werewolf fic, chapter six, part two!
And part two! And now I am off to continue packing. Must give a paper on modern retellings of the Arthur story on Friday...
Title: More Than All The World (The Werewolf’s Tale) (chapter 6, part two, of probably 8) (chapter 6 part one here) (chapter 5 here) (chapters 3 & 4 here) (chapters 1 & 2 here)
Rating: probably R by the end, but PG-13 for this bit, I think? Time for some revelations about Erik's past...
Word Count: 9,729 for this chapter overall; 3,170 for this part
Disclaimers: characters are not mine; only playing with them for fun! For sources, see the Notes.
Summary: very loosely based on Marie de France’s 12th-century French werewolf tale, in which Erik is the man transformed into a wolf and Charles is a king and eventually there’s a happy ending. Also, a villain’s nose gets bitten off.
Notes: I am using the Robert Hanning/Joan Ferrante translation of Marie’s lais for reference and English translation aid; the title, opening and closing quotes, and all chapter titles, come from that version of “Bisclavret”.
Erik opened his eyes. Pushed himself up on an elbow. Straightened a complaining knee. And then, shocked, realized that he had elbows, and knees, and human eyes.
Charles-!!
Charles, lying in the heap of pillows, opened his eyes, too, and didn’t bother to form words, only let the cloudburst of startlement and joy sweep ecstatically over them both.
Charles, what-how-
I don’t know! I don’t know, I didn’t do it, I-some sort of resonance, perhaps, the mind can be a terribly powerful force and we were creating several rather intense sensations-those thoughts went scurrying away down a scientifically practical path, flashes of concepts, sympathetic morphology and transitive properties and kinetic memory, while the rest of Charles’s attention spun merrily towards one very clear idea of how much he’d like to unscientifically appreciate the result.
YES, Erik agreed, emphatically, but there was something wrong, now, too much delight, overwhelming, destabilizing, and the world spun and twisted and flipped end over end without warning, and all his perceptions doubled and collapsed in on themselves.
Pain. Reshaping. The change.
Wolf-form. Again.
He wanted to howl at the world. Frustration. Anger. The sense that he’d been cheated somehow. Of course he had been. Earlier. By the man in his nightmares. Schmidt.
Charles stared at him. Blinked. Several times. Then squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, and said, “Erik?” as if he thought that might change anything at all.
Still a damned wolf, Charles.
Er…yes. Yes, you are. But…not still…not exactly…
Not exactly human, either!
No, but…this is promising, Erik, believe me, it is. Not going to say it’s not disappointing-a very slight mental blush, but enough to show how badly Charles was sharing his frustration-but obviously there IS a means of getting you back to your human form. We simply have to work out what that is.
Simply. As if it was.
Oh-poor choice of words, then. But, Erik-we DID do something. And I felt-whatever he-Schmidt-whatever he did to you, to trap you in this form, it’s artificial. Outwardly imposed. I could tell that. And if he can do it-
-then we can undo it? Hope. Hope, possibly, potentially, at last.
Yes. To both.
Charles, I love you.
And I love you. Forever.
How’s your headache? He could tell even before voicing the question. Here-Charles did keep painkillers, opiates, in a desk drawer; he hated taking them, Erik knew, but he could feel precisely how badly Charles was hurting at the moment, so that wasn’t even a discussion. He spared a thought to be glad that Charles’s desk drawers had metal handles, too. As if they’d been made for times like these.
As if you’re meant to be here, Charles agreed, and accepted the inevitable, with some reluctance. Thank you.
Water?
Please. “Schmidt,” Charles said out loud, thoughtfully, after swallowing; and then went very quiet.
What is it?
“Only…I think I’ve heard the name, before. Can’t remember where, or when, but I know I know it…” Dissatisfaction, the flavor of burnt porridge, followed the annoyed expression. Erik wanted to smile, or to tease Charles about the sensory associations, but he couldn’t quite manage either.
Charles couldn’t know the man in Erik’s nightmares. Couldn’t be associated with all that cruelty. That wasn’t possible. It wasn’t.
I don’t know him, Charles ventured, into his suddenly chaotic thoughts. Unafraid. Open. Truthful. I only recognize the name. From a letter, perhaps, or a petition, or someone mentioning him…I haven’t got a face, or any impressions at all, to go with the words.
Letters. Stray thoughts. Of course that made sense.
If Charles had been hurt at all by Erik’s momentary unvoiced suspicion, he hid it well. Erik offered I’m sorry anyway, sincerely so.
Charles might’ve smiled, just a little; and invisible lips brushed over his, the phantom outline of a kiss, comprehension and affection like the tumble of autumn leaves in the wind.
I think it might’ve been-oh, I know! Off the bed. Over to the desk. Back, before Erik’d even had time to feel deprived. “Here.” Charles brandished a piece of paper in his direction. “I knew I’d read it somewhere. This is…er, well, actually, it’s the list Raven makes for me every year about who’s attending the grand holiday reception, and the order of precedence, and all of those ridiculous rules of etiquette, like whether a knight outranks a baronet-”
Does he?
I have no idea.
In some very specific ways, you realize, you’re a terrible monarch.
Yes, I’m aware. I do like to think my good qualities make up for that, though. Charles paused to grin at him. All the hair was tumbling into his face, and the blue eyes sparkled against the greyness of the clouds outside, and a less traditional feudal overlord couldn’t’ve existed. Erik loved every bit of him.
“In any case,” Charles resumed, and stuck his toes under Erik’s bulk for warmth, “she includes brief notes about each of the attendees. In this case, a person going by the name of Lord Sebastian Shaw.”
Not quite seeing the relevance, Charles.
“I’m not done talking. Shaw isn’t his original name. Nor does he in fact possess any actual title, at least none that all my agents plus Raven’s fearsome talents could discover. He did, however, request permission to settle just inside our borders, four years before I inherited the, ah, all of this. And the name he was using, when he arrived here, was…”
…Schmidt.
Golden Star of the Order of the Garter for you.
Why is he coming to this year’s grand reception? If he’s been here for several years, and you’ve never met him?
I’ve no idea about that either. I think we ought to ask him, don’t you?
Did he think so? Erik didn’t move, because that would’ve meant vacating his foot-warmer duties, but he felt himself tense, the thought singing in his veins like the whisper of iron, the promise of revenge. To meet the man who’d done this to him…The tapestries on the walls, the ones on metal hooks, quivered as if in the grip of strong winds, and fell silent again.
“It may be a coincidence…” Charles toyed with the bit of parchment, worrying it around in pensive fingers. The medication was beginning to work; some of the pain had gone quieter, in their heads. Correspondingly, Charles’s thoughts felt fractionally less focused, cushioned with fluffy wool. He was continuing to try to talk, though. Naturally. “But I’d rather not trust in coincidence.” Do you think he’s here for you?
Why else? He couldn’t think of any other reason. If Schmidt-Shaw-truly had been avoiding court for all those years, there was no sense to his emergence now. Nothing else’d changed. Nothing new. Only Erik, here at Charles’s side.
We’ve not exactly kept you a secret, Charles agreed, a bit ruefully. Should’ve thought of that sooner, but by now everyone’s had time to talk. We haven’t been advertising you, of course, but you are rather unique, you know.
From anyone else, that would’ve sounded patronizing. From Charles, it was genuine.
If he comes here, Erik said, very calmly, I may have to kill him.
“Oh, Erik…” Charles set the list down on a helpful pillow. It wobbled, blown by an errant breeze from the tactless window. Found its balance, after teetering for an endless second. You know that killing him won’t bring you peace.
Peace. Had that ever been an option? Had he ever known how that felt?
I’d like to think so. Not arguing. Only wistful. And it was the lack of argument, oddly, that defused his anger. No manipulation, no invasions, no old memories flung out into the light as contradictory evidence. Only Charles meaning the words, those exact words, wholeheartedly.
Without physical hands, he couldn’t reach over and take those eloquent fingers in his. Mentally, he did it anyway. Felt Charles squeeze back, and smile.
I still believe that he deserves to die. For what he did, to me, to my parents, to others…some people do deserve death.
I never said he didn’t.
You-He had to stop. To look at Charles, again. Differently. How many times did that make, since they’d known each other?
I’m not a pacifist, Erik. Charles looked away. At the chessboard, tidy squares of black and white, arrayed in readiness for battle. And I know the feeling of a mind that-that finds satisfaction in hurting others. I might agree with you that he may need to…not exist anymore.
Then-
It’s only…I don’t want to feel that satisfaction in your mind, either.
In the hush, the fog crept in, around the windowpane. Wandered, tentative and curious, along a shelf, cradling lopsided towers of books. Settled down, expectantly, to hear what Erik had to say.
He shut his eyes. Opened them. Couldn’t look at Charles. Not now. Not through the wolf’s-eyes, not in order to see all that determination and complicated love, Charles facing his own convictions and compromises, on Erik’s behalf. And asking for equal bravery, in return.
He gazed at Charles’s nightstand, for a while. An empty cup that’d once held tea. Notes and a sketch regarding an idea Hank’d had, involving metallic resonances and sympathetic vibrations and a telepathy-enhancing helm. Books, of course. The stack currently beside the bed ranged from a study of beavers by a Welsh churchman to classical notes on flying apparati to the most recent anatomical study by the doctors at the new university, overseas.
Ideas, all of them. Imagining the world to be other than what it was. The quest to know more, to learn more, to take joy in the simple act of discovery, of creation.
You never…Hank said so, when you first brought me-when we first came here. You were never allowed to attend the universities. Because you were the only heir.
I wasn’t allowed, no. Charles hesitated, as if uncertain whether Erik would want more words. But I did…I corresponded, with the masters. Secretly, of course, my stepfather never would’ve allowed-but I was the heir, after all; who’d countermand my right to send letters? It wasn’t the same, but it was better than nothing.
Do you hate him? For taking away your possibilities?
Do I…Charles breathed in, softly. Lifted one hand to his shoulder. The place where, beneath layers of fabric, one of the largest scars would be dull to the touch. No. Not for that. I did-for a very long time I did-but I can do so much good, here. I’ve been able to make this place a haven, a safe space, for those like us. I can change lives, for the better, I hope. If I’d not been-who I am-none of that would’ve happened. And I’d’ve never known you. I think…I think that that, this, all of this, has been worth it. Worth everything.
Everything. He wanted to touch Charles, then. Wanted to rest his own hand over that solitary one, remembering old pain.
You can. And Charles was smiling at him, wry and lopsided and effervescent as the wine that’d been served at dinner the previous week, on which those blue eyes’d gotten deliciously tipsy and then proceeded to deliver lectures about maternally inherited characteristics. Erik found himself smiling, in response to that memory, to the present crooked expectationless hope. Held out a paw. And somehow it didn’t matter that it was a paw.
Charles took it. Met Erik’s hand with his, the fingertips that’d just been seeking out old wounds.
The fog swirled up and down the bookshelf, impatiently.
If we kill him, Erik said, it won’t be because I hate him. I do. But that’s not why he needs to be gone.
Yes.
Yes, then. Duty. Necessity. Don’t ask me to pretend I won’t be glad-I will be-
I won’t ask.
-but that’s not the reason.
Charles didn’t say I love you, not in words, but the whisper of honey and freshly baked bread and parchment in sunlight and tart pineapple excitement flowed over them both anyway. Crested, and lingered, embedding itself into hearts.
Sleep with me, Charles said, softly.
You-I-
Not like that! I only meant-I won’t be awake much longer, we can both feel that, since you made me take the horrible painkillers-
You needed the horrible painkillers, Charles.
-and I’d like to hold you. And feel you, here, next to me, while I’m not-while I’m asleep. You-I love you, you know. Regardless of-anything, ever. I love you.
I know. I love you.
I know, Charles whispered, honesty like the rhythm of the sea, steady and certain, and put an arm around Erik when Erik stretched out beside him, and fell asleep with his fingers nestled in Erik’s fur for safekeeping.
Over the next five days, Erik woke up human on three separate occasions. The moments never lasted.
The first time, he’d awakened to the sensation of wide blue eyes resting on his body, incredulous and overjoyed. Charles hadn’t moved, compact warmth still tucked up against him, the way they’d gone to sleep, bodies and thoughts entwined. Probably couldn’t move, Erik thought; he knew what Charles was feeling, because he was feeling it too, afraid to speak or shift a leg or breathe out loud and call attention to this specific glorious second.
The satin sheets were luxurious and welcoming against his bare skin, and the feathery pillow was softly cheerful beneath his head, and when he breathed in he felt the air enter his lungs.
The second stretched out. Became a beautiful eternity.
Other things were beautiful, too. Those summer-ocean eyes. Charles’s lips, wet when he licked them, a shining trace of moisture over skin. The heat of a freckled arm, resting over Erik’s waist. He thought he might feel that heat in his bones forever.
Erik, Charles said, wide-eyed, you’re quite naked in my bed.
So he was. Charles wasn’t, but was shirtless, and that was a very attractive expanse of skin, meeting his. Very attractive.
Oh, my.
…did you honestly just look at…that…me…there…and say THAT?
Sorry! It’s impressive!
I-but he’d stopped, because he knew that sensation. Knew it too closely. Vertiginous and destabilizing and leaving him in that other form. Again.
Charles thought something quite succinct and decidedly blasphemous at the universe. Erik had incontrovertibly agreed.
It’s still promising…your body’s trying to remember. Overcoming whatever blocks he had placed in your mind…
I would love for it to overcome these blocks a bit faster.
Well…I did get to see you naked. I believe we can count this as a minor victory, don’t you?
And Erik’d laughed, despite the frustration, and gleefully and quite satisfactorily eavesdropped on Charles in the bath, later.
He’d tried not to think about becoming human again. If he thought about it, if he wanted it too badly, it might never happen again. Vanished possibility, like a mirage.
Charles would’ve told him not to think that way, but then Charles was a determined optimist, by choice if not by nature. Erik loved the optimism, and couldn’t find it, for himself. Each fleeting transformation would’ve cracked his heart open again, if he’d let himself feel the hope.
Charles could hope for both of them. That’d be enough.
The morning of the reception, nerves were pulled tight. Quavering, all around the room. The day’d been full of clouds, silvery-grey and noncommittal; anxious servants, many of them looking somewhat nervous since Charles hosted formal occasions once a year if that, lurked around each corner, surreptitiously giving last-minute polishes to the silver and straightening not-really crooked tapestries. They all wanted the day to go well. Of course they did; everyone liked seeing Charles smile. Those smiles brightened up the entire world, and that wasn’t even a metaphor, given the telepathy.
Charles spent the afternoon welcoming guests, before the evening’s scheduled banquet. Holding court. Receiving petitioners and presents. He got tired of sitting in the throne-which, to be fair, was exceedingly unforgiving to its occupants-about halfway through, and, before the next ambassadorial delegation could turn up, abandoned the seat in favor of the steps in front of it.
Erik snorted. Hardly dignified of you.
No, I’m hopeless. Charles used the throne as a backrest, comfortably, heedless of expensive robes. Come here and be an armrest?
Shameless, also, Erik said, and flopped down at his side, equally comfortable. Better?
No, THIS is me being shameless.
Charles-!!
That’s for after you’re human again. “All right, send in the next group…”
And then, wolf-shaped armrest forgotten, sitting straight up. Oh-
Erik could, always, these days, feel Charles in his head, ever-present merry warmth and complex compassion, kindness and old wounds and sugared tea. And, because he could feel Charles in his head, he also felt the instant of sheer disorienting shock.
She’s a telepath-!!
What happened? No time for unnecessary questions like are you sure or how do you know. Of course Charles would know.
The woman glittered like newly-fallen snow, all ice crystals and chilly sharpness. Dressed in white, she stood out among the flock of richly-hued fellow courtiers like a flash of lightning through a storm. She stood three bodies away, in the receiving line, and smiled like a knife.
Charles, what-
She’s trying to-oh, hang on, one second-ah, better. She’s attempting to, ah, excavate my mind. Unsuccessfully, I might add.
Are you all right?
Oh yes. I’ve had years to practice shielding, and it’s my head, not hers. She is quite good, however. Charles sounded begrudgingly, but genuinely, admiring. Not the approach I would use, but extremely effective-impressions of honed edges, ice, crystalline stiletto icicles, cold and brittle and unforgiving, delicate and precise. Really quite good, in fact.
But you’re better. Also not a question. No doubt there.
Of course I am. In the single statement, Charles somehow managed to combine pure arrogance, comforting reassurance, and simple fact. It was rather a surprise, though. I’m shielding you, by the way. I don’t think she ought to be able to follow our connection, but-well, she IS good, and I know we’ve worked on focus, in our link, but the only way to be sure would be for me to stay out of your head completely-
No.
No. But do be careful.
-ME! Charles, you-YOU be careful, please-
No time, though. Not when the ice-crystal woman was smiling at them, next to be presented, calm and confident and utterly unshaken by any unexpected telepathic resistance.
Emma Frost. Lady Emma Frost. The name suited her, Erik thought, as she was announced. Felt Charles nod.
She even curtseyed flawlessly. Too flawlessly, Erik thought: perfection verging on insult. Charles looked back, coolly regal even from his spot atop the steps-enough so to make Erik blink, in their heads, in amazed admiration-and then got to his feet, and visibly decided to play the part right back at her.
The offered hand, ring and all, did surprise her; and it should, since Charles hadn’t bothered to demand formal obeisance from any other petitioners that day. In fact, Charles had never bothered with the kissing-of-hands ever; and both Sean and Raven, off to the side, were openly staring.
To her credit, she smiled. Touched lips to fingertips-Erik tried not to growl-and then met Charles’s gaze, and smiled a bit more. “You’re not what I was led to believe.”
Charles raised an eyebrow. “And you are not Lord Shaw. Though you are wearing his insignia.”
“Obviously not.” Neutral, but with an edge of something like contempt at the banality. “He had obligations elsewhere.”
“More important,” Charles inquired, “than swearing fealty to his king?” Opening skirmishes. Swords meeting. Erik could practically taste the iron.
“Obviously…yes.” She glanced from Charles to Erik, and then back again. “He warned me you might be formidable. I confess I thought he’d been exaggerating.”
Charles only looked at her; after a second, she laughed. “I am impressed. I actually felt that one.”
Charles-
Sorry, Erik, this is a bit difficult-
Charles’s fingers were tense, curling into his fur. Imperceptible, maybe, to anyone else. But Erik could tell.
“Sebastian wondered whether you could be convinced to join us.” Her voice sounded smooth, but not quite as smooth as before. “You can’t be, can you? So incorruptible, Charles Xavier. Always trying to do the right thing. Always trying to make the world love you. The world’s never going to love you, Charles. Don’t be naïve.”
Erik found himself snarling. On his feet. Hackles up. She was wounding Charles. Who didn’t admit to the impact. Not perceptibly. Only in their heads. Don’t-don’t believe her, please, I do love you, Charles, I DO, don’t listen-
I’m not. I’m-not. Thank you-oh, no, wait-
She raised both eyebrows at them. Looked at Erik with a bit more interest. “I do know you. You were gone before my time, of course. But you should know that Sebastian’s very proud of you. One of his most superb creations. So deadly, and so full of rage…Charles, do you know you’re taking in Sebastian’s strays?”
“He’s no one’s stray,” Charles said, very soft, but somehow much more frightening for that reason, “he’s his own person, he is a person, and a good one. And you need to be gone. Before I forget how to…do the right thing.”
Icicle eyes seemed entertained by that. “I almost believe you mean it. In which case you would be far more interesting. But interesting can also mean dangerous. And-” A step back; physical loss of balance, this time. And when she recovered, she looked far more furious, less composed. “That was a very bad idea.”
Erik, Charles suggested, still calmly but very urgently, get everyone out of here, if you would, please.
I’m not leaving you!
I honestly don’t know what she has in mind and I-
No, Charles!
Fine! And abruptly the crowd, the receiving line, the courtiers, melted away, orderly raindrops in a crumbling world. Even Erik, excluded from the mental command, felt the weight of it shiver through the air.
Emma Frost laughed, aloud. “Still worrying about meaningless little lives? You ought to be more concerned about your own. Or did you think I came here alone?”
“You said he wanted me to join you.” Charles moved one step lower. Only a few up from the pale woman, he was nearly her height. The great hall, around them, echoed noisily with silence. Preemptive desolation, the aftermath before the war. “Join you in what?”
“You honestly expect me to tell you? Clichéd monologues are for Christmas pantomimes and children, Charles.” Even Erik felt the force of that invisible blow. It skittered sideways, off of Charles’s shields, and missed; but Charles took a breath, in both their heads.
At the end of the hall, two guardsmen-not Charles’s own-appeared from shadows. Raised crossbows. Erik nearly laughed, himself, and made short work of that. Left them bleeding-but alive, Charles would appreciate that-on the cold stone floor.
He spun around to find Charles backed up against the throne, eyes wide, as the woman’s skin hardened slowly into something else, glittering and cruel, diamond-edged hand pressed against a vulnerable throat. Charles tried to breathe, couldn’t, and gasped something about a physical secondary mutation-trust Charles to think in scientific terms while in combat!-and then, I can’t read her well, not like this, I need you to distract her-
She wasn’t all diamond, not yet, not everywhere. Erik lunged. Bit.
She shrieked in pain. But only for a second.
Charles hadn’t even gotten up from the floor, and was trying to inhale through the bruises, but his eyes were fixed on Emma Frost’s, taking advantage of the second’s lapse, and exploiting it.
Erik found himself shivering again. He’d always known Charles was powerful. He’d never quite realized what that meant, until now.
The hall wasn’t deserted. It was full of presence. Potency. Lengthening shadows, stretching tendrils slowly over the floor.
Charles breathed in, abruptly; shook his head, blinked, and swallowed, surfacing. Well, that was unpleasant…
Charles are you all right?!
Ouch, Erik, not so loud…I think…to be honest I’d rather like to be ill, but we don’t have the time. Shaw-Schmidt-he wants to start a war-Dizzying images, fire and blood and mutated bodies, warped and mindlessly hating, under Shaw’s command. Not merely any war. He wants to ruin the world. So that he can feed off the pain.
They both eyed the currently-mute Emma Frost, who’d not moved from the spot, gazing at nothingness. Charles looked away first. Erik could hazard a guess as to why, but not precisely what he’d done. Had to do.
She’s not evil. She only wants to feel safe. And she feels safe when she’s the strongest. She thinks Sebastian Shaw is strong.
Shaw-Schmidt-he experiments on us, doesn’t he? On the…the people with special abilities. Turning them into weapons.
Yes.
I was one of those.
Yes. But not anymore. Charles found a smile for him, through lingering pain. Now you’re…yourself, I suppose.
I’m yours.
I love you. Always. Oh, and-you’ll be pleased to hear this, I think-she did know what he did to you. Not all the science of it, of course. But he bragged about it, to her, once. Given that memory, I should be able to-
“Weak.” The voice interrupted the beginnings of joy. “You should have killed me. You could have.”
“I try not to destroy anything of such beauty.” Charles’s tone was very gentle; almost an apology, Erik thought. He felt no such impulse. She’d hurt Charles. He sat down, and glared at her, and growled. As an afterthought, made a few iron hooks and tapestry-hangings tangle around her limbs.
She looked at them both, and shook her head. “You’re both such fools. But I suppose I ought to thank you. I can’t go back to him, of course. Not without having done what he asked. So you’re keeping me safe. I do love idealists.”
Charles sat up a bit more. Erik came over and inserted himself under one arm, for support; Charles patted him on the shoulder, physically and not. Looked at the woman, head tipped to one side. After a second, said, softly, “Yes, you do, don’t you?” and this time she was the one who looked away.
You ARE keeping her in prison.
Of course. I might have some sympathy for her, but I’m not that kindhearted, Erik. Besides, she won’t try to escape.
How do you know?
Because I’ve associated the use of her abilities with debilitating nausea, in her head. The experience might be rather unpleasant for all concerned.
Erik desperately wanted to laugh, and settled for huffing air over Charles’s arm. Can you stand up?
Oh, of course, it’s only bruises-
Out by the doorways, other faces were reappearing, braving the tantalizing absence of turmoil. Raven. The guardsmen. One or two of the most courageous or most foolhardy courtiers.
Charles stood up and turned around and waved, and Emma Frost said, almost regretfully, from the ground, “I’m sorry about this, I didn’t expect to respect you, but you didn’t actually think I’d come here without a backup plan, did you?”
The assassin flickered into being in a whirlwind of smoke. Erik sensed the steel of the knife a split second too late.
Not so late that he could do nothing. He was flinging his mind against the cruel edge before it’d even become real, materialized, in the space beside Charles. Pushing. Frantic.
Deflection. An inch. Maybe two. Not enough. Too late.
The man-if it’d been a man, not a demon, a destroyer of worlds-was already gone. Erik remembered how to move, how to breathe, but couldn’t even catch Charles, no hands, no arms, nothing but his own body to hold off the collapse.
The knife glittered, between ribs. It slid out, a fraction, with the impact, when Charles hit the floor, and looked as if it’d been painted, a thin stripe of red over grey.
The assassin’d been aiming for the heart. A killing blow: if Charles couldn’t be swayed to the other side, then he would be removed. Permanently.
Erik could hear himself howling with grief. Literally. The sound billowed through the hall.
Other people were running, now, shouting for medics and bandages and assistance. Raven was crying and Emma Frost purred more words of complacent apology, and Erik wanted to kill the world, the useless helpless futile world, to rip it apart with teeth and claws and turn the soul of the universe inside out, because there was no soul left in a universe without Charles.
Charles coughed. Looked up at him. Erik…?
And he couldn’t murder the world or Emma Frost or the absent Sebastian Shaw, not now, not here, not with those eyes searching for his. I’m here-Charles, I’m here-don’t talk, don’t-save your strength, please-
Are you…all right? Even that mental voice was a whisper. Cracking. Trailing off into incoherent whiteness.
Please don’t-
Tell me.
I’m all right, I’m not hurt-Charles, you-you’ll be all right, you will, you have to be-you have to stay with me, Charles, please, I love you, you asked me not to leave you and I won’t, I never will, but you can’t leave me either, you can’t, please don’t-
Oh, Erik…I love you.
I love you! And you aren’t going anywhere, not without me, do you understand, you AREN’T-
And you say…I’m the optimist…I think…I’m probably going to die.
No, Erik said, blankly horrified, and then shouted it. NO!
He’d never tried anything like this before. Had never dreamed he could. But he flattened himself down there at Charles’s side, trying not to see the one pale hand upturned on the ground, so close, so immobile. Shut his eyes, closing out the babble in the hall, and concentrated.
With his eyes closed, everything shone. The entire world, the bones of the earth, running with darkly gleaming ore and metallic seams of joy. The precious embroidery on tunics. The gleam of cups and daggers and the solid heat of the cooking spits in the kitchen.
The whisper of welcome in each heartbeat, every body, every artery and vein. Stardust, Charles-oh, god, Charles, his beautiful Charles-had called it, the glowing relics of the birth of the universe.
It sang to him. Reached out to draw him in. Yes, he agreed, silently, and then, focusing, finding that one ragged tear in the universe, the place where blood pumped and spilled and left emptiness behind, no. Not here, not now.
He held all that blood inside. Kept Charles with him. Kept the heart beating. Found torn tissues and flesh, saturated in red, and wove them back together.
He could hear himself breathing. Panting. Charles had stopped talking, in their heads. Unconscious. But breathing, as well. Not dead. Alive.
Alive, he thought, and then let himself collapse into friendly darkness, too.
Title: More Than All The World (The Werewolf’s Tale) (chapter 6, part two, of probably 8) (chapter 6 part one here) (chapter 5 here) (chapters 3 & 4 here) (chapters 1 & 2 here)
Rating: probably R by the end, but PG-13 for this bit, I think? Time for some revelations about Erik's past...
Word Count: 9,729 for this chapter overall; 3,170 for this part
Disclaimers: characters are not mine; only playing with them for fun! For sources, see the Notes.
Summary: very loosely based on Marie de France’s 12th-century French werewolf tale, in which Erik is the man transformed into a wolf and Charles is a king and eventually there’s a happy ending. Also, a villain’s nose gets bitten off.
Notes: I am using the Robert Hanning/Joan Ferrante translation of Marie’s lais for reference and English translation aid; the title, opening and closing quotes, and all chapter titles, come from that version of “Bisclavret”.
Erik opened his eyes. Pushed himself up on an elbow. Straightened a complaining knee. And then, shocked, realized that he had elbows, and knees, and human eyes.
Charles-!!
Charles, lying in the heap of pillows, opened his eyes, too, and didn’t bother to form words, only let the cloudburst of startlement and joy sweep ecstatically over them both.
Charles, what-how-
I don’t know! I don’t know, I didn’t do it, I-some sort of resonance, perhaps, the mind can be a terribly powerful force and we were creating several rather intense sensations-those thoughts went scurrying away down a scientifically practical path, flashes of concepts, sympathetic morphology and transitive properties and kinetic memory, while the rest of Charles’s attention spun merrily towards one very clear idea of how much he’d like to unscientifically appreciate the result.
YES, Erik agreed, emphatically, but there was something wrong, now, too much delight, overwhelming, destabilizing, and the world spun and twisted and flipped end over end without warning, and all his perceptions doubled and collapsed in on themselves.
Pain. Reshaping. The change.
Wolf-form. Again.
He wanted to howl at the world. Frustration. Anger. The sense that he’d been cheated somehow. Of course he had been. Earlier. By the man in his nightmares. Schmidt.
Charles stared at him. Blinked. Several times. Then squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, and said, “Erik?” as if he thought that might change anything at all.
Still a damned wolf, Charles.
Er…yes. Yes, you are. But…not still…not exactly…
Not exactly human, either!
No, but…this is promising, Erik, believe me, it is. Not going to say it’s not disappointing-a very slight mental blush, but enough to show how badly Charles was sharing his frustration-but obviously there IS a means of getting you back to your human form. We simply have to work out what that is.
Simply. As if it was.
Oh-poor choice of words, then. But, Erik-we DID do something. And I felt-whatever he-Schmidt-whatever he did to you, to trap you in this form, it’s artificial. Outwardly imposed. I could tell that. And if he can do it-
-then we can undo it? Hope. Hope, possibly, potentially, at last.
Yes. To both.
Charles, I love you.
And I love you. Forever.
How’s your headache? He could tell even before voicing the question. Here-Charles did keep painkillers, opiates, in a desk drawer; he hated taking them, Erik knew, but he could feel precisely how badly Charles was hurting at the moment, so that wasn’t even a discussion. He spared a thought to be glad that Charles’s desk drawers had metal handles, too. As if they’d been made for times like these.
As if you’re meant to be here, Charles agreed, and accepted the inevitable, with some reluctance. Thank you.
Water?
Please. “Schmidt,” Charles said out loud, thoughtfully, after swallowing; and then went very quiet.
What is it?
“Only…I think I’ve heard the name, before. Can’t remember where, or when, but I know I know it…” Dissatisfaction, the flavor of burnt porridge, followed the annoyed expression. Erik wanted to smile, or to tease Charles about the sensory associations, but he couldn’t quite manage either.
Charles couldn’t know the man in Erik’s nightmares. Couldn’t be associated with all that cruelty. That wasn’t possible. It wasn’t.
I don’t know him, Charles ventured, into his suddenly chaotic thoughts. Unafraid. Open. Truthful. I only recognize the name. From a letter, perhaps, or a petition, or someone mentioning him…I haven’t got a face, or any impressions at all, to go with the words.
Letters. Stray thoughts. Of course that made sense.
If Charles had been hurt at all by Erik’s momentary unvoiced suspicion, he hid it well. Erik offered I’m sorry anyway, sincerely so.
Charles might’ve smiled, just a little; and invisible lips brushed over his, the phantom outline of a kiss, comprehension and affection like the tumble of autumn leaves in the wind.
I think it might’ve been-oh, I know! Off the bed. Over to the desk. Back, before Erik’d even had time to feel deprived. “Here.” Charles brandished a piece of paper in his direction. “I knew I’d read it somewhere. This is…er, well, actually, it’s the list Raven makes for me every year about who’s attending the grand holiday reception, and the order of precedence, and all of those ridiculous rules of etiquette, like whether a knight outranks a baronet-”
Does he?
I have no idea.
In some very specific ways, you realize, you’re a terrible monarch.
Yes, I’m aware. I do like to think my good qualities make up for that, though. Charles paused to grin at him. All the hair was tumbling into his face, and the blue eyes sparkled against the greyness of the clouds outside, and a less traditional feudal overlord couldn’t’ve existed. Erik loved every bit of him.
“In any case,” Charles resumed, and stuck his toes under Erik’s bulk for warmth, “she includes brief notes about each of the attendees. In this case, a person going by the name of Lord Sebastian Shaw.”
Not quite seeing the relevance, Charles.
“I’m not done talking. Shaw isn’t his original name. Nor does he in fact possess any actual title, at least none that all my agents plus Raven’s fearsome talents could discover. He did, however, request permission to settle just inside our borders, four years before I inherited the, ah, all of this. And the name he was using, when he arrived here, was…”
…Schmidt.
Golden Star of the Order of the Garter for you.
Why is he coming to this year’s grand reception? If he’s been here for several years, and you’ve never met him?
I’ve no idea about that either. I think we ought to ask him, don’t you?
Did he think so? Erik didn’t move, because that would’ve meant vacating his foot-warmer duties, but he felt himself tense, the thought singing in his veins like the whisper of iron, the promise of revenge. To meet the man who’d done this to him…The tapestries on the walls, the ones on metal hooks, quivered as if in the grip of strong winds, and fell silent again.
“It may be a coincidence…” Charles toyed with the bit of parchment, worrying it around in pensive fingers. The medication was beginning to work; some of the pain had gone quieter, in their heads. Correspondingly, Charles’s thoughts felt fractionally less focused, cushioned with fluffy wool. He was continuing to try to talk, though. Naturally. “But I’d rather not trust in coincidence.” Do you think he’s here for you?
Why else? He couldn’t think of any other reason. If Schmidt-Shaw-truly had been avoiding court for all those years, there was no sense to his emergence now. Nothing else’d changed. Nothing new. Only Erik, here at Charles’s side.
We’ve not exactly kept you a secret, Charles agreed, a bit ruefully. Should’ve thought of that sooner, but by now everyone’s had time to talk. We haven’t been advertising you, of course, but you are rather unique, you know.
From anyone else, that would’ve sounded patronizing. From Charles, it was genuine.
If he comes here, Erik said, very calmly, I may have to kill him.
“Oh, Erik…” Charles set the list down on a helpful pillow. It wobbled, blown by an errant breeze from the tactless window. Found its balance, after teetering for an endless second. You know that killing him won’t bring you peace.
Peace. Had that ever been an option? Had he ever known how that felt?
I’d like to think so. Not arguing. Only wistful. And it was the lack of argument, oddly, that defused his anger. No manipulation, no invasions, no old memories flung out into the light as contradictory evidence. Only Charles meaning the words, those exact words, wholeheartedly.
Without physical hands, he couldn’t reach over and take those eloquent fingers in his. Mentally, he did it anyway. Felt Charles squeeze back, and smile.
I still believe that he deserves to die. For what he did, to me, to my parents, to others…some people do deserve death.
I never said he didn’t.
You-He had to stop. To look at Charles, again. Differently. How many times did that make, since they’d known each other?
I’m not a pacifist, Erik. Charles looked away. At the chessboard, tidy squares of black and white, arrayed in readiness for battle. And I know the feeling of a mind that-that finds satisfaction in hurting others. I might agree with you that he may need to…not exist anymore.
Then-
It’s only…I don’t want to feel that satisfaction in your mind, either.
In the hush, the fog crept in, around the windowpane. Wandered, tentative and curious, along a shelf, cradling lopsided towers of books. Settled down, expectantly, to hear what Erik had to say.
He shut his eyes. Opened them. Couldn’t look at Charles. Not now. Not through the wolf’s-eyes, not in order to see all that determination and complicated love, Charles facing his own convictions and compromises, on Erik’s behalf. And asking for equal bravery, in return.
He gazed at Charles’s nightstand, for a while. An empty cup that’d once held tea. Notes and a sketch regarding an idea Hank’d had, involving metallic resonances and sympathetic vibrations and a telepathy-enhancing helm. Books, of course. The stack currently beside the bed ranged from a study of beavers by a Welsh churchman to classical notes on flying apparati to the most recent anatomical study by the doctors at the new university, overseas.
Ideas, all of them. Imagining the world to be other than what it was. The quest to know more, to learn more, to take joy in the simple act of discovery, of creation.
You never…Hank said so, when you first brought me-when we first came here. You were never allowed to attend the universities. Because you were the only heir.
I wasn’t allowed, no. Charles hesitated, as if uncertain whether Erik would want more words. But I did…I corresponded, with the masters. Secretly, of course, my stepfather never would’ve allowed-but I was the heir, after all; who’d countermand my right to send letters? It wasn’t the same, but it was better than nothing.
Do you hate him? For taking away your possibilities?
Do I…Charles breathed in, softly. Lifted one hand to his shoulder. The place where, beneath layers of fabric, one of the largest scars would be dull to the touch. No. Not for that. I did-for a very long time I did-but I can do so much good, here. I’ve been able to make this place a haven, a safe space, for those like us. I can change lives, for the better, I hope. If I’d not been-who I am-none of that would’ve happened. And I’d’ve never known you. I think…I think that that, this, all of this, has been worth it. Worth everything.
Everything. He wanted to touch Charles, then. Wanted to rest his own hand over that solitary one, remembering old pain.
You can. And Charles was smiling at him, wry and lopsided and effervescent as the wine that’d been served at dinner the previous week, on which those blue eyes’d gotten deliciously tipsy and then proceeded to deliver lectures about maternally inherited characteristics. Erik found himself smiling, in response to that memory, to the present crooked expectationless hope. Held out a paw. And somehow it didn’t matter that it was a paw.
Charles took it. Met Erik’s hand with his, the fingertips that’d just been seeking out old wounds.
The fog swirled up and down the bookshelf, impatiently.
If we kill him, Erik said, it won’t be because I hate him. I do. But that’s not why he needs to be gone.
Yes.
Yes, then. Duty. Necessity. Don’t ask me to pretend I won’t be glad-I will be-
I won’t ask.
-but that’s not the reason.
Charles didn’t say I love you, not in words, but the whisper of honey and freshly baked bread and parchment in sunlight and tart pineapple excitement flowed over them both anyway. Crested, and lingered, embedding itself into hearts.
Sleep with me, Charles said, softly.
You-I-
Not like that! I only meant-I won’t be awake much longer, we can both feel that, since you made me take the horrible painkillers-
You needed the horrible painkillers, Charles.
-and I’d like to hold you. And feel you, here, next to me, while I’m not-while I’m asleep. You-I love you, you know. Regardless of-anything, ever. I love you.
I know. I love you.
I know, Charles whispered, honesty like the rhythm of the sea, steady and certain, and put an arm around Erik when Erik stretched out beside him, and fell asleep with his fingers nestled in Erik’s fur for safekeeping.
Over the next five days, Erik woke up human on three separate occasions. The moments never lasted.
The first time, he’d awakened to the sensation of wide blue eyes resting on his body, incredulous and overjoyed. Charles hadn’t moved, compact warmth still tucked up against him, the way they’d gone to sleep, bodies and thoughts entwined. Probably couldn’t move, Erik thought; he knew what Charles was feeling, because he was feeling it too, afraid to speak or shift a leg or breathe out loud and call attention to this specific glorious second.
The satin sheets were luxurious and welcoming against his bare skin, and the feathery pillow was softly cheerful beneath his head, and when he breathed in he felt the air enter his lungs.
The second stretched out. Became a beautiful eternity.
Other things were beautiful, too. Those summer-ocean eyes. Charles’s lips, wet when he licked them, a shining trace of moisture over skin. The heat of a freckled arm, resting over Erik’s waist. He thought he might feel that heat in his bones forever.
Erik, Charles said, wide-eyed, you’re quite naked in my bed.
So he was. Charles wasn’t, but was shirtless, and that was a very attractive expanse of skin, meeting his. Very attractive.
Oh, my.
…did you honestly just look at…that…me…there…and say THAT?
Sorry! It’s impressive!
I-but he’d stopped, because he knew that sensation. Knew it too closely. Vertiginous and destabilizing and leaving him in that other form. Again.
Charles thought something quite succinct and decidedly blasphemous at the universe. Erik had incontrovertibly agreed.
It’s still promising…your body’s trying to remember. Overcoming whatever blocks he had placed in your mind…
I would love for it to overcome these blocks a bit faster.
Well…I did get to see you naked. I believe we can count this as a minor victory, don’t you?
And Erik’d laughed, despite the frustration, and gleefully and quite satisfactorily eavesdropped on Charles in the bath, later.
He’d tried not to think about becoming human again. If he thought about it, if he wanted it too badly, it might never happen again. Vanished possibility, like a mirage.
Charles would’ve told him not to think that way, but then Charles was a determined optimist, by choice if not by nature. Erik loved the optimism, and couldn’t find it, for himself. Each fleeting transformation would’ve cracked his heart open again, if he’d let himself feel the hope.
Charles could hope for both of them. That’d be enough.
The morning of the reception, nerves were pulled tight. Quavering, all around the room. The day’d been full of clouds, silvery-grey and noncommittal; anxious servants, many of them looking somewhat nervous since Charles hosted formal occasions once a year if that, lurked around each corner, surreptitiously giving last-minute polishes to the silver and straightening not-really crooked tapestries. They all wanted the day to go well. Of course they did; everyone liked seeing Charles smile. Those smiles brightened up the entire world, and that wasn’t even a metaphor, given the telepathy.
Charles spent the afternoon welcoming guests, before the evening’s scheduled banquet. Holding court. Receiving petitioners and presents. He got tired of sitting in the throne-which, to be fair, was exceedingly unforgiving to its occupants-about halfway through, and, before the next ambassadorial delegation could turn up, abandoned the seat in favor of the steps in front of it.
Erik snorted. Hardly dignified of you.
No, I’m hopeless. Charles used the throne as a backrest, comfortably, heedless of expensive robes. Come here and be an armrest?
Shameless, also, Erik said, and flopped down at his side, equally comfortable. Better?
No, THIS is me being shameless.
Charles-!!
That’s for after you’re human again. “All right, send in the next group…”
And then, wolf-shaped armrest forgotten, sitting straight up. Oh-
Erik could, always, these days, feel Charles in his head, ever-present merry warmth and complex compassion, kindness and old wounds and sugared tea. And, because he could feel Charles in his head, he also felt the instant of sheer disorienting shock.
She’s a telepath-!!
What happened? No time for unnecessary questions like are you sure or how do you know. Of course Charles would know.
The woman glittered like newly-fallen snow, all ice crystals and chilly sharpness. Dressed in white, she stood out among the flock of richly-hued fellow courtiers like a flash of lightning through a storm. She stood three bodies away, in the receiving line, and smiled like a knife.
Charles, what-
She’s trying to-oh, hang on, one second-ah, better. She’s attempting to, ah, excavate my mind. Unsuccessfully, I might add.
Are you all right?
Oh yes. I’ve had years to practice shielding, and it’s my head, not hers. She is quite good, however. Charles sounded begrudgingly, but genuinely, admiring. Not the approach I would use, but extremely effective-impressions of honed edges, ice, crystalline stiletto icicles, cold and brittle and unforgiving, delicate and precise. Really quite good, in fact.
But you’re better. Also not a question. No doubt there.
Of course I am. In the single statement, Charles somehow managed to combine pure arrogance, comforting reassurance, and simple fact. It was rather a surprise, though. I’m shielding you, by the way. I don’t think she ought to be able to follow our connection, but-well, she IS good, and I know we’ve worked on focus, in our link, but the only way to be sure would be for me to stay out of your head completely-
No.
No. But do be careful.
-ME! Charles, you-YOU be careful, please-
No time, though. Not when the ice-crystal woman was smiling at them, next to be presented, calm and confident and utterly unshaken by any unexpected telepathic resistance.
Emma Frost. Lady Emma Frost. The name suited her, Erik thought, as she was announced. Felt Charles nod.
She even curtseyed flawlessly. Too flawlessly, Erik thought: perfection verging on insult. Charles looked back, coolly regal even from his spot atop the steps-enough so to make Erik blink, in their heads, in amazed admiration-and then got to his feet, and visibly decided to play the part right back at her.
The offered hand, ring and all, did surprise her; and it should, since Charles hadn’t bothered to demand formal obeisance from any other petitioners that day. In fact, Charles had never bothered with the kissing-of-hands ever; and both Sean and Raven, off to the side, were openly staring.
To her credit, she smiled. Touched lips to fingertips-Erik tried not to growl-and then met Charles’s gaze, and smiled a bit more. “You’re not what I was led to believe.”
Charles raised an eyebrow. “And you are not Lord Shaw. Though you are wearing his insignia.”
“Obviously not.” Neutral, but with an edge of something like contempt at the banality. “He had obligations elsewhere.”
“More important,” Charles inquired, “than swearing fealty to his king?” Opening skirmishes. Swords meeting. Erik could practically taste the iron.
“Obviously…yes.” She glanced from Charles to Erik, and then back again. “He warned me you might be formidable. I confess I thought he’d been exaggerating.”
Charles only looked at her; after a second, she laughed. “I am impressed. I actually felt that one.”
Charles-
Sorry, Erik, this is a bit difficult-
Charles’s fingers were tense, curling into his fur. Imperceptible, maybe, to anyone else. But Erik could tell.
“Sebastian wondered whether you could be convinced to join us.” Her voice sounded smooth, but not quite as smooth as before. “You can’t be, can you? So incorruptible, Charles Xavier. Always trying to do the right thing. Always trying to make the world love you. The world’s never going to love you, Charles. Don’t be naïve.”
Erik found himself snarling. On his feet. Hackles up. She was wounding Charles. Who didn’t admit to the impact. Not perceptibly. Only in their heads. Don’t-don’t believe her, please, I do love you, Charles, I DO, don’t listen-
I’m not. I’m-not. Thank you-oh, no, wait-
She raised both eyebrows at them. Looked at Erik with a bit more interest. “I do know you. You were gone before my time, of course. But you should know that Sebastian’s very proud of you. One of his most superb creations. So deadly, and so full of rage…Charles, do you know you’re taking in Sebastian’s strays?”
“He’s no one’s stray,” Charles said, very soft, but somehow much more frightening for that reason, “he’s his own person, he is a person, and a good one. And you need to be gone. Before I forget how to…do the right thing.”
Icicle eyes seemed entertained by that. “I almost believe you mean it. In which case you would be far more interesting. But interesting can also mean dangerous. And-” A step back; physical loss of balance, this time. And when she recovered, she looked far more furious, less composed. “That was a very bad idea.”
Erik, Charles suggested, still calmly but very urgently, get everyone out of here, if you would, please.
I’m not leaving you!
I honestly don’t know what she has in mind and I-
No, Charles!
Fine! And abruptly the crowd, the receiving line, the courtiers, melted away, orderly raindrops in a crumbling world. Even Erik, excluded from the mental command, felt the weight of it shiver through the air.
Emma Frost laughed, aloud. “Still worrying about meaningless little lives? You ought to be more concerned about your own. Or did you think I came here alone?”
“You said he wanted me to join you.” Charles moved one step lower. Only a few up from the pale woman, he was nearly her height. The great hall, around them, echoed noisily with silence. Preemptive desolation, the aftermath before the war. “Join you in what?”
“You honestly expect me to tell you? Clichéd monologues are for Christmas pantomimes and children, Charles.” Even Erik felt the force of that invisible blow. It skittered sideways, off of Charles’s shields, and missed; but Charles took a breath, in both their heads.
At the end of the hall, two guardsmen-not Charles’s own-appeared from shadows. Raised crossbows. Erik nearly laughed, himself, and made short work of that. Left them bleeding-but alive, Charles would appreciate that-on the cold stone floor.
He spun around to find Charles backed up against the throne, eyes wide, as the woman’s skin hardened slowly into something else, glittering and cruel, diamond-edged hand pressed against a vulnerable throat. Charles tried to breathe, couldn’t, and gasped something about a physical secondary mutation-trust Charles to think in scientific terms while in combat!-and then, I can’t read her well, not like this, I need you to distract her-
She wasn’t all diamond, not yet, not everywhere. Erik lunged. Bit.
She shrieked in pain. But only for a second.
Charles hadn’t even gotten up from the floor, and was trying to inhale through the bruises, but his eyes were fixed on Emma Frost’s, taking advantage of the second’s lapse, and exploiting it.
Erik found himself shivering again. He’d always known Charles was powerful. He’d never quite realized what that meant, until now.
The hall wasn’t deserted. It was full of presence. Potency. Lengthening shadows, stretching tendrils slowly over the floor.
Charles breathed in, abruptly; shook his head, blinked, and swallowed, surfacing. Well, that was unpleasant…
Charles are you all right?!
Ouch, Erik, not so loud…I think…to be honest I’d rather like to be ill, but we don’t have the time. Shaw-Schmidt-he wants to start a war-Dizzying images, fire and blood and mutated bodies, warped and mindlessly hating, under Shaw’s command. Not merely any war. He wants to ruin the world. So that he can feed off the pain.
They both eyed the currently-mute Emma Frost, who’d not moved from the spot, gazing at nothingness. Charles looked away first. Erik could hazard a guess as to why, but not precisely what he’d done. Had to do.
She’s not evil. She only wants to feel safe. And she feels safe when she’s the strongest. She thinks Sebastian Shaw is strong.
Shaw-Schmidt-he experiments on us, doesn’t he? On the…the people with special abilities. Turning them into weapons.
Yes.
I was one of those.
Yes. But not anymore. Charles found a smile for him, through lingering pain. Now you’re…yourself, I suppose.
I’m yours.
I love you. Always. Oh, and-you’ll be pleased to hear this, I think-she did know what he did to you. Not all the science of it, of course. But he bragged about it, to her, once. Given that memory, I should be able to-
“Weak.” The voice interrupted the beginnings of joy. “You should have killed me. You could have.”
“I try not to destroy anything of such beauty.” Charles’s tone was very gentle; almost an apology, Erik thought. He felt no such impulse. She’d hurt Charles. He sat down, and glared at her, and growled. As an afterthought, made a few iron hooks and tapestry-hangings tangle around her limbs.
She looked at them both, and shook her head. “You’re both such fools. But I suppose I ought to thank you. I can’t go back to him, of course. Not without having done what he asked. So you’re keeping me safe. I do love idealists.”
Charles sat up a bit more. Erik came over and inserted himself under one arm, for support; Charles patted him on the shoulder, physically and not. Looked at the woman, head tipped to one side. After a second, said, softly, “Yes, you do, don’t you?” and this time she was the one who looked away.
You ARE keeping her in prison.
Of course. I might have some sympathy for her, but I’m not that kindhearted, Erik. Besides, she won’t try to escape.
How do you know?
Because I’ve associated the use of her abilities with debilitating nausea, in her head. The experience might be rather unpleasant for all concerned.
Erik desperately wanted to laugh, and settled for huffing air over Charles’s arm. Can you stand up?
Oh, of course, it’s only bruises-
Out by the doorways, other faces were reappearing, braving the tantalizing absence of turmoil. Raven. The guardsmen. One or two of the most courageous or most foolhardy courtiers.
Charles stood up and turned around and waved, and Emma Frost said, almost regretfully, from the ground, “I’m sorry about this, I didn’t expect to respect you, but you didn’t actually think I’d come here without a backup plan, did you?”
The assassin flickered into being in a whirlwind of smoke. Erik sensed the steel of the knife a split second too late.
Not so late that he could do nothing. He was flinging his mind against the cruel edge before it’d even become real, materialized, in the space beside Charles. Pushing. Frantic.
Deflection. An inch. Maybe two. Not enough. Too late.
The man-if it’d been a man, not a demon, a destroyer of worlds-was already gone. Erik remembered how to move, how to breathe, but couldn’t even catch Charles, no hands, no arms, nothing but his own body to hold off the collapse.
The knife glittered, between ribs. It slid out, a fraction, with the impact, when Charles hit the floor, and looked as if it’d been painted, a thin stripe of red over grey.
The assassin’d been aiming for the heart. A killing blow: if Charles couldn’t be swayed to the other side, then he would be removed. Permanently.
Erik could hear himself howling with grief. Literally. The sound billowed through the hall.
Other people were running, now, shouting for medics and bandages and assistance. Raven was crying and Emma Frost purred more words of complacent apology, and Erik wanted to kill the world, the useless helpless futile world, to rip it apart with teeth and claws and turn the soul of the universe inside out, because there was no soul left in a universe without Charles.
Charles coughed. Looked up at him. Erik…?
And he couldn’t murder the world or Emma Frost or the absent Sebastian Shaw, not now, not here, not with those eyes searching for his. I’m here-Charles, I’m here-don’t talk, don’t-save your strength, please-
Are you…all right? Even that mental voice was a whisper. Cracking. Trailing off into incoherent whiteness.
Please don’t-
Tell me.
I’m all right, I’m not hurt-Charles, you-you’ll be all right, you will, you have to be-you have to stay with me, Charles, please, I love you, you asked me not to leave you and I won’t, I never will, but you can’t leave me either, you can’t, please don’t-
Oh, Erik…I love you.
I love you! And you aren’t going anywhere, not without me, do you understand, you AREN’T-
And you say…I’m the optimist…I think…I’m probably going to die.
No, Erik said, blankly horrified, and then shouted it. NO!
He’d never tried anything like this before. Had never dreamed he could. But he flattened himself down there at Charles’s side, trying not to see the one pale hand upturned on the ground, so close, so immobile. Shut his eyes, closing out the babble in the hall, and concentrated.
With his eyes closed, everything shone. The entire world, the bones of the earth, running with darkly gleaming ore and metallic seams of joy. The precious embroidery on tunics. The gleam of cups and daggers and the solid heat of the cooking spits in the kitchen.
The whisper of welcome in each heartbeat, every body, every artery and vein. Stardust, Charles-oh, god, Charles, his beautiful Charles-had called it, the glowing relics of the birth of the universe.
It sang to him. Reached out to draw him in. Yes, he agreed, silently, and then, focusing, finding that one ragged tear in the universe, the place where blood pumped and spilled and left emptiness behind, no. Not here, not now.
He held all that blood inside. Kept Charles with him. Kept the heart beating. Found torn tissues and flesh, saturated in red, and wove them back together.
He could hear himself breathing. Panting. Charles had stopped talking, in their heads. Unconscious. But breathing, as well. Not dead. Alive.
Alive, he thought, and then let himself collapse into friendly darkness, too.