Fic: Snow in July 1/4
Title Snow in July 1/4
Fandom X-Men First Class
Pairings Charles/Erik, past Erik/Magda
Beta speak_me_fair
World count of chapter 3786
Word count of entire fic 20 896
Rating/warnings PG.
Disclaimer Marvels owns it, not I.
Summary With no recollection of why he has ordered the Brotherhood to go deep into Russia during the winter months, Magneto is considered insane by his followers, but the unexplained presence of Charles Xavier leads Erik to think that there is something more than mad to his amnesia and to the haunting but impossible memory of a kiss in the snow...
Summary My contribution to the xmenreversebang. Artist was cmajalis, with art prompt 1066.
The first thing Erik knew was the cold of the helmet, the second, the memory of the snow. His head was throbbing, as if it had received a heavy blow. Cold kisses of snow-flakes were settling on his face. He blinked a few times, and finally his wits caught up with him where he lay on the ground. Labouriously, he pushed himself up and looked around. His vision was still swimming, and what he could discern, he did not recognise. A darkening sky, the trees, a pillar of smoke in the distance. None of it seemed real to him. Only the memory, which kept replaying itself in his mind, did.
Half-way there (where, he wondered?) it starts snowing. He does not like the snow, just as he does not like the cold, but to Charles the snow is not associated to badly built houses and gnawing hunger. Instead, it is the childish dream of winter, and when he turns his face towards the sky, he smiles. Erik watches him, and finds that he is smiling too. The smile makes Charles’ eyes light up, and the blue seems to deepen, and as he blushed from the cold, his face becomes ablaze with contrasts. How badly he wants to reach out and touch him...
The present cold was worse than that in the memory, and the snow fell heavier and thicker. In vain, Erik tried to remember how he got here. His mind felt muddled - perhaps he had been hit across the head and was concussed. It seemed unlikely, though. The helmet should have taken most of the damage. Experimentally, he reached up and traced the shape of it, looking for any dent. The helmet was as perfectly round as it always had been. He expected to feel the chill of the metal, but only the smooth surface registered. Something must be wrong with his hands. When he looked at them, he noticed that the skin looked blistered, and moving his fingers was difficult. His toes, he realised when he got to his feet, felt equally numb.
Muttering a curse, he wrapped his cloak around himself. It did not make much difference. He looked around and decided that walking towards the smoke was probably wisest. That might mean civilisation, which would mean communications, which would mean that somehow, he could contact the rest of the Brotherhood. Carefully, he pushed one hand outside the cloak to look at it. A dark blister was forming on his knuckles. Perhaps he would have to find a medic who knew something about frostbite. Once again, he huddled into his cloak, and started walking in the direction he had picked.
When the snowflakes land in Charles’ hair, they sparkle and melt. They settle on his shoulders in a thin powder, and when he opens his mouth, one lands on his tongue and melts there. When he realises that Erik is watching him, he laughs. Erik can stand the teasing no more. When Charles is about to turn away, he reaches out for him. He stops.
What was it he had forgotten? Erik stopped in his stride. It was not just that he could not remember where he was. There was something else, which felt far more important...
Perhaps there were clues somewhere. He looked up again, scanning the clearing. In the snow, he almost missed it, lying half-way in around the trees in the direction of the smoke. There was a body, prostrate on the ground, snow-flakes nestling in its hair.
Erik had not thought that he had the strength to run, but somehow, his legs supported him as he stumbled through the snow as fast as he could muster, towards the body. He fell to his knees beside him, and with numb hands he fumbled for a good grip around his shoulder. He was not a large man, but it still took much momentum to roll him over. Had he had any doubt about who he was, it would have been clear now. It was a face he had not seen for a long time, but every feature of it was etched in his memory.
‘Charles,’ he croaked. ‘Charles, can you hear me?’ There was no answer. Erik touched his face (did I not touch his face that time?) and found it cold. ‘No...’ He did not trust his fingers to feel a pulse, so instead he pulled Charles’ body into his arms and brought his mouth close to his cheek. For a moment, he was not sure whether there was anything to feel or not, but then there was the unmistakable sensation of a breath. ‘Thank God... Charles, it’ll be alright. All is well.’
But even as he said it, he knew what a lie it was. Suddenly being lost seemed much worse. On his own, he had a chance. With someone else, it was much less certain, especially someone in such a bad state. Erik might be feeling dazed and weak and have blisters from the cold, but Charles was cold enough to seem dead. Without letting go of him, Erik tugged at his cloak. One sie came loose, and the other ripped. Roughly, he wrapped Charles in it, even as the chill felt worse for himself. Then, he struggled to his feet and picked up the limb body. A little distance away was Charles’ wheelchair. He had never seen the thing before, but he knew it must be his. He considered taking it with them - already his arms were shaking with holding up Charles’ weight - but there was no way he could maneuver the chair through the snow, even if parts of it was made of metal. He picked a direction at random and started walking. Charles’ head lolled against Erik’s shoulder, and his forehead came to rest against the helmet and his cheek.
‘It’s going to be alright,’ Erik said, taking one heavy step after another. ‘All will be well.’
Then suddenly he remembered the kiss.
He turns to face him. Erik’s hand moves as if on its own accord and strokes his cheek. It is cold from the weather, but he can feel the blood coursing under the skin, heating it. He looks into his eyes. The laughter is gone, and instead there is something more profound in them. Charles breaks eye contact only once, when he glances down at Erik’s lips. Erik takes a step towards him, not certain whether this is really happening. Charles leans a little closer, and Erik kisses him.
He stumbled and almost dropped Charles’ legs. The memory seemed so vivid that it might just have happened, instead of being years in the past. Possessively, he pressed Charles closer to him.
‘I’ll bring you to safety,’ he whispered, but with the next step he stumbled again. His balance was failing - the forest seemed to dance around him. He gripped Charles tightly, but keeping upright was becoming more and more difficult. Suddenly, there was an echo between the trees.
‘Magneto!’
‘Magneto!’
‘Magneto!’
There was movement - he should turn around, flee, hide - but it was moving towards him - blots of colour against the snow, red and blue and ghostly artificial white. He pressed Charles against him, as the shapes moved closer.
‘Magneto!’ one called again, and charged.
The colours blurred and paled, and then blackened.
***
The world started shaping around him again. He had dreamt of snow, and of kissing Charles. It was still so cold, but the snow was gone. Someone took hold of his wrist; he was not awake enough to shake it off. He was vaguely aware of hushed voices, familiar but unimportant, talking above him. They moved his hand and dipped it into the water.
He screamed and tried to get away, but someone held him down, while his collaborator kept his hand in the water, which felt like it was boiling. The pain made him stronger. He fought to get loose. As if it was very far off, someone called out something. He was aware of a flurry of activity, and suddenly a damp cloth was pressed to his face. He tried to push it away with his free hand and held his breath, but he was too weak. Finally, he drew breath, but instead of pure air it was the chloroform he inhaled. For another moment, he struggled, and then he plunged back into oblivion.
***
The next time he awoke, the cold was gone, and in its place was a comfortable warmth. His hands did not hurt any longer, but they felt numb. It was a challenge to open his eyes, but with some effort he did. The first thing he saw was the red light of a fire.
‘I think he’s waking up.’
‘Magneto?’ He blinked again and looked around. He was wrapped in blankets and lying in a bed which stood close to a fireplace, where a fire burned. Azazel stood at the bedside, watching him apprehensively. A little further away stood Angel, who seemed nervous. With some difficulty, Erik untangled himself from the blankets and sat up. Azazel reached out without taking his eerie eyes off him and steadied him. They had removed his helmet, and he could feel bruises where it rested against his cheeks. They had also taken off most of his clothes. He pulled the blankets around him again; the rest of the room was very cold.
‘Where am I?’ Erik asked and rubbed his head. It still hurt, as if from strain. He wondered how long he had been unconscious.
‘The dacha,’ Azazel answered.
‘Where?’ he repeated. When Azazel said “dacha”, he supposed he was using it more loosely than others would. Erik blinked a few times and looked around the room. It was a nice place, but obviously not built for the winter. Azazel wore a scarf, and Angel, who was usually so conscious about her looks, had a bulky sweater on. From the bed, which they had no doubt moved to bring it this close to the fire, he could see the snow falling outside in the dark.
‘Close to Kostroma.’
‘Kostroma?’
‘In the USSR.’ That doesn’t make sense, Erik thought, rubbing his head. Why were they in Russia of all places?
‘Why...? Why are we here?’
‘Because you told us to,’ Angel, who still looked anxious, said.
‘Did I?’ Erik asked and started getting up.
‘Magneto, you shouldn’t...’
‘Don’t give me orders,’ Erik said wearily. If he had to have a nurse, he would not have chosen Azazel. ‘Where are my boots?’ Angel scurried to get them, while Azazel helped him into a dressing-gown.
‘Why did you go out?’ Azazel asked and handed him a pair of socks. As he put them on with bandaged hands onto chilblained feet, Erik tried to recall it.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted finally. ‘I can’t remember.’ He paused, confused. His memory was usually very good, good enough that he could sketch faces from memory years after having seen them, but now recent events seemed blurred to him. Angel returned with his boots, and he pulled them on clumsily. ‘How long have I been unconscious?’
‘Since yesterday,’ Angel answered. ‘Magneto, are you sure you should...?’ Before she had time to finish the question, Erik rose, swaying on his feet. Azazel grabbed his shoulder to steady him. Erik shrugged him off.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, even if he was not feeling it. He managed to keep his balance long enough to summon the poker which lay by the fire place, and with a swift motion, he shaped it into a cane. When it landed into his hand, he could still feel the heat from the fire on it. The warmth was comforting as he crossed to the window, where the cold seeped in. All he could see until forest started was the glittering white of the falling snow. The glass emanated the cold outside; even indoors, Erik was sure it was below freezing. Rapidly, the iron cane was turning uncomfortably cold in his grip.
‘How long have we been here?’ They hesitated. Finally Angel answered:
‘About a week.’
‘And before that?’
‘Paris.’ Even with his back turned towards them, he could feel them exchange glances.
‘Do you not remember?’ Azazel asked.
‘No.’ The mention of that they had been in Paris felt familiar. He had a vague recent memory of speaking French, but not much else. He looked over his shoulder at the others. Their worry was written on their faces. It worried him too - something was very wrong. Instead of pursuing it, he asked something he had wondered about since he woke up. ‘Where is Mystique?’
Azazel gestured towards the door.
‘With the cripple.’
Erik’s throat constricted. He had almost forgotten.
‘He’s alive?’ he asked. His heart beat faster, warming him. Not waiting for them to answer, he told them: ‘Show me where he is.’ Angel walked towards the door, and Erik followed at a slow pace. Before leaving the room, she looked over at Azazel, communicating her confusion at their leader’s memory loss. His head started aching again.
Angel led him through the unfamiliar house, and as they walked, Erik looked around, trying to find something that would help his memory. It all seemed new to him, apart from the people there. In the hallway, Riptide stood to attention, watching him with a mystified gaze. When they passed the stairs, he saw Emma Frost standing on the top of the landing, gazing down at him, smirking at him as if they had landed in her icy domain where she was queen. Erik looked away, suddenly aware that he was not wearing his helmet.
At last, they reached a door, which Angel pointed at. She did not go close to it herself. Erik stepped past her and pushed it open. As soon as he stepped in, something blue bounded towards him with a shout.
‘Erik!’
Mystique threw her arms around his neck. With his free hand, he patted her back and stroked her hair, a little surprised at this enthusiasm. Actually, it seemed worried rather than pleased. When she withdrew, he saw that for once she was clothed, but the full-length woolen dress she was wearing was the same shade of blue as her complexion. The swollen skin under her eyes had gone almost purple from crying.
‘I’m so glad you’re awake...’ He nodded, but did not bother to answer. Instead, he stepped past her and crossed to the bed wedged in against the fireplace.
The figure lying there seemed shrunken, and its skin was white. The blankets were pulled up against his chin, and his face was turned away. Slowly, Erik crossed to the bedside - moving took more effort than it should, as did sitting down on the bed. Charles’ face was pale, but for the bruises, and his eyes closed.
‘Charles?’ he whispered and touched his cheek. He had hoped for a reaction, but there was none. Behind him, he heard Mystique approach.
‘He hasn’t woken up since we found you,’ she said. She sounded uncharacteristically shaken. She always kept calm in the face of danger, but worry for the well-being of those she cared about was evidently a different matter.
‘You’ve been taking care of him?’ She nodded.
‘The others won’t come near him. Even when he’s like this, they’re scared of him.’ By the look on her face, he half-expected her to say that one of the others had suggested leaving him in the snow. ‘I don’t really know what to do,’ she admitted. ‘He was frozen stiff when we found him, worse than you. It’s gone to his hands and feet. I think it’s frostbite. I tried to warm them up...’ She paused, composing herself. ‘Azazel told me what to do. He did the same with you, and put your hands in water to warm them up. I did that with Charles. He didn’t react when I did his feet, but his hands...’ She swallowed.
‘It hurts,’ Erik filled in.
‘He started screaming and thrashing. I could barely hold him still myself, but I didn’t have a choice.’ Erik reached out and squeezed her shoulder.
‘I’ll help you.’ She snorted.
‘You’re not well,’ she said. ‘You look awful.’
‘So does he,’ Erik observed and rose. In the opposite corner stood a winged armchair. He should have been able just to wave his hand to move it, but it took more effort than he had expected. Shaping the cane out of the poker must have drained his strength worse than he thought. When the armchair finally slid within reach, he slumped heavily into it. It was not until then he noticed the way Mystique was watching him, frowning.
‘You’re shaking,’ she observed and, crossing to a cupboard, took out a blanket and offered it to him. He spread it over himself, grateful for the extra warmth.
‘It’s cold in here,’ he said.
‘The water keeps freezing,’ she said and sat down on the bed, her eyes on her brother. ‘If I’m this cold, how must Charles feel?’
‘I guess that’s why you’re dressed for once,’ he said. Mystique smiled at him.
‘I’m grateful for it.’
‘For what?’ he asked. Her face fell.
‘The dress.’ It took Erik a moment to figure out what she was trying to convey.
‘Did I give it to you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, mystified that he did not know. ‘The morning after you decided we were coming here, you took me out and found the cloth. You made them sew it up in a few hours, so I’d have something warm to wear. Don’t you remember?’ He shook his head.
‘No. The others are as surprised as you.’
‘How much do you remember?’ Mystique asked. Erik shrugged.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘What’s Charles doing here? Do you know that?’
‘No.’
‘But how did he even get here?’ she exclaimed. ‘And what are we doing here? It must all have something to do with each other.’ Erik sighed and rubbed his forehead.
‘I’m sure it does,’ he said. ‘I just have no idea how.’ He strained his memory. He did remember Paris. If he concentrated hard he remembered some parts vividly. But he could find no trace of a memory of taking out Mystique to buy that dress, or indeed deciding to go to Russia. It made him think that he had banged his head against something, but he had none of the usual symptoms of concussion, and the only pain in his head seemed to be inside, not on any particular point.
‘Has Frost tried to get into his mind?’ Erik asked and gestured at Charles.
‘She tried just when we found him, but his shields are too strong. There’s no way in.’ Mystique reached out and stroked Charles’ hair back. ‘I don’t know if it’s because my hands are going cold, but I almost think he feels warm now,’ she said. ‘What do we do if he falls ill?’
‘I think he’s already ill, Mystique.’
‘You know what I mean,’ she sighed. ‘I just wished I could take better care of him.’
Erik leaned back in the armchair, watching the two of them. Charles looked pitiful where he lay, pale and still, so unlike how he had been that time they had walked in the snow, years ago. With a sigh, he looked away from the bed and out of the window. It was getting dark, he realised, but the snow was still falling. It had piled high on the windowsill and weighed down the branches of the trees.
‘Has it snowed ever since I went outside?’ he asked.
‘Even since we got here,’ Mystique said, suddenly sounding annoyed. Perhaps irritation at the weather was the only way she could express her feelings, stuck in this room, taking care of a man the others would rathe have seen dead. ‘It hasn’t stopped once, as far as I’ve seen. It’s a wonder we can open the door.’ Despite the cold, Erik could not share her annoyance at the snow. It was a reminder of that kiss. The memory brought a smile to his lips. Mystique must have noticed it, because suddenly she asked: ‘What are you thinking of?’
‘Nothing,’ Erik lied, but it did not sound even plausible. ‘Just something that happened years ago. Before Cuba.’
‘Oh?’ He sighed, but answered.
‘It’s nothing. I just remember Charles and I walking in the snow...’ He had expected Mystique to press him for more details, but instead she was silent. When he looked at her, she was frowning.
‘When was that?’ she asked.
‘Oh, you weren’t there,’ he said. ‘It was when we were recruiting.’ Suddenly, Mystique’s mouth thinned.
‘When you were recruiting?’ she repeated.
‘Yes.’ Erik could not see why she was arguing about this - it seemed so straight-forward. ‘We went for a walk in the snow...’
Mystique shifted so that she faced him, and put a hand against his arm.
‘Erik,’ she said, in a tone he had never heard her use before. It was slow and measured, and made him think that she had learnt it from Charles. Still there was no jest in her manner. Her face was solemn, but there was worry in her eyes. ‘There was no snow.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said.
‘There wasn’t,’ she repeated, failing not to sound desperate. ‘You and Charles met in June. The Missile Crisis was in October. It was summer - there was no snow!’
Realisation hit him. She was right, it had never been that cold. The memory did not make sense. He remembered it, but now, when he thought about it, he had no idea where they were, where they were walking to, how long they had known each other, and what they had spoken about.
‘Good Lord,’ he whispered.
‘Just stay here,’ Mystique told him and pressed his hand briefly. Then she rose and left the room. She closed the door behind her, but he could still hear snippets of the conversation outside.
‘...no idea why we’re here...’
‘He did not know where we were.’
‘And Paris - he didn’t know about that...’
‘What if...?’
‘He told me this memory...’
‘It must be.’
‘He’s lost it.’
Erik covered his eyes and leaned his head in his hand. The more he heard his own subordinates ask whether he was losing his mind, the more he thought that it might actually be true. Finally, he let his hand fall and he looked at Charles, still pale and unconscious in the bed. Had it not been for his presence, he would have been convinced himself that he had gone mad.
‘But what else could have happened?’ he asked his friend, knowing he would not answer.
Next chapter
Fandom X-Men First Class
Pairings Charles/Erik, past Erik/Magda
Beta speak_me_fair
World count of chapter 3786
Word count of entire fic 20 896
Rating/warnings PG.
Disclaimer Marvels owns it, not I.
Summary With no recollection of why he has ordered the Brotherhood to go deep into Russia during the winter months, Magneto is considered insane by his followers, but the unexplained presence of Charles Xavier leads Erik to think that there is something more than mad to his amnesia and to the haunting but impossible memory of a kiss in the snow...
Summary My contribution to the xmenreversebang. Artist was cmajalis, with art prompt 1066.
The first thing Erik knew was the cold of the helmet, the second, the memory of the snow. His head was throbbing, as if it had received a heavy blow. Cold kisses of snow-flakes were settling on his face. He blinked a few times, and finally his wits caught up with him where he lay on the ground. Labouriously, he pushed himself up and looked around. His vision was still swimming, and what he could discern, he did not recognise. A darkening sky, the trees, a pillar of smoke in the distance. None of it seemed real to him. Only the memory, which kept replaying itself in his mind, did.
Half-way there (where, he wondered?) it starts snowing. He does not like the snow, just as he does not like the cold, but to Charles the snow is not associated to badly built houses and gnawing hunger. Instead, it is the childish dream of winter, and when he turns his face towards the sky, he smiles. Erik watches him, and finds that he is smiling too. The smile makes Charles’ eyes light up, and the blue seems to deepen, and as he blushed from the cold, his face becomes ablaze with contrasts. How badly he wants to reach out and touch him...
The present cold was worse than that in the memory, and the snow fell heavier and thicker. In vain, Erik tried to remember how he got here. His mind felt muddled - perhaps he had been hit across the head and was concussed. It seemed unlikely, though. The helmet should have taken most of the damage. Experimentally, he reached up and traced the shape of it, looking for any dent. The helmet was as perfectly round as it always had been. He expected to feel the chill of the metal, but only the smooth surface registered. Something must be wrong with his hands. When he looked at them, he noticed that the skin looked blistered, and moving his fingers was difficult. His toes, he realised when he got to his feet, felt equally numb.
Muttering a curse, he wrapped his cloak around himself. It did not make much difference. He looked around and decided that walking towards the smoke was probably wisest. That might mean civilisation, which would mean communications, which would mean that somehow, he could contact the rest of the Brotherhood. Carefully, he pushed one hand outside the cloak to look at it. A dark blister was forming on his knuckles. Perhaps he would have to find a medic who knew something about frostbite. Once again, he huddled into his cloak, and started walking in the direction he had picked.
When the snowflakes land in Charles’ hair, they sparkle and melt. They settle on his shoulders in a thin powder, and when he opens his mouth, one lands on his tongue and melts there. When he realises that Erik is watching him, he laughs. Erik can stand the teasing no more. When Charles is about to turn away, he reaches out for him. He stops.
What was it he had forgotten? Erik stopped in his stride. It was not just that he could not remember where he was. There was something else, which felt far more important...
Perhaps there were clues somewhere. He looked up again, scanning the clearing. In the snow, he almost missed it, lying half-way in around the trees in the direction of the smoke. There was a body, prostrate on the ground, snow-flakes nestling in its hair.
Erik had not thought that he had the strength to run, but somehow, his legs supported him as he stumbled through the snow as fast as he could muster, towards the body. He fell to his knees beside him, and with numb hands he fumbled for a good grip around his shoulder. He was not a large man, but it still took much momentum to roll him over. Had he had any doubt about who he was, it would have been clear now. It was a face he had not seen for a long time, but every feature of it was etched in his memory.
‘Charles,’ he croaked. ‘Charles, can you hear me?’ There was no answer. Erik touched his face (did I not touch his face that time?) and found it cold. ‘No...’ He did not trust his fingers to feel a pulse, so instead he pulled Charles’ body into his arms and brought his mouth close to his cheek. For a moment, he was not sure whether there was anything to feel or not, but then there was the unmistakable sensation of a breath. ‘Thank God... Charles, it’ll be alright. All is well.’
But even as he said it, he knew what a lie it was. Suddenly being lost seemed much worse. On his own, he had a chance. With someone else, it was much less certain, especially someone in such a bad state. Erik might be feeling dazed and weak and have blisters from the cold, but Charles was cold enough to seem dead. Without letting go of him, Erik tugged at his cloak. One sie came loose, and the other ripped. Roughly, he wrapped Charles in it, even as the chill felt worse for himself. Then, he struggled to his feet and picked up the limb body. A little distance away was Charles’ wheelchair. He had never seen the thing before, but he knew it must be his. He considered taking it with them - already his arms were shaking with holding up Charles’ weight - but there was no way he could maneuver the chair through the snow, even if parts of it was made of metal. He picked a direction at random and started walking. Charles’ head lolled against Erik’s shoulder, and his forehead came to rest against the helmet and his cheek.
‘It’s going to be alright,’ Erik said, taking one heavy step after another. ‘All will be well.’
Then suddenly he remembered the kiss.
He turns to face him. Erik’s hand moves as if on its own accord and strokes his cheek. It is cold from the weather, but he can feel the blood coursing under the skin, heating it. He looks into his eyes. The laughter is gone, and instead there is something more profound in them. Charles breaks eye contact only once, when he glances down at Erik’s lips. Erik takes a step towards him, not certain whether this is really happening. Charles leans a little closer, and Erik kisses him.
He stumbled and almost dropped Charles’ legs. The memory seemed so vivid that it might just have happened, instead of being years in the past. Possessively, he pressed Charles closer to him.
‘I’ll bring you to safety,’ he whispered, but with the next step he stumbled again. His balance was failing - the forest seemed to dance around him. He gripped Charles tightly, but keeping upright was becoming more and more difficult. Suddenly, there was an echo between the trees.
‘Magneto!’
‘Magneto!’
‘Magneto!’
There was movement - he should turn around, flee, hide - but it was moving towards him - blots of colour against the snow, red and blue and ghostly artificial white. He pressed Charles against him, as the shapes moved closer.
‘Magneto!’ one called again, and charged.
The colours blurred and paled, and then blackened.
***
The world started shaping around him again. He had dreamt of snow, and of kissing Charles. It was still so cold, but the snow was gone. Someone took hold of his wrist; he was not awake enough to shake it off. He was vaguely aware of hushed voices, familiar but unimportant, talking above him. They moved his hand and dipped it into the water.
He screamed and tried to get away, but someone held him down, while his collaborator kept his hand in the water, which felt like it was boiling. The pain made him stronger. He fought to get loose. As if it was very far off, someone called out something. He was aware of a flurry of activity, and suddenly a damp cloth was pressed to his face. He tried to push it away with his free hand and held his breath, but he was too weak. Finally, he drew breath, but instead of pure air it was the chloroform he inhaled. For another moment, he struggled, and then he plunged back into oblivion.
***
The next time he awoke, the cold was gone, and in its place was a comfortable warmth. His hands did not hurt any longer, but they felt numb. It was a challenge to open his eyes, but with some effort he did. The first thing he saw was the red light of a fire.
‘I think he’s waking up.’
‘Magneto?’ He blinked again and looked around. He was wrapped in blankets and lying in a bed which stood close to a fireplace, where a fire burned. Azazel stood at the bedside, watching him apprehensively. A little further away stood Angel, who seemed nervous. With some difficulty, Erik untangled himself from the blankets and sat up. Azazel reached out without taking his eerie eyes off him and steadied him. They had removed his helmet, and he could feel bruises where it rested against his cheeks. They had also taken off most of his clothes. He pulled the blankets around him again; the rest of the room was very cold.
‘Where am I?’ Erik asked and rubbed his head. It still hurt, as if from strain. He wondered how long he had been unconscious.
‘The dacha,’ Azazel answered.
‘Where?’ he repeated. When Azazel said “dacha”, he supposed he was using it more loosely than others would. Erik blinked a few times and looked around the room. It was a nice place, but obviously not built for the winter. Azazel wore a scarf, and Angel, who was usually so conscious about her looks, had a bulky sweater on. From the bed, which they had no doubt moved to bring it this close to the fire, he could see the snow falling outside in the dark.
‘Close to Kostroma.’
‘Kostroma?’
‘In the USSR.’ That doesn’t make sense, Erik thought, rubbing his head. Why were they in Russia of all places?
‘Why...? Why are we here?’
‘Because you told us to,’ Angel, who still looked anxious, said.
‘Did I?’ Erik asked and started getting up.
‘Magneto, you shouldn’t...’
‘Don’t give me orders,’ Erik said wearily. If he had to have a nurse, he would not have chosen Azazel. ‘Where are my boots?’ Angel scurried to get them, while Azazel helped him into a dressing-gown.
‘Why did you go out?’ Azazel asked and handed him a pair of socks. As he put them on with bandaged hands onto chilblained feet, Erik tried to recall it.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted finally. ‘I can’t remember.’ He paused, confused. His memory was usually very good, good enough that he could sketch faces from memory years after having seen them, but now recent events seemed blurred to him. Angel returned with his boots, and he pulled them on clumsily. ‘How long have I been unconscious?’
‘Since yesterday,’ Angel answered. ‘Magneto, are you sure you should...?’ Before she had time to finish the question, Erik rose, swaying on his feet. Azazel grabbed his shoulder to steady him. Erik shrugged him off.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, even if he was not feeling it. He managed to keep his balance long enough to summon the poker which lay by the fire place, and with a swift motion, he shaped it into a cane. When it landed into his hand, he could still feel the heat from the fire on it. The warmth was comforting as he crossed to the window, where the cold seeped in. All he could see until forest started was the glittering white of the falling snow. The glass emanated the cold outside; even indoors, Erik was sure it was below freezing. Rapidly, the iron cane was turning uncomfortably cold in his grip.
‘How long have we been here?’ They hesitated. Finally Angel answered:
‘About a week.’
‘And before that?’
‘Paris.’ Even with his back turned towards them, he could feel them exchange glances.
‘Do you not remember?’ Azazel asked.
‘No.’ The mention of that they had been in Paris felt familiar. He had a vague recent memory of speaking French, but not much else. He looked over his shoulder at the others. Their worry was written on their faces. It worried him too - something was very wrong. Instead of pursuing it, he asked something he had wondered about since he woke up. ‘Where is Mystique?’
Azazel gestured towards the door.
‘With the cripple.’
Erik’s throat constricted. He had almost forgotten.
‘He’s alive?’ he asked. His heart beat faster, warming him. Not waiting for them to answer, he told them: ‘Show me where he is.’ Angel walked towards the door, and Erik followed at a slow pace. Before leaving the room, she looked over at Azazel, communicating her confusion at their leader’s memory loss. His head started aching again.
Angel led him through the unfamiliar house, and as they walked, Erik looked around, trying to find something that would help his memory. It all seemed new to him, apart from the people there. In the hallway, Riptide stood to attention, watching him with a mystified gaze. When they passed the stairs, he saw Emma Frost standing on the top of the landing, gazing down at him, smirking at him as if they had landed in her icy domain where she was queen. Erik looked away, suddenly aware that he was not wearing his helmet.
At last, they reached a door, which Angel pointed at. She did not go close to it herself. Erik stepped past her and pushed it open. As soon as he stepped in, something blue bounded towards him with a shout.
‘Erik!’
Mystique threw her arms around his neck. With his free hand, he patted her back and stroked her hair, a little surprised at this enthusiasm. Actually, it seemed worried rather than pleased. When she withdrew, he saw that for once she was clothed, but the full-length woolen dress she was wearing was the same shade of blue as her complexion. The swollen skin under her eyes had gone almost purple from crying.
‘I’m so glad you’re awake...’ He nodded, but did not bother to answer. Instead, he stepped past her and crossed to the bed wedged in against the fireplace.
The figure lying there seemed shrunken, and its skin was white. The blankets were pulled up against his chin, and his face was turned away. Slowly, Erik crossed to the bedside - moving took more effort than it should, as did sitting down on the bed. Charles’ face was pale, but for the bruises, and his eyes closed.
‘Charles?’ he whispered and touched his cheek. He had hoped for a reaction, but there was none. Behind him, he heard Mystique approach.
‘He hasn’t woken up since we found you,’ she said. She sounded uncharacteristically shaken. She always kept calm in the face of danger, but worry for the well-being of those she cared about was evidently a different matter.
‘You’ve been taking care of him?’ She nodded.
‘The others won’t come near him. Even when he’s like this, they’re scared of him.’ By the look on her face, he half-expected her to say that one of the others had suggested leaving him in the snow. ‘I don’t really know what to do,’ she admitted. ‘He was frozen stiff when we found him, worse than you. It’s gone to his hands and feet. I think it’s frostbite. I tried to warm them up...’ She paused, composing herself. ‘Azazel told me what to do. He did the same with you, and put your hands in water to warm them up. I did that with Charles. He didn’t react when I did his feet, but his hands...’ She swallowed.
‘It hurts,’ Erik filled in.
‘He started screaming and thrashing. I could barely hold him still myself, but I didn’t have a choice.’ Erik reached out and squeezed her shoulder.
‘I’ll help you.’ She snorted.
‘You’re not well,’ she said. ‘You look awful.’
‘So does he,’ Erik observed and rose. In the opposite corner stood a winged armchair. He should have been able just to wave his hand to move it, but it took more effort than he had expected. Shaping the cane out of the poker must have drained his strength worse than he thought. When the armchair finally slid within reach, he slumped heavily into it. It was not until then he noticed the way Mystique was watching him, frowning.
‘You’re shaking,’ she observed and, crossing to a cupboard, took out a blanket and offered it to him. He spread it over himself, grateful for the extra warmth.
‘It’s cold in here,’ he said.
‘The water keeps freezing,’ she said and sat down on the bed, her eyes on her brother. ‘If I’m this cold, how must Charles feel?’
‘I guess that’s why you’re dressed for once,’ he said. Mystique smiled at him.
‘I’m grateful for it.’
‘For what?’ he asked. Her face fell.
‘The dress.’ It took Erik a moment to figure out what she was trying to convey.
‘Did I give it to you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, mystified that he did not know. ‘The morning after you decided we were coming here, you took me out and found the cloth. You made them sew it up in a few hours, so I’d have something warm to wear. Don’t you remember?’ He shook his head.
‘No. The others are as surprised as you.’
‘How much do you remember?’ Mystique asked. Erik shrugged.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘What’s Charles doing here? Do you know that?’
‘No.’
‘But how did he even get here?’ she exclaimed. ‘And what are we doing here? It must all have something to do with each other.’ Erik sighed and rubbed his forehead.
‘I’m sure it does,’ he said. ‘I just have no idea how.’ He strained his memory. He did remember Paris. If he concentrated hard he remembered some parts vividly. But he could find no trace of a memory of taking out Mystique to buy that dress, or indeed deciding to go to Russia. It made him think that he had banged his head against something, but he had none of the usual symptoms of concussion, and the only pain in his head seemed to be inside, not on any particular point.
‘Has Frost tried to get into his mind?’ Erik asked and gestured at Charles.
‘She tried just when we found him, but his shields are too strong. There’s no way in.’ Mystique reached out and stroked Charles’ hair back. ‘I don’t know if it’s because my hands are going cold, but I almost think he feels warm now,’ she said. ‘What do we do if he falls ill?’
‘I think he’s already ill, Mystique.’
‘You know what I mean,’ she sighed. ‘I just wished I could take better care of him.’
Erik leaned back in the armchair, watching the two of them. Charles looked pitiful where he lay, pale and still, so unlike how he had been that time they had walked in the snow, years ago. With a sigh, he looked away from the bed and out of the window. It was getting dark, he realised, but the snow was still falling. It had piled high on the windowsill and weighed down the branches of the trees.
‘Has it snowed ever since I went outside?’ he asked.
‘Even since we got here,’ Mystique said, suddenly sounding annoyed. Perhaps irritation at the weather was the only way she could express her feelings, stuck in this room, taking care of a man the others would rathe have seen dead. ‘It hasn’t stopped once, as far as I’ve seen. It’s a wonder we can open the door.’ Despite the cold, Erik could not share her annoyance at the snow. It was a reminder of that kiss. The memory brought a smile to his lips. Mystique must have noticed it, because suddenly she asked: ‘What are you thinking of?’
‘Nothing,’ Erik lied, but it did not sound even plausible. ‘Just something that happened years ago. Before Cuba.’
‘Oh?’ He sighed, but answered.
‘It’s nothing. I just remember Charles and I walking in the snow...’ He had expected Mystique to press him for more details, but instead she was silent. When he looked at her, she was frowning.
‘When was that?’ she asked.
‘Oh, you weren’t there,’ he said. ‘It was when we were recruiting.’ Suddenly, Mystique’s mouth thinned.
‘When you were recruiting?’ she repeated.
‘Yes.’ Erik could not see why she was arguing about this - it seemed so straight-forward. ‘We went for a walk in the snow...’
Mystique shifted so that she faced him, and put a hand against his arm.
‘Erik,’ she said, in a tone he had never heard her use before. It was slow and measured, and made him think that she had learnt it from Charles. Still there was no jest in her manner. Her face was solemn, but there was worry in her eyes. ‘There was no snow.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said.
‘There wasn’t,’ she repeated, failing not to sound desperate. ‘You and Charles met in June. The Missile Crisis was in October. It was summer - there was no snow!’
Realisation hit him. She was right, it had never been that cold. The memory did not make sense. He remembered it, but now, when he thought about it, he had no idea where they were, where they were walking to, how long they had known each other, and what they had spoken about.
‘Good Lord,’ he whispered.
‘Just stay here,’ Mystique told him and pressed his hand briefly. Then she rose and left the room. She closed the door behind her, but he could still hear snippets of the conversation outside.
‘...no idea why we’re here...’
‘He did not know where we were.’
‘And Paris - he didn’t know about that...’
‘What if...?’
‘He told me this memory...’
‘It must be.’
‘He’s lost it.’
Erik covered his eyes and leaned his head in his hand. The more he heard his own subordinates ask whether he was losing his mind, the more he thought that it might actually be true. Finally, he let his hand fall and he looked at Charles, still pale and unconscious in the bed. Had it not been for his presence, he would have been convinced himself that he had gone mad.
‘But what else could have happened?’ he asked his friend, knowing he would not answer.
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