Hello, Goodbye... ((Marvel Mansion))
((Completely forgot to post this little log to the MM community. I'm posting it here, so's I don't forget about it for an additional ice age. This occurs a few days after the team's return from space. Though inspired by Jean's player and Phoenix storyline, I haven't run this by the player for her approval yet. Therefore, it falls outside MM canon until it's granted. ;D ))
-In quiet moments before dawn.-
Fog blankets the wild forest bordering a freshly landscaped lawn of the Xavier Institute. Thick tendrils loom across the expansive property, up and over the solemn surface of Breakstone Lake. It makes it difficult to discern where gray skies meet and dark earth begins until dawn comes to burn it away. To one woman, it's merely a shroud reflecting the silent grief lingering in the halls of the X-Men's home... echoing the sadness within her own heart.
-Brown fingers thumb a dried braid of sweet grass upon one end. The other end is flecked with dim orange embers.-
She's sat vigil for the past three nights. During the day, it's the usual routine: Wake up (except that she rarely slept since their return from space). The Danger Room ( lately, the place where fists viciously meet punching bag over and over again). Classes- she does her best to maintain the facade of normalcy with the students. The Reavers attack on mansion and the death of one of their teachers has left many of them understandably shaken. She tries, (she really does, she thinks), but she's not really with them.
-She sits. Here upon the wooden attic floor while smoke rises and weaves into the air. The scent of simmering herbs and incense mingle a strange perfume.-
The death song was first. Low and plaintive. A tune as old as her ancestors who sang it beneath the shadows of Mt. Kilimanjaro. This time it was sung beneath the stars, sharp and bright as red hair and laughing green eyes swelled across her memories like an unstoppable ocean tide.
-A measured breath inhales the purifying mixture. Exhale.-
The war song followed. Harsh and keening, raw and angry. This one was not of her people, but one learned from the old Cheyenne shaman. Naze. The only counterpoint beneath it was the hint of barely restrained violence and ripe promise to deliver. Upon MODOK. Upon any outsider posing a threat to the X-Men.
-The blade presses against her skin. One long beat is enough to reacquaint herself with the feel. It painstakingly slides along the side of her skull.-
The last song spoke of rebirth. Distinctly opposite of a raging tempest, it was small and steady. Insistently building until it crescendos with clarity and strength, like the pulse of the Goddess within the earth. It was Nature's song with the message of closure, rest, and renewal come forth. The Phoenix was not only death, but life. Therefore, this could be no end song, because the Phoenix would come again. If it did, just maybe it would bring Jean Grey with it? Or maybe add sustenance to the Dream. Until then, she'll hope and wait.
Love and friendship always waits.
-Snowy locks of hair lay quietly upon the floor. One hand rubs against the smooth sides of her scalp. Back and forth slowly, until the fingers tangle through the wild mohawk lifting away from formerly heavy tresses. She brings those fingers down to stroke the edges of a small worn photograph.-
She'd awoken afterward atop leaves and dirt cocooned within the dense fog. A steady pace signals her figure breaking through the treeline as the night sky slowly shifts to muted gray, preceding the brilliance of dawn. She'd found what she'd been looking for out there. It wasn't quite peace. It never would be, truthfully, but strength never comes in singular form.
-Mirthful blue eyes peer out from one face. An impish smile spread upon the expression of the other. The caption reading beneath, "Broadway or bust!" to complement the cheesy and obviously fake lights of a Manhattan background behind them. It'd been chosen deliberately by the two of them. A silly symbolic gesture both women had needed after Inferno had finished its usual traumatic job upon the X-Men and before fate and circumstance pulled them away to their respective teams.
Her job finished, the herbs are stored away. The razor too. She decides to clean up the hair later. Carefully, the photograph is placed back into the box holding other personal treasures. Quietly, Ororo leaves the room with a soft click of the door to the attic behind her. She knows the memories will remain safe.
-Flashback to four years ago, high above Manhattan.*-
"Is it you?"
"The only 'me' that ever was."
"I saw you go to your death."
"And I saw you die in Dallas. I guess that makes us even. Question is, does that make us 'us'?"
"..."
"It... is good... to see you alive, Jean. I missed you so."
"Yeah. I know, Ororo."
"Me too."**
*According to MM timeline.
**Jean/Storm, UXM #242.
-In quiet moments before dawn.-
Fog blankets the wild forest bordering a freshly landscaped lawn of the Xavier Institute. Thick tendrils loom across the expansive property, up and over the solemn surface of Breakstone Lake. It makes it difficult to discern where gray skies meet and dark earth begins until dawn comes to burn it away. To one woman, it's merely a shroud reflecting the silent grief lingering in the halls of the X-Men's home... echoing the sadness within her own heart.
-Brown fingers thumb a dried braid of sweet grass upon one end. The other end is flecked with dim orange embers.-
She's sat vigil for the past three nights. During the day, it's the usual routine: Wake up (except that she rarely slept since their return from space). The Danger Room ( lately, the place where fists viciously meet punching bag over and over again). Classes- she does her best to maintain the facade of normalcy with the students. The Reavers attack on mansion and the death of one of their teachers has left many of them understandably shaken. She tries, (she really does, she thinks), but she's not really with them.
-She sits. Here upon the wooden attic floor while smoke rises and weaves into the air. The scent of simmering herbs and incense mingle a strange perfume.-
The death song was first. Low and plaintive. A tune as old as her ancestors who sang it beneath the shadows of Mt. Kilimanjaro. This time it was sung beneath the stars, sharp and bright as red hair and laughing green eyes swelled across her memories like an unstoppable ocean tide.
-A measured breath inhales the purifying mixture. Exhale.-
The war song followed. Harsh and keening, raw and angry. This one was not of her people, but one learned from the old Cheyenne shaman. Naze. The only counterpoint beneath it was the hint of barely restrained violence and ripe promise to deliver. Upon MODOK. Upon any outsider posing a threat to the X-Men.
-The blade presses against her skin. One long beat is enough to reacquaint herself with the feel. It painstakingly slides along the side of her skull.-
The last song spoke of rebirth. Distinctly opposite of a raging tempest, it was small and steady. Insistently building until it crescendos with clarity and strength, like the pulse of the Goddess within the earth. It was Nature's song with the message of closure, rest, and renewal come forth. The Phoenix was not only death, but life. Therefore, this could be no end song, because the Phoenix would come again. If it did, just maybe it would bring Jean Grey with it? Or maybe add sustenance to the Dream. Until then, she'll hope and wait.
Love and friendship always waits.
-Snowy locks of hair lay quietly upon the floor. One hand rubs against the smooth sides of her scalp. Back and forth slowly, until the fingers tangle through the wild mohawk lifting away from formerly heavy tresses. She brings those fingers down to stroke the edges of a small worn photograph.-
She'd awoken afterward atop leaves and dirt cocooned within the dense fog. A steady pace signals her figure breaking through the treeline as the night sky slowly shifts to muted gray, preceding the brilliance of dawn. She'd found what she'd been looking for out there. It wasn't quite peace. It never would be, truthfully, but strength never comes in singular form.
-Mirthful blue eyes peer out from one face. An impish smile spread upon the expression of the other. The caption reading beneath, "Broadway or bust!" to complement the cheesy and obviously fake lights of a Manhattan background behind them. It'd been chosen deliberately by the two of them. A silly symbolic gesture both women had needed after Inferno had finished its usual traumatic job upon the X-Men and before fate and circumstance pulled them away to their respective teams.
Her job finished, the herbs are stored away. The razor too. She decides to clean up the hair later. Carefully, the photograph is placed back into the box holding other personal treasures. Quietly, Ororo leaves the room with a soft click of the door to the attic behind her. She knows the memories will remain safe.
-Flashback to four years ago, high above Manhattan.*-
"Is it you?"
"The only 'me' that ever was."
"I saw you go to your death."
"And I saw you die in Dallas. I guess that makes us even. Question is, does that make us 'us'?"
"..."
"It... is good... to see you alive, Jean. I missed you so."
"Yeah. I know, Ororo."
"Me too."**
*According to MM timeline.
**Jean/Storm, UXM #242.