to glare at her older sister over her shoulder as she wrapped her brother’s arm around her neck to support him. “Get him upstairs.”
“He’s bleeding everywhere,” Cordelia fretted, wringing her hands as she followed them.
“Get blankets! And get him something to drink!” Emma snapped.
“Don’t you tell me what to do!” Cordelia’s cheeks were florid at Emma’s gall.
“Do it. Now.” Christian flinched at how their pause in progress on the stairs made his tortured abdomen spasm, and he felt unease at the dangerous tone of his youngest sister’s voice. She didn’t sound like herself. But he appreciated her haste and aggression as she took control of his care and wrestled him into his room. The next few minutes were a painful, hazy blur of activity. His skin was pale and bruised everywhere. He had a black eye and contusions across his ribs and back when she gently removed his ruined shirt.
“Don’t… don’t look at me,” he moaned. “Emma, please. Please don’t.”
“I have to, Chris. I want to help you.” She made him sit on top of the towels she brought so he wouldn’t ruin the bedclothes. “Some of these will need stitches.”
“All right.” His voice sounded dull and too compliant. He wouldn’t look up at her.
“It’s going to be all right,” she soothed.
“No. It won’t.” She looked up at the sound of despair in his voice.
“Christian…” He ducked from beneath her touch when she reached to stroke his cheek. Tears streaked through the grime on his skin. Emma went about the business of cleansing his wounds, mindful of his low hisses of pain.
Emma drew him a bath next, bringing up pans and pails of hot water for him. Christian sat stony-eyed and unmoving as she gradually filled the tub. Cordelia, helpful for a change, brought him a small glass of brandy. He tossed it back and handed her the empty vessel, but it didn’t take the edge from his pain. His spirit was broken. Emma found out why when he stood from the bed, and she saw the strange stains of blood that pooled in the towels she laid over his bed.
“I thought I cleaned all of your cuts –“ Christian covered her mouth with his fingertips.
“Hush, Emma. Please. We won’t speak of it. I can’t share this with you. Not now.” Emma felt her eyes burn as her concern and confusion seized her, making her throat close up.
“Don’t hide this from me, Christian!”
“I have to.”
“You’re bleeding.” As the words left her mouth, Emma saw her brother wince. He turned his back on her in an attempt to be strong, but he shivered.
I’m so ashamed. Please, don’t make me tell you. You’d hate me, little sister. Emma gasped as she heard his thoughts as clearly as though they’d sprung from his lips. In a flash, images tumbled into her head, ripped from her brother’s recent memories, and she staggered back beneath their weight and intensity.
She heard raucous male laughter and saw grinning, ruddy faces looming over her… no. Over Christian. She saw glimpses of what happened through his eyes, felt what he felt in brief snatches. She was being shoved and buffeted through the door of a public place. She guessed it was a tavern. She smelled acrid pipe smoke and stale, warm ale.
She was being shoved. Dragged outside. It was cold and rain poured into the streets in sheets, whipped by the wind. She stumbled, pushed and tugged by multiple pairs of hands into a stinking alley.
You won’t cheat me at cards without paying me back, Frost. You’re not as pretty as your sister, but I’ll wager you’re just as cheap! Emma felt her voice changing from alcohol-raspy to loud and desperate before a rough hand was clapped over her mouth. Cold air and rain rushed over her body as her coat – Christian’s coat - was yanked open and he was shoved face-first against the slick wall of the pub. Fingers crawled over him, prying open the fastenings of his clothing, popping loose buttons and undoing ties. Emma recoiled at the feel of the invasive hands, chafing at how violated she felt.
Christian’s waistband was jerked down, hammocking his thighs, and through him, Emma felt exposed and vulnerable, completely helpless as someone seized her flailing, beating hands and wrenched them over her head. She couldn’t catch herself as her face was shoved against the unyielding wall.
She felt impotent, helpless rage before she was brutally invaded, breached by hard, throbbing flesh that bruised and tore her unprotected opening.
Emma uttered a small cry of anguish as she fled from her brother’s memories, closing the doors of his mind. Christian hissed in surprise as he felt her retreat, and he spun on her, eyes suddenly sparking with the anger of betrayal. His pupils dilated and his chest heaved deeply, unevenly. A lone tear raced down his cheek.
“Emma! What did you do!”
“Christian… I didn’t mean…”
“What did you DO!” Christian shook his head, unwilling to believe that his secret had been ripped from him so cruelly. He trembled, and to Emma, he looked like a wounded little boy. His normally tall, proud bearing crumpled, and he plowed his fingers through his dark waves just shy of pulling it out by the roots.
“Nothing… Christian, I did nothing!”
“That wasn’t for you to see,” he railed.
“What would you have me do? They hurt you.” Emma’s eyes hardened. “They won’t hurt you again.”
“No! Stay out of this, Emma! Don’t be a fool!” he spat.
“Why? Because I refuse to let them get away with this?”
“They’ll get to you,” Christian promised grimly. He gripped her upper arms until they smarted, and she stared up at him, eyes brimming with angry tears.
“Even if it had been Adrienne, I would want to make them pay. I love you, big brother.”
“Promise me you won’t do anything. Promise me you won’t try anything on my account, Emma.”
“I can’t promise you that,” she admitted. Christian shook her, eyes wide and desperate, and she hissed at his tightening grip around her flesh.
“God help you, Emma. You will obey me in this.”
I’ve never been obedient unless it suited me. Emma allowed her stiff posture to relax, and Christian took that for compliance. He let go of her, and she reached for him, embracing him protectively. His heartbeat drummed beneath her cheek as she tried to rub the chill from his skin.
It wouldn’t be the last time Emma found herself making hard decisions for her family’s benefit.
*
Winston reeled, unable to believe how quickly his fortune had changed. His heart pounded in his ears, competing with the scrabble of his booted feet against the marble floors as the beast dragged him down the corridor.
“You would intrude on me, and take liberties far more dire than your little mind can comprehend. Do you think me a fool not to know every step that you took through my home? Or not to notice when something was amiss?”
“Please… where are we going?”
“You didn’t appreciate my earlier accommodations, clearly. Let’s rest those weary feet of yours somewhere that won’t make them want to wander.”
“I’ll get myself gone! Let me go, and I’ll never darken your doorstep again! I didn’t mean to offend you or take liberties! Please, release me!”
“Foolish man,” the beast growled. Its voice was guttural, deep and raspy, as though it didn’t speak very often. Winston was shocked that such a creature possessed the power of speech, let alone such a vocabulary to chastise him so soundly. She – he’d begun thinking of the creature as female – was remarkably strong, hauling him by his arm and gripping the scruff of his neck. “Few who come here ever leave in the same condition they arrived. I’ve driven off poachers and thieves from my home before.”
“I’m no thief!”
“We’ll add lying to your list of sins, along with trespassing and disturbing my solitude.”
The creature wouldn’t admit that she rather liked his horses; they were pleasant, unassuming animals. And truthfully, it had been months since she’d heard a true human’s voice with the walls of her castle. But she couldn’t afford to be taken advantage of.
Not again.
“I meant no harm,” Winston sobbed as they reached the corner of the corridor and headed for a heavy door with a tarnished brass knob.
“You’ve harmed what I love most,” the creature corrected him. “They’re sacred to me.”
“I only wanted to bring one home! I only asked for a gift!”
“You didn’t ask.”
They descended a dusty, winding staircase, and Winston felt the hair on his nape rise as his captor raised her hand and generated a blinding ball of bluish-white light that sparked and danced, as though she wielded lightning from the sky itself. “What devilry is that?” Winston accused.
“Impudent. You dare to demand such a thing, when you’re the one under suspicion. You’ve a small, closed mind, sir.” The thing’s eyes were previously a strange, murky gray, but as she gazed down into his face, they flared white and glowed in the darkness. Overhead, he heard the rumble of thunder, even though the sky had finally cleared. As they reached the bottom of the staircase, Winston realized how arcane and dreadful a turn his fortune had taken after all; the room she unceremoniously shoved him into could only be described as a cell. He heard the faint clicks of cockroaches skittering through cracks in the corners, and there were no windows, only a meager vent in the ceiling. He stumbled over his own feet and landed hard against a dusty, hard bench.
“It’s not my study, but it’s homey, don’t you think?” the creature jeered.
“Who… who are you?” Winston demanded.
“Aren’t you bold,” she murmured with a shake of her horned head. “You may call me Windrider, if you like. I’m legend in these parts.”
“I-I’ve n-never heard of you.” She deflated slightly, and she lost some of her haughty stiffness.
“That’s a shame. You could have heeded the warnings of those who came before you.” He tried to rush past her toward the door, but she growled at him menacingly and raised her clawed hand to slap him soundly. He backed off and cowered in the corner like a trapped rat.
She examined him in the low glow of her lightning sphere and huffed. He wasn’t excessively plump, owning only the slight paunch that accompanied middle age. He was shorter than she was by perhaps three inches, and the hair on his head was sparse. Its color nearly matched her long, shaggy mane, telling her he had to be a man in his sixties. His skin was fair but florid, with a slight sunburn across his nose and cheeks, and his eyes were a watery, faded blue with laugh lines fanning out from the corners. He wore rough clothing of poor quality, but despite his muddy boots, his pants, shirts and careworn jacket were clean. His faded features were handsome at one point, if she wanted to be kind in her estimation, but, she reminded herself, he’d stolen her roses.
There was no being kind about it.
“A precious few have crossed this threshold to ply their trade their trade here or make me offers. You see me, and you tremble.”
“You’re not human.”
“It’s overrated,” she muttered, shrugging. “Why did you come here?”
“Shelter,” he explained, playing to her sense of mercy. “I had to fix a wheel on my wagon. It was storming fiercely outside, and-“
“I know it was raining outside. That was my doing.”
“That’s impossible,” Winston murmured. The creature who called itself “Windrider” gestured to herself and ran one clawed fingertip over the curve of one of her magnificent horns.
“Anything’s possible.” The creature turned her back on him long enough to lock the door to the cell. Winston felt a frisson of fear run through his belly, and he regretted the two cups of tea he’d drunk so thirstily. “I gave up trying to fathom the whims of strangers or those who wanted things from me. You aren’t the first person who ventured through my gates looking for shelter.” Her voice held a bitter note.
“I have a family,” Winston beseeched her. “They need me!”
“Does that make you better than me?”
“Yes! I mean, no! No!” The creature’s eyes narrowed at him and she hissed her displeasure. Long, slightly spiky whiskers twitched as she drew back her lips from her fanged teeth. “Please… you have… everything. I won’t take anything with me. I won’t touch anything, I’ll leave completely emptyhanded.”
“I won’t ask your horses to cough up my oats, I suppose,” Windrider sniffed. “But you’ve wounded my roses.” She held up the fragile bloom, and before Winston’s horrified eyes, a lone petal fell off and drifted to the floor. “You’ve soiled them. It’s only fair that you give up something precious of yours in return.”
“What? But… I would, er, madam…”
“Windrider,” it corrected him.
“… but I have nothing. I’ve lost everything. My shop. My ships. Even my darling wife.” His eyes grew limpid with tears, and for a moment, the beast was moved. She examined him further and reached for him, hauling him to her by his lapels. He shivered but allowed her inspection, feeling her warm breath misting over his cheeks once more.
“You’re soft. Not meant for the hard life you live.” Winston didn’t take offense. “You lost your wife. You have a family.”
“Yes,” he replied.
“A daughter,” she pried.
“Three of them. All of them young and lovely, but they need me to keep a roof over their heads, my son is useless… er, I mean…” His voice trailed off, and the beast smirked; it was a strange, unnerving expression rendered by those strange features.
“I was once accused of behaving in such a manner. I’ve little use for young men, myself.”
“Er…”
“Tell me about your daughter. The one who would have one of my precious roses.”
“Emma? What do you need to know about her? She’s my baby, the youngest of the lot!” He almost said that she was the apple of his eye, far more dear to him than his older two, but he held his tongue out of discretion.
“She is the one who will buy you back your freedom.”
*

“Emma! Bring me a cup of tea, you lazy bitch!” Adrienne woke up full of vinegar and suffering from her monthly misery, heralding that Cordelia and Emma would soon be in similar straits.
“There’s the pot calling the kettle black,” Christian muttered from the kitchen table, staring up pitifully at his younger sister as she stirred a pot of hot corn mush on the stove. Emma sighed and rolled her eyes before she filled her brother’s cup with the last of their precious coffee for the month. Christian wallowed in bed later than usual that morning with a hangover so bad that even his hair hurt.
“She’ll keep calling and shrieking like that if I don’t get up there with it.”
“She needs to get it herself,” Christian grumbled, even though he had no compunction about letting wait on him.
“Fix me one, too,” Cordelia chimed in from the doorway as she headed for the sitting room wrapped in an afghan blanket with her knitting basket. Emma sighed again and fixed everyone’s cup. But her spoon stilled over the diminishing jar of sugar as she heard clopping hooves and low whickers outside. She dropped the spoon into Adrienne’s empty cup with a clink and ran from the kitchen, skirts flapping behind her.
“Where on earth are you going?”
“Papa! It’s Papa!” she called over her shoulder. Cordelia shrieked and chucked her knitting needles onto the ottoman. Behind her, Emma heard her middle sister’s feet thundering down the stairs. She hurried out into the cold, bright morning light, and her face felt like it would split with joy. “PAPA! PAPA!” His wagon was still almost a quarter of a mile away from their humble farmhouse, but she picked up her skirts and sprinted toward him, heart pounding. She was so relieved that he was all right, especially since he was gone two days longer than he’d anticipated, and they’d had no word from him. No one in the village had seen any sign of Winston or his wagon, and his absence was making Sebastian bolder with his suggestions, which annoyed her. The way his eyes raked over her was unsettling, and he often stood too close, choking her with the scent of his cologne and the oppressive way he swallowed up her personal space.
Winston brought the wagon to a stop and his laughter at his daughter’s enthusiasm was choked and awkward. But he climbed down from his perch and caught her up in his embrace, and Emma felt her eyes smart. He still felt like her father, still sounded like him as he scolded her.
“You’ll catch your death. Where’s your cloak?”
“Hanging up where it belongs. If I don’t put the clothes away, no one else will,” she countered as she kissed the top of his head. But when she pulled back from him, she was alarmed. His eyes were bloodshot and ringed with dark bruises that revealed that he hadn’t slept.
But what surprised her more were his clothes. Winston wore far richer garb than what he had when he departed, including a fine gray wool coat and vest, gleaming, black leather boots, a snowy white silk shirt, and a thick red muffler around his neck. What intrigued her even more was his wagon, which seemed to groan with its burdens.
“Father, your ship! You found your ship! Emma, look at all of the things he brought back!” Cordelia’s hands flew up to her mouth, and she emitted little shrieks as she began to inspect the wagon’s contents. Adrienne soon joined her, and Emma said nothing about the fact that neither of them greeted her father with anything resembling true affection.
“Come inside. I’ve made tea.” Emma attempted to lead him inside, tugging on his sleeve. He stopped her and gave her a weak smile.
“I didn’t forget my promise,” he reminded her gruffly. “This is for you.” He reached up onto the wagon and brought out something long and narrow, wrapped in delicate lawn. Emma gasped at the flawless, sturdy white rose and lifted it to her nose, breathing in the intoxicating fragrance.
“You shouldn’t have.” She kissed his cheek. Winston nodded, overcome with emotion.
“I know, darling. I know.”
*
His daughters chattered at him nonstop, which he certainly expected, but Christian was strangely subdued and quiet at the breakfast table. “You look thin,” he accused his only son.
“So do you,” he shot back as he dolefully sipped his coffee.
“Brother dear woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Emma offered with a sly smile. Christian returned it, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Adrienne and Cordelia had already left the table, leaving their dishes behind, half-finished for their sister to clean up. They helped their father earlier to unload the wagon and to bring what they thought was his merchandise inside the parlor. They were sifting through it, crowing over the fine jewelry and fighting over the lush silks and other sundries.
“Give that back! Father brought it back for me, because it matches my eyes,” Adrienne snapped as she snatched an emerald pendant away from Cordelia.
“Grabby little wretch,” Cordelia hissed. “If you’re taking that, then I’m taking the red silk. I can have it made up into a gown for the ball this spring.”
“Take it; I don’t want it, anyway. You’ll look like a slut in it.”
“You don’t need to look the part, do you?” Cordelia smirked, ducking her sister’s open palm.
“Girls! That’s enough!” Winston bellowed. His face was florid as he eyed his middle daughter. “What’s this I’m hearing?”
“Nothing, Father,” she lied, smiling prettily and showing her dimples.
“Nothing new, anyway,” Christian muttered. He’d already picked briefly through his father’s offerings and came away with a linen shirt, wool socks, and a jaunty looking plum-colored cap, but he wanted little else. His greedy sisters could have it all, and he wouldn’t give a damn.
His world was a black, cruel place. Christian couldn’t be bothered to give a damn about anything, anymore. He was so absorbed in the memory of his own ordeal that he didn’t heed his father’s sorry condition and give it the gravity it deserved.
Emma, however, tended their father’s needs with good humor and concern, never leaving his side from the moment he set foot in the house.
*
Sundown found them finishing a modest supper of stewed greens and bread; Winston promised a grand feast the following day, when he took the rest of his wares to market. “Emma,” he said grimly, pulling the dish towel from his youngest’s hands, “come with me.”
“The washing-up’s not done, Papa.”
“Come. Sit with me. It can wait.” Winston led his daughter into their humble parlor and threw another log onto the fire, poking down the cinders.
“You look tired, Papa. Do you need some chamomile? I can make you some.”
“There’s no need. I won’t sleep tonight.”
“Papa… what’s wrong?” He turned to her, and she saw how haggard he looked. The noncommittal smile that he forced onto his face faltered and dissolved, and Winston’s eyes dropped to the floor.
“Everything.” He turned his back on her, and Emma sat with her hands folded in her lap, suddenly uncomfortable. “Emma, I’ve done something unforgivable.”
“You could never do anything that I couldn’t forgive you for, Papa. I love you. I’m so happy that you’ve come home, I was so worried!” Emma exclaimed, rising from her seat to embrace him again. He clung to her just as fiercely, but she felt him tremble, and his chest shook; she realized that he was sobbing. “Papa… please, tell me, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve done… the worst thing a father can do. That a man can do. I made a bargain, Emma. A cruel, unreasonable bargain, because I’m a monster. And a thief.”
“You’ve never stolen a thing in your life!” Emma argued, releasing her father long enough to take his hands, as though he were the child, not she. “I’m just glad you made it back here safely. Why were you gone so long?”
“I trespassed where I didn’t belong. And out of trying to keep my promise to you – to all of you – I committed a grievous sin. I didn’t think it was wrong, and in doing what I did, I’ve lost everything. Everything.” His voice broke, and his face collapsed in sobs again. Emma mopped at his reddened, damp cheeks with her handkerchief, alarmed and frightened at his reaction.
“You came home with everything we could ever need to rebuild what we lost before, Papa. We can start over. It’s all right. You haven’t lost anything,” she corrected him, smiling to reassure him. But he shook his head, and his eyes looked hollow and lost.
“Emma… I’ve lost you.
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White Rose