Usiku
Title: Usiku (1/1)
Author: monstrousreg
Word count:
Warnings: Mentions of blood and gore, possibly insulting language.
Pairing: Erik/Charles.
Notes: A one-shot inspired by this beautiful picture by Yaegakisawa. She is an amazing artist, and I saw this picture and this story just... assaulted me.
Usiku means 'night' in Swahili.
He’s nothing like she had imagined he would be.
He looks like a porcelain doll, like the beautiful immortal representation of a breathtaking boy. Pale translucent skin, lips blood-red, big eyes cornflower-blue surrounded by thick black lashes. Female models would give the world to have such a complexion.
He’s short; certainly shorter than she would have thought, from what she had heard. Though his presence and the way he carries himself certainly make up for his height. He moves like a prince in the presence of commoners, though not in a conceited manner.
The officer that’s escorting him doesn’t seem to dare touch him, and simply waves him into the chair. The boy crosses his legs, gamely laces his fingers on top of the table to keep them visible.
“I was hoping we could dispense with these,” he says, moving a wrist a fraction to make the cuffs tinkle against the metal table. “I chafe easily.”
“As soon as I’ve confirmed your identity,” Moira says blandly, though there can be little doubt, in truth. Only she’s very rarely given leave to take such liberties with a Usiku agent, and it’s her nature to distrust. She wants information, and this is the first time she’s got an operative definitively pinned down.
“So, Mister Xavier,” she starts, glancing down at her meager file. “I don’t see any Migrations records here. How did you enter the United States?”
The boy smiles, a little ruefully. “I’m afraid if I told you, you wouldn’t easily believe me.”
“Try me.”
“I don’t need to,” he says, gracefully moving the fingers of his right hand in a small circle. “As you know, I am a telepath.”
Moira stiffens, “There are laws here, Mister Xavier, against mental invasion.”
“There are laws everywhere for it,” Xavier says mildly. “I cannot access the deeper levels of your mind, but your superficial disbelief is really quite enough.”
Moira eyes him for a moment longer, but he arches his eyebrows, inviting. He can’t be more than twenty-two years old, but he’s someone to be cautious with. The Xavier family is well known across the world for having manifested uncannily strong mutations where the gene presented itself and having kept firm ties to the Undeground, thus giving the last-name unmatched power and influence. Whereas the mutations are widely documented and openly admitted, the Undeground connections are darker.
Moira is interested precisely in those connections.
“Mr. Xavier, we know you were in Sebastian Shaw’s hotel room last night. We have your prints in furniture and walls, and a search of your own hotel room revealed clothing stained with his blood. I’m sure you can see your position is difficult. Please don’t try to deny your involvement.”
“I was there,” Xavier confirms, nodding. “I’m not bent on denying anything at all, unless you suggest I killed the man myself, which I did not.”
“You expect me to believe this.”
She doesn’t need to. She knows the boy didn’t kill Shaw, just as well as she knows he can’t keep him in detention for long. While her evidence is a little more than circumstantial, it would take nothing less than an open confession in front of several witnesses to put a Usiku agent on the spot, let along put up a trial and convict them. And that’s not even considering one of the world’s most powerful and influential last-names, on par only with Frost and Darkholme.
Governments would bent for Xavier-and after Brian’s death, it was well known that Charles was the sole heir to the empire. He would not be going away for murder, even if he had committed it.
Xavier smiles faintly, his only answer. He already knows she does not believe him guilty, so he doesn’t bother trying to defend himself.
“So what did happen, then? Was Shaw dead when you arrived?”
Here Xavier pauses, azure eyes dropping to his hands momentarily. He has strong, square-palmed hands of short but strong fingers-not at all like what Moira would have imagined. But they are still lovely for all their masculinity; the rest of Xavier seems nearly ethereal, too fine-features, very nearly feminine.
“He was dying,” he settled for, eyebrows twitching closer. “There was nothing that could be done for him at that stage.”
“Why didn’t you call 911?” Moira demands.
Xavier’s lips purse slightly. “I was otherwise occupied.”
“Occupied enough you let the man bleed out?” Moira hisses.
“He did not bleed out,” Xavier replies, calm like an ice sculpture. “Or at the very least, that was not the cause of death. Please do not insult me by thinking me misinformed.”
Moira grits her teeth. “Then maybe you can stop insulting me by being direct and telling me what happened in that room. There was blood in the ceilings, Mr. Xavier. Shaw was savaged.”
He got nothing more than he deserved, or less, sounded calm and quiet in her head. Moira stiffens again, paling.
“I regret to say whatever information I could offer you is quite beyond your clearance level,” Xavier says, and he looks genuinely apologetic by using the clearance card. The only thing more insulting would have been for him to say it was much above her pay-grade.
The sad truth is Usiku agents exist far from society and largely out of the law, by necessity. Only they have access to the Undeground, an access humans cannot do without, specially not in these days when demons and the supernatural begin to rise up from their shadows to begin to retake their ancestral homes. Ireland and most of the Scandinavian nations have already been forced to sign treaties with the Ancient.
Attempts at shaky diplomacy have as yet managed to succeed, largely aided by the timeless patience of the Ancient and the respect born in terror from the human politicians. But such a thing would be wholly impossible if not for the Usiku, and their insistence that the Ancient have as of yet shown themselves admirably tolerant; a situation that will last little longer if their demands are not somehow met.
Moira glances down at her file again, troubled by these thoughts. She knows she should feel quite grateful to this man, and indeed to all of his fellow Usiku agents; the organization has held the frontline of Ancient-human confrontations for millenniums, ever since humans began to have real force on the face of the planet. Back then the Ancients had gracefully withdrawn to their shadows and secrets, but now they wanted their homes back, and they will not be denied.
Trusting in someone who is as much shade and mystery as his mission is, however, difficult, and Moira is a woman of evidence and deduction, not faith and half-truths.
“Oh dear,” Xavier says quietly, eyes suddenly, briefly empty. “Agent McTaggert, I bid you brace yourself, you are about to meet your first Ancient.”
Moira’s eyes widen even as her blood runs cold. Startled and dismayed, she only now notices how the binding-seal at Xavier’s right wrist, dark ink stark against the pale delicate skin, has begun to palpitate in coal-glow, like the embers of a banked fire.
“Does that hurt?” she blurts.
“Oh; no, not at all. It’s only a warning for those around, for he does not like anyone to be too close to me.”
The accompanying smile that goes with that statement is fond and calm, but Moira flinches. She knows sometimes Ancients can be possessive of their bound companions, and it really is such a pity; Xavier is young. He has his whole life ahead of himself. It’s perfectly possible this Ancient chose him at birth, or at an early childhood; the Xaviers have always been Usiku, and an Xavier child that manifested powerful telepathy at an early age would surely have been a prize.
The portal opens up like a slit through the air-nothing dramatic, like black vortexes or dark grey smoke and lightning, like some Ancients are said to do. But rather simply a cut in the fabric of reality, out of which someone steps into the room.
He is tall, very tall, broad shouldered and slim-hipped, nothing but whipcord muscles, stretched flat over long elegant bones. He is wearing innocuous enough clothes-black wool slacks, exquisitely tailored, a stark dressing shirt of immaculate white, and a black suit jacket pressed so perfectly it has edges. The only extravagant thing is the cape, blood-red and of a heavy rich fabric. His skin is only a few shades darker than his shirt, and his eyes iceberg-blue with chips of emerald.
His left hand, long-fingered like a pianist’s, falls automatically and comfortably on Xavier’s right shoulder. His eyes pin Moira to her chair, an almost religious terror stiffening her muscles.
“Erik,” Xavier says, giving the creature a slight smile. “This is agent Moira McTaggart of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Agent McTaggart, allow me to introduce you to Erik Lehnsherr, Usiku agent of the twelfth level and my bonded companion.”
Very little is known of the ranking and organization systems in the Usiku, but one piece of information is readily available: there’s only one Ancient in existence in the thirteenth level. The twelfth level is where is seven lieutenants are classified; indestructible and uncontrollable. To this day Moira hadn’t known a twelfth-level could be bound at all.
“Agent McTaggart,” the creature greets, deep rich voice carrying an accent that curls attractively over the r’s. “Why is my companion cuffed to your table?”
Moira has a split-second of terror, but with some difficulty she overcomes it.
“I was asking Mr. Xavier some questions about Sebastian Shaw’s untimely demise. Sir. Master.”
“Mr. Lehnsherr will do,” the creature says, dismissing her clumsy courtesies. “You will remove the cuffs, if you please. His skin chafes, and if he is uncomfortable in any way I shall be very cross.”
But instead of waiting for the shaky officer to come forward and uncuff his companion, Lehnsherr reached out with a flick of his fingers and the chain and cuffs broke apart into shards, tightly controlled like puzzle-pieces, only to reassemble a moment later neatly coiled on the table.
Ancients have gifts, of course. Moira doesn’t know if this creature used to be human and was changed or was born into another species entirely, but one thing is clear; he is not to be trifled with.
“That is better,” Lehnsherr said, reaching down to wrap long fingers around Xavier’s right wrist, encircling it entirely, a bracelet of flesh and bone. The binding-seal was covered under his palm. Moira had to force her eyes away from the gesture, not at all subtly possessive. She wondered if Lehnsherr could tell she thought Xavier was beautiful, and if it irritated him.
“So,” Lehnsherr continues conversationally, his other hand falling casually to the back of Xavier’s neck. “You were inquiring after Shaw?”
The distaste with which he says the name is impossible to miss.
“He was murdered, brutally, last night,” Moira managed, grasping for her professional voice and finding it. “I believe Mr. Xavier is a witness, but he’s proven uncooperative.”
“I fail to see why he ought to cooperate,” Lehnsherr says coldly. “Seeing as you have no authority over either of us.”
“Erik,” Xavier’s tone is conciliatory. “She’s just doing her job. Do be civil to her, please.”
Lehnsherr does not look halfway inclined to do any such thing. Moira is a regular human and in no contact with the Usiku; it’s not a surprise that Lehnsherr disdains her, but the lack of surprise doesn’t lessen the sting.
But willing or no, Lehnsherr seemed disinclined to deny his companion, and gamely pulls up the last remaining empty chair and sits by Xavier, crossing his legs and deftly putting his cape out of the way to as to not sit on it. Moira realizes abruptly that he doesn’t show on the mirror on the wall; not even his clothes.
“Your case is to be closed quickly, agent,” Lehnsherr says. Closer now she realizes his pupils are not perfectly round; but rather oval-shaped, almost slitted, like a cat’s. “I killed Sebastian Shaw, last night. Charles was not a witness. He came to the room later, looking for me.”
Moira is freshly dismayed. Ancients can’t be convicted-even if the law permitted such a thing, it would be like locking smoke and air. No Ancient would ever allow themselves to be limited to human prisons, and even if they gamely went along no cell could hope to contain them. You might as well attempt to cage the clouds, or hold sand with spread-out fingers.
“But why?” she asked, helpless.
“I am certain that is none of your business,” Lehnsherr replies, casually uncivil. Xavier sighs.
“Trust me, agent McTaggart,” the boy says, earnest. “The man was abominable and he deserved it.”
“Well, I am gratified your doubts have been cleared,” Lehnsherr stands, urging Xavier up by touching his shoulder. Moira’s doubts are nothing like cleared, but it’s not like she can do anything about it. She doesn’t dare speak up against the creature-whatever species Lehnsherr is, he’s clearly not to be detained.
“It was a pleasure, Agent McTaggart,” Xavier says honestly. He doesn’t offer a handshake; his Ancient’s arm has slipped around his waist already, and it seems to her any kind of contact with another creature would be greatly unwelcome, at the moment.
It’s a pity, she can’t help but think, as they vanish into another portal.
Oh, but it is not, Xavier’s mind says quietly into hers.
They rematerialize in Charles’ Westchester manor. Erik gives his waist a squeeze and releases him, sighing, as he moves to the desk.
“You let her think you were the poor, innocent child stuck with the big bad vampyr, did you not?”
“Well, you must admit you play the part nicely enough,” Charles says, smiling, and come forward to finger the heavy fabric of the cape. “Nice touch, by the way. Very dramatic.”
“I thought I would make an impression,” Erik grins, showing his elongated eye-teeth. “The investigation will directly be closed, I gather.”
“She can’t very well hope you’ll go to court,” Charles replies thoughtfully, moving to the liquor cabinet. Erik watches him pour himself two fingers of fine scotch, no ice, and settle down on the chair by the great unlit hearth. He is withdrawn and quiet.
“You are upset,” Erik murmurs, unclasping the cape and dropping it on the desk. In a few long strides he’s crossed the large study, and standing behind Charles’ chair he bends close to curl long hands on the mutant’s shoulders.
“Ever since nineteen forty-five, you have lived with on sole purpose in mind; now that you have accomplished it, Erik… what will we do?”
There is no question in Charles’ mind that Shaw needed to die. He had discovered a way to anchor an Ancient, to trap it and cage it and hurt it, and no human could have such knowledge. It couldn’t be allowed. If they knew, then they would most certainly start a war. The Ancient would not tolerate to have their own entrapped, and would immediately strike forward. And the Ancients knew no middle terms; either they let live, or they razed. Only now were they beginning to learn to see in grey. Charles could ill afford to have some psychopath chain someone like Erik-not again.
“Ah,” Erik straightens, going around the chair to sit in front of his companion, on the low chess table. “You are concerned for the future. That is a very mortal concern, little one.”
“Be so kind as to not mock me,” Charles frowned, discontent.
“Forgive me; you know I meant no harm. It is only I still hope you will change your mind, and allow me to give you the dark gift.”
Charles’ eyes close.
“That aside,” Erik continues, in lieu of insisting on the sore subject. He has that bone between his teeth, and make no mistake; he will not relent until Charles folds. “You’ve been telling me for years now that a war might be coming.”
“I’ve been telling you for years that we must stop a war from coming.”
“I can’t see why,” Erik says stubbornly. “The humans took our lands and our grounds, banished us from our homes-it is they who ought to beg our forgiveness, and not us. Why must we negotiate for that which belongs to us by right? I alone am older than your country.”
“But can you not see? A war now would be disastrous. Humanity has a lot of resources at their disposal now; only think of nuclear weapons, Erik, and what they could do to the planet!”
“It would rid us of a pest, and good riddance indeed,” Erik states firmly.
“It always pleases me when you speak so kindly of my people,” Charles sighs.
“Those are not your people,” Erik snaps. “Humans think of you as little more than my kept pet. As if you could be tethered to any one’s will-as if you were anything less than magnificent. You are a god amongst insects.”
“Oh, my friend,” Charles closes his eyes, looking wretched. “Would that I could make you understand.”
“But I do understand, lover,” Erik purrs, sliding gracefully to his knees between Charles’ legs, running his hands up the man’s long slender thighs, up across his narrow waist and around his back, pulling them flush together. “I understand very well. You will not see things my way until these foolish creatures you so treasure set the world on fire. You will believe in the good of man until the very last innocent child has died. And only then, only then will you see that I am right, for I have seen civilizations rise and fall, one after the other. Man is a vile creature, Charles, a cockroach that will sooner see its planet destroyed than restored to its rightful masters.”
He moves slightly closer, so their eyes are inches apart-Charles’ remarkably electric blue, and Erik’s shifting blue-green, never a single color, never still.
“But I will keep you safe, my little one, my infant god-and together we will watch the world burn. And when the coals have cooled, we will reign it together.”
Kivuli (follow-up)
Author: monstrousreg
Word count:
Warnings: Mentions of blood and gore, possibly insulting language.
Pairing: Erik/Charles.
Notes: A one-shot inspired by this beautiful picture by Yaegakisawa. She is an amazing artist, and I saw this picture and this story just... assaulted me.
Usiku means 'night' in Swahili.
He’s nothing like she had imagined he would be.
He looks like a porcelain doll, like the beautiful immortal representation of a breathtaking boy. Pale translucent skin, lips blood-red, big eyes cornflower-blue surrounded by thick black lashes. Female models would give the world to have such a complexion.
He’s short; certainly shorter than she would have thought, from what she had heard. Though his presence and the way he carries himself certainly make up for his height. He moves like a prince in the presence of commoners, though not in a conceited manner.
The officer that’s escorting him doesn’t seem to dare touch him, and simply waves him into the chair. The boy crosses his legs, gamely laces his fingers on top of the table to keep them visible.
“I was hoping we could dispense with these,” he says, moving a wrist a fraction to make the cuffs tinkle against the metal table. “I chafe easily.”
“As soon as I’ve confirmed your identity,” Moira says blandly, though there can be little doubt, in truth. Only she’s very rarely given leave to take such liberties with a Usiku agent, and it’s her nature to distrust. She wants information, and this is the first time she’s got an operative definitively pinned down.
“So, Mister Xavier,” she starts, glancing down at her meager file. “I don’t see any Migrations records here. How did you enter the United States?”
The boy smiles, a little ruefully. “I’m afraid if I told you, you wouldn’t easily believe me.”
“Try me.”
“I don’t need to,” he says, gracefully moving the fingers of his right hand in a small circle. “As you know, I am a telepath.”
Moira stiffens, “There are laws here, Mister Xavier, against mental invasion.”
“There are laws everywhere for it,” Xavier says mildly. “I cannot access the deeper levels of your mind, but your superficial disbelief is really quite enough.”
Moira eyes him for a moment longer, but he arches his eyebrows, inviting. He can’t be more than twenty-two years old, but he’s someone to be cautious with. The Xavier family is well known across the world for having manifested uncannily strong mutations where the gene presented itself and having kept firm ties to the Undeground, thus giving the last-name unmatched power and influence. Whereas the mutations are widely documented and openly admitted, the Undeground connections are darker.
Moira is interested precisely in those connections.
“Mr. Xavier, we know you were in Sebastian Shaw’s hotel room last night. We have your prints in furniture and walls, and a search of your own hotel room revealed clothing stained with his blood. I’m sure you can see your position is difficult. Please don’t try to deny your involvement.”
“I was there,” Xavier confirms, nodding. “I’m not bent on denying anything at all, unless you suggest I killed the man myself, which I did not.”
“You expect me to believe this.”
She doesn’t need to. She knows the boy didn’t kill Shaw, just as well as she knows he can’t keep him in detention for long. While her evidence is a little more than circumstantial, it would take nothing less than an open confession in front of several witnesses to put a Usiku agent on the spot, let along put up a trial and convict them. And that’s not even considering one of the world’s most powerful and influential last-names, on par only with Frost and Darkholme.
Governments would bent for Xavier-and after Brian’s death, it was well known that Charles was the sole heir to the empire. He would not be going away for murder, even if he had committed it.
Xavier smiles faintly, his only answer. He already knows she does not believe him guilty, so he doesn’t bother trying to defend himself.
“So what did happen, then? Was Shaw dead when you arrived?”
Here Xavier pauses, azure eyes dropping to his hands momentarily. He has strong, square-palmed hands of short but strong fingers-not at all like what Moira would have imagined. But they are still lovely for all their masculinity; the rest of Xavier seems nearly ethereal, too fine-features, very nearly feminine.
“He was dying,” he settled for, eyebrows twitching closer. “There was nothing that could be done for him at that stage.”
“Why didn’t you call 911?” Moira demands.
Xavier’s lips purse slightly. “I was otherwise occupied.”
“Occupied enough you let the man bleed out?” Moira hisses.
“He did not bleed out,” Xavier replies, calm like an ice sculpture. “Or at the very least, that was not the cause of death. Please do not insult me by thinking me misinformed.”
Moira grits her teeth. “Then maybe you can stop insulting me by being direct and telling me what happened in that room. There was blood in the ceilings, Mr. Xavier. Shaw was savaged.”
He got nothing more than he deserved, or less, sounded calm and quiet in her head. Moira stiffens again, paling.
“I regret to say whatever information I could offer you is quite beyond your clearance level,” Xavier says, and he looks genuinely apologetic by using the clearance card. The only thing more insulting would have been for him to say it was much above her pay-grade.
The sad truth is Usiku agents exist far from society and largely out of the law, by necessity. Only they have access to the Undeground, an access humans cannot do without, specially not in these days when demons and the supernatural begin to rise up from their shadows to begin to retake their ancestral homes. Ireland and most of the Scandinavian nations have already been forced to sign treaties with the Ancient.
Attempts at shaky diplomacy have as yet managed to succeed, largely aided by the timeless patience of the Ancient and the respect born in terror from the human politicians. But such a thing would be wholly impossible if not for the Usiku, and their insistence that the Ancient have as of yet shown themselves admirably tolerant; a situation that will last little longer if their demands are not somehow met.
Moira glances down at her file again, troubled by these thoughts. She knows she should feel quite grateful to this man, and indeed to all of his fellow Usiku agents; the organization has held the frontline of Ancient-human confrontations for millenniums, ever since humans began to have real force on the face of the planet. Back then the Ancients had gracefully withdrawn to their shadows and secrets, but now they wanted their homes back, and they will not be denied.
Trusting in someone who is as much shade and mystery as his mission is, however, difficult, and Moira is a woman of evidence and deduction, not faith and half-truths.
“Oh dear,” Xavier says quietly, eyes suddenly, briefly empty. “Agent McTaggert, I bid you brace yourself, you are about to meet your first Ancient.”
Moira’s eyes widen even as her blood runs cold. Startled and dismayed, she only now notices how the binding-seal at Xavier’s right wrist, dark ink stark against the pale delicate skin, has begun to palpitate in coal-glow, like the embers of a banked fire.
“Does that hurt?” she blurts.
“Oh; no, not at all. It’s only a warning for those around, for he does not like anyone to be too close to me.”
The accompanying smile that goes with that statement is fond and calm, but Moira flinches. She knows sometimes Ancients can be possessive of their bound companions, and it really is such a pity; Xavier is young. He has his whole life ahead of himself. It’s perfectly possible this Ancient chose him at birth, or at an early childhood; the Xaviers have always been Usiku, and an Xavier child that manifested powerful telepathy at an early age would surely have been a prize.
The portal opens up like a slit through the air-nothing dramatic, like black vortexes or dark grey smoke and lightning, like some Ancients are said to do. But rather simply a cut in the fabric of reality, out of which someone steps into the room.
He is tall, very tall, broad shouldered and slim-hipped, nothing but whipcord muscles, stretched flat over long elegant bones. He is wearing innocuous enough clothes-black wool slacks, exquisitely tailored, a stark dressing shirt of immaculate white, and a black suit jacket pressed so perfectly it has edges. The only extravagant thing is the cape, blood-red and of a heavy rich fabric. His skin is only a few shades darker than his shirt, and his eyes iceberg-blue with chips of emerald.
His left hand, long-fingered like a pianist’s, falls automatically and comfortably on Xavier’s right shoulder. His eyes pin Moira to her chair, an almost religious terror stiffening her muscles.
“Erik,” Xavier says, giving the creature a slight smile. “This is agent Moira McTaggart of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Agent McTaggart, allow me to introduce you to Erik Lehnsherr, Usiku agent of the twelfth level and my bonded companion.”
Very little is known of the ranking and organization systems in the Usiku, but one piece of information is readily available: there’s only one Ancient in existence in the thirteenth level. The twelfth level is where is seven lieutenants are classified; indestructible and uncontrollable. To this day Moira hadn’t known a twelfth-level could be bound at all.
“Agent McTaggart,” the creature greets, deep rich voice carrying an accent that curls attractively over the r’s. “Why is my companion cuffed to your table?”
Moira has a split-second of terror, but with some difficulty she overcomes it.
“I was asking Mr. Xavier some questions about Sebastian Shaw’s untimely demise. Sir. Master.”
“Mr. Lehnsherr will do,” the creature says, dismissing her clumsy courtesies. “You will remove the cuffs, if you please. His skin chafes, and if he is uncomfortable in any way I shall be very cross.”
But instead of waiting for the shaky officer to come forward and uncuff his companion, Lehnsherr reached out with a flick of his fingers and the chain and cuffs broke apart into shards, tightly controlled like puzzle-pieces, only to reassemble a moment later neatly coiled on the table.
Ancients have gifts, of course. Moira doesn’t know if this creature used to be human and was changed or was born into another species entirely, but one thing is clear; he is not to be trifled with.
“That is better,” Lehnsherr said, reaching down to wrap long fingers around Xavier’s right wrist, encircling it entirely, a bracelet of flesh and bone. The binding-seal was covered under his palm. Moira had to force her eyes away from the gesture, not at all subtly possessive. She wondered if Lehnsherr could tell she thought Xavier was beautiful, and if it irritated him.
“So,” Lehnsherr continues conversationally, his other hand falling casually to the back of Xavier’s neck. “You were inquiring after Shaw?”
The distaste with which he says the name is impossible to miss.
“He was murdered, brutally, last night,” Moira managed, grasping for her professional voice and finding it. “I believe Mr. Xavier is a witness, but he’s proven uncooperative.”
“I fail to see why he ought to cooperate,” Lehnsherr says coldly. “Seeing as you have no authority over either of us.”
“Erik,” Xavier’s tone is conciliatory. “She’s just doing her job. Do be civil to her, please.”
Lehnsherr does not look halfway inclined to do any such thing. Moira is a regular human and in no contact with the Usiku; it’s not a surprise that Lehnsherr disdains her, but the lack of surprise doesn’t lessen the sting.
But willing or no, Lehnsherr seemed disinclined to deny his companion, and gamely pulls up the last remaining empty chair and sits by Xavier, crossing his legs and deftly putting his cape out of the way to as to not sit on it. Moira realizes abruptly that he doesn’t show on the mirror on the wall; not even his clothes.
“Your case is to be closed quickly, agent,” Lehnsherr says. Closer now she realizes his pupils are not perfectly round; but rather oval-shaped, almost slitted, like a cat’s. “I killed Sebastian Shaw, last night. Charles was not a witness. He came to the room later, looking for me.”
Moira is freshly dismayed. Ancients can’t be convicted-even if the law permitted such a thing, it would be like locking smoke and air. No Ancient would ever allow themselves to be limited to human prisons, and even if they gamely went along no cell could hope to contain them. You might as well attempt to cage the clouds, or hold sand with spread-out fingers.
“But why?” she asked, helpless.
“I am certain that is none of your business,” Lehnsherr replies, casually uncivil. Xavier sighs.
“Trust me, agent McTaggart,” the boy says, earnest. “The man was abominable and he deserved it.”
“Well, I am gratified your doubts have been cleared,” Lehnsherr stands, urging Xavier up by touching his shoulder. Moira’s doubts are nothing like cleared, but it’s not like she can do anything about it. She doesn’t dare speak up against the creature-whatever species Lehnsherr is, he’s clearly not to be detained.
“It was a pleasure, Agent McTaggart,” Xavier says honestly. He doesn’t offer a handshake; his Ancient’s arm has slipped around his waist already, and it seems to her any kind of contact with another creature would be greatly unwelcome, at the moment.
It’s a pity, she can’t help but think, as they vanish into another portal.
Oh, but it is not, Xavier’s mind says quietly into hers.
They rematerialize in Charles’ Westchester manor. Erik gives his waist a squeeze and releases him, sighing, as he moves to the desk.
“You let her think you were the poor, innocent child stuck with the big bad vampyr, did you not?”
“Well, you must admit you play the part nicely enough,” Charles says, smiling, and come forward to finger the heavy fabric of the cape. “Nice touch, by the way. Very dramatic.”
“I thought I would make an impression,” Erik grins, showing his elongated eye-teeth. “The investigation will directly be closed, I gather.”
“She can’t very well hope you’ll go to court,” Charles replies thoughtfully, moving to the liquor cabinet. Erik watches him pour himself two fingers of fine scotch, no ice, and settle down on the chair by the great unlit hearth. He is withdrawn and quiet.
“You are upset,” Erik murmurs, unclasping the cape and dropping it on the desk. In a few long strides he’s crossed the large study, and standing behind Charles’ chair he bends close to curl long hands on the mutant’s shoulders.
“Ever since nineteen forty-five, you have lived with on sole purpose in mind; now that you have accomplished it, Erik… what will we do?”
There is no question in Charles’ mind that Shaw needed to die. He had discovered a way to anchor an Ancient, to trap it and cage it and hurt it, and no human could have such knowledge. It couldn’t be allowed. If they knew, then they would most certainly start a war. The Ancient would not tolerate to have their own entrapped, and would immediately strike forward. And the Ancients knew no middle terms; either they let live, or they razed. Only now were they beginning to learn to see in grey. Charles could ill afford to have some psychopath chain someone like Erik-not again.
“Ah,” Erik straightens, going around the chair to sit in front of his companion, on the low chess table. “You are concerned for the future. That is a very mortal concern, little one.”
“Be so kind as to not mock me,” Charles frowned, discontent.
“Forgive me; you know I meant no harm. It is only I still hope you will change your mind, and allow me to give you the dark gift.”
Charles’ eyes close.
“That aside,” Erik continues, in lieu of insisting on the sore subject. He has that bone between his teeth, and make no mistake; he will not relent until Charles folds. “You’ve been telling me for years now that a war might be coming.”
“I’ve been telling you for years that we must stop a war from coming.”
“I can’t see why,” Erik says stubbornly. “The humans took our lands and our grounds, banished us from our homes-it is they who ought to beg our forgiveness, and not us. Why must we negotiate for that which belongs to us by right? I alone am older than your country.”
“But can you not see? A war now would be disastrous. Humanity has a lot of resources at their disposal now; only think of nuclear weapons, Erik, and what they could do to the planet!”
“It would rid us of a pest, and good riddance indeed,” Erik states firmly.
“It always pleases me when you speak so kindly of my people,” Charles sighs.
“Those are not your people,” Erik snaps. “Humans think of you as little more than my kept pet. As if you could be tethered to any one’s will-as if you were anything less than magnificent. You are a god amongst insects.”
“Oh, my friend,” Charles closes his eyes, looking wretched. “Would that I could make you understand.”
“But I do understand, lover,” Erik purrs, sliding gracefully to his knees between Charles’ legs, running his hands up the man’s long slender thighs, up across his narrow waist and around his back, pulling them flush together. “I understand very well. You will not see things my way until these foolish creatures you so treasure set the world on fire. You will believe in the good of man until the very last innocent child has died. And only then, only then will you see that I am right, for I have seen civilizations rise and fall, one after the other. Man is a vile creature, Charles, a cockroach that will sooner see its planet destroyed than restored to its rightful masters.”
He moves slightly closer, so their eyes are inches apart-Charles’ remarkably electric blue, and Erik’s shifting blue-green, never a single color, never still.
“But I will keep you safe, my little one, my infant god-and together we will watch the world burn. And when the coals have cooled, we will reign it together.”
Kivuli (follow-up)