Fic: Let Fredoom Ring 3/19
Title Let Freedom Ring 3/19
Fandom X-Men: First Class
Pairings Erik/Charles, past Erik/Raven, mention of Hank/Raven, sort of brief Raven/Angel, references to future Scott/Jean
Beta cicero_drayon
Word count of chapter 6189
Word count of entire fic approx. 115 000
Ratings/warnings NC-17. Sexual situations, past physical and mental trauma, discussion of genocide, period transphobia, homophobia, ableism and racism, brief mentions of rape and suicide
Spoilers X-Men: First Class, X2 and (to a lesser extent) X-Men: The Last Stand. Some comic canon thrown in for good measure.
Disclaimer Marvel owns it, I don’t.
Summary Two arrivals to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters coincide - Jason Stryker, a child branded a freak because of his psychic powers, and Erik Lehnsherr, wanted terrorist and old friend of the professor. Jason is there as his father wants him cured - Erik claims that he has gone rogue from his own renegades. As tensions rise between mutants and humans, as well as between the suddenly reunited friends, who can truly be trusted?
Author’s notes The details about Erik’s hands is all because of this part of Magneto: Testament. In case you do not know the work of the German painter Otto Dix, he is well worth looking into. Comments are love.
For translation of non-English dialogue, hover the pointer over the text.
The speculations had started as soon as Erik arrived - that had been inevitable. When they were not given any proper explanations about their new teacher, the students instead spun theories about who he was, what he could do and why Sean had punched him as a greeting. None of the theories Erik had overheard had come close to anything resembling the truth. He had feared that he would hear the name Magneto in the corridors, but there were no whispers, and the children’s trepidation was only grounded in his annoyance at their grammatical mistakes.
Contrary to what he had expected when he started teaching, his German group was making more progress than the French class. The former was soon ready to start reading proper texts - Erik had spent the evenings making pencil marks by possible poems in the books he had purchased - while the latter was still trudging through the most basic grammar. In the third week of teaching, he gave the class a test, telling them that if everyone in the class passed, he would consider teaching them a small number of swearwords. He knew that Charles would appreciate that teaching technique; as he settled behind the desk and watched the children hunch over their tests with sudden enthusiasm, he imagined how his friend might laugh at it. The dignified frown he had taken to wearing would give way for the laughter, and it would make him look younger than his years. A spark often absent in his eyes would light again, and his appearance would become an intermarriage of dazzling colour - azure irises, vermilion lips and ivory-white teeth.
Realising that he was close to daydreaming, he shook himself mentally and concentrated on the Schiller he had brought with him, glancing up occasionally to make sure that no-one was cheating. Even as he tried to pay attention to the class and the poetry, he reflected that being close to Charles did not mean that he spent any less time thinking about him. Their reunion had certainly been different than he had expected, but he had only himself to blame for that.
An hour later, as he sent the children on their way and collected the tests, he was still occupied with that gnawing guilt. But there was not just guilt - there was hope too. He was here to redeem himself, after all; his presence was an act of asking for forgiveness, of throwing rocks into the river. What ultimately mattered was that they were both alive and no longer separated. From there, it would only take some courage and some patience, and he would be able to break down the wall of formality between them, little by little. Not that teaching left much time for wooing. It was that English word which strung to mind; he paused and tried to remember what he would call it in Yiddish or German. There must be some word in some language which did not sound quite so ridiculous.
He continued trying to find synonyms as he went back to his room. As he opened the door, he thought he heard something around the corner, and although there was no-one to be seen, he stopped, listening. The floorboards did not creak and there were no footsteps, so after a moment he dismissed it as paranoia and left the corridor.
Charles had given him the room he had had back when they had been training, and even during that short week, he had grown attached to the old portraits and the antique furniture. When he entered, he took his jacket off and threw it over one of the armchairs. His recently starched cuffs were uncomfortable around his wrists, so he unclasped the cufflinks without touching them and moved them to the dresser with a wave of his hand. Relinquishing his command over them, he rolled up his sleeves and then picked up the tests. As he read through the first one, he shook his head, feeling resigned. By the look of the first question, Scott had single-handedly deprived the class of a lesson in French curses. So much for that attempt at the carrot...
Erik stopped suddenly, with a distinct feeling that something was wrong. His gaze left the test sheets and he turned his left lower arm to inspect the unmarred skin. Surely that was his left arm? But he must be mistaken... Turning his other arm so that the underside was visible, he found it untouched.
The papers fell out of his grip. As puzzlement threatened to turn into panic, he ran his fingers over the skin on his arm, searching for some trace. The tattoo had been there in the morning when he dressed, but now...
‘S’iz nit miglekh,’ he said to himself. His resolve broke - his finger-nails sunk into his arm. Perhaps he could dig it up from behind his skin, make it visible and real again...‘Neyn, neyn - Got!’
As if he were a marionette whose strings had been cut, he fell to his knees, no longer certain what was happening. He tried to catch his breath and steadying himself with his right arm, looked at the left. Red welts were already rising over six numerals, inscribed in deep-set ink. A barely controllable yowl escaped him, and he felt himself starting to shake with relief and confusion. The door opened. When he looked up, he felt like he was groveling at the feet of an enthroned figure, not collapsed in front of a cripple.
‘Why...?’
Charles shook his head, his face a blank mask of shock.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered and reached out. Numbed with the violence of his reaction, Erik let him take his hand and pull him closer. Charles hesitated and then embraced him. Despite the revulsion he felt at what had happened, Erik, still on his knees, put his arms around him and rested his head against his chest. Obviously relieved, Charles dug his fingers into his hair and pressed him closer. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, his voiced hitching, and planted a dry kiss on the top of his head. It seemed like the only thing he dared to do, and the man’s obstinacy against himself angered Erik. Drawing back enough to break his grip around his head, he looked up at him. He noticed how Charles, ever the inhibited Englishman, swallowed at the sight of his tears.
‘Why did you do that to me?’ he asked. ‘Was that what you planned...?’
‘I couldn’t tell you in advance,’ Charles admitted weakly. ‘If you were preconditioned, it would tell me nothing.’ He shifted a little, leaning closer, and Erik realised how pale he was. Now, he took hold of his shoulders and looking at him properly, he asked: ‘Why did it agitate you so, Erik?’ Erik shook his head, wanting to draw away again, from the man and the question, but the grip and the brilliant eyes kept him in place. ‘Why is that physical reminder of your trauma so important to you?’ He swallowed to steady his voice and forced himself to answer.
‘I need the reminder.’
‘Why do you need to be reminded of it?’ Charles persisted, and then rephrased the question: ‘What does it remind you of?’ Erik looked away and watched the stitches in his slipover instead. Once again Charles’ hand came to rest on his hair, and, surrendering, he rested his head against his chest. At least it meant that he did not have to look him in the eye. But he knew that, however unwillingly, he had already provided the answer by simply thinking it. He remembered too little from before the ghetto, he owned nothing of his parents’, and despite feeling that the past had grown closer the past few weeks, there were still gaping holes in his early memories. He had been deprived of his family, his faith, his language, his innocence. The tattoo was all he was left with. It was a reminder of his origin as much as his past, and he must never forget it. Revenge had sated some of his grief, but much of it lingered. Remembering was the least he could do.
Erik felt Charles leaning over him again. He spoke in little more than a whisper.
‘That number isn’t you.’
‘It is part of me,’ Erik answered. He had no wish to explain this, because he knew that Charles would not understand what could be born out of darkness. Feeling a new sense of purpose, he stood up abruptly, tearing himself from his friend’s ineffectual touch. ‘It cannot be undone, Charles,’ he told him sternly. ‘Thinking that it can be is arrogance, and trying to is an insult.’ Charles’ empty hands fell and clasped the armrests, lips thinning in realisation.
‘I am sorry,’ he said again. ‘I did not mean it to be that.’ They looked at each other for a few long moments, and then Charles averted his eyes. ‘I’ll leave,’ he announced. ‘I’ll...’ He tried to gather what to say, but then shook his head and simply turned. His progress through the overfurnished room was slow. It would be so easy to reach out and stop him, whether with his powers or simply by grabbing the wheelchair, and force a confrontation, to explain to him what he felt... Instead, Erik let him leave, not knowing why himself.
***
As Charles left Erik’s room and returned to his own, the discomfort of the encounter grew. Shame at his actions and disappointment at his inability to grasp the workings of his friend’s mind, despite being able to read it, bordered on physical nausea. He had pushed over a boundary which he had not realised was there. In his enthusiasm at helping his friend, he had harmed him instead, and on top of that he may well have harmed their friendship. When he had first had the idea of manipulating Erik’s mind in that one aspect, he had guessed that his reaction to the disappearance of the tattoo would be telling, but he had not imagined finding him collapsed on the floor with his arm scraped red. It had been reckless and unplanned of him. Even if the illusion had only lasted a few seconds, it had apparently distressed him deeply. And now...? He could of course read his mind, but he felt that he had violated his trust enough for one evening.
His attempts at distraction before dinner failed. When he tried to settle down to read, he found that he could not bear to even open the book. Instead he ended up gazing out of the window, watching how dusk fell over the grounds. When Sean came to call him to dinner, he lingered and was the last to arrive. All through dinner and Hank’s gush over Magritte, he tried to catch Erik’s eye, but he did not answer his gaze, even if he did not actively seek to shun him. When Erik excused himself, Charles was still not certain what he felt.
When he returned to his room, he made another effort to read. He had meant to reread The Once and Future King ever since T.H. White had died early that year, but now when he sat in front of the fireplace with it in his hands, he felt no wish whatsoever to read it. The bedroom seemed oddly oppressive, but he could not identify why. He considered moving over to his favourite armchair, the only chair left in the room. He had decided to keep it there, and on particularly lazy evenings, he would settle into it to read, and let himself drop off. Guilt had taken away even his will to do that. Finally, he opened the book in his lap and started turning the pages leading up to the first chapter. With uncharacteristic effort, he started the first paragraph.
Two sentences in, he was interrupted by a knock.
Feeling his stomach give an unpleasant jolt with anticipation, Charles looked up, knowing who was there.
‘Come in,’ he called. The door opened, and Erik lingered on the threshold, his face difficult to read.
‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘No,’ Charles said quickly, and Erik closed the door behind him. ‘Erik, I’m so sorry...’ He shook his head, and he fell silent.
‘I didn’t come to fight with you,’ he assured him.
‘Aren’t you angry with me?’ Charles asked. Erik came a little closer.
‘Not angry,’ he said, sounding a little uneasy nevertheless. ‘It was unpleasant, but I did give you my consent. It wasn’t what I had expected you to do, but nevertheless, you overstepped no boundary.’ Charles looked away, sensing that it was a half-truth. Nevertheless, he was grateful that Erik held no grudge. ‘Did you learn what you wanted from it?’
‘It was a silly idea,’ Charles sighed. ‘If I learned anything, it was that I can’t understand things to the extent I imagine I do.’
‘No,’ Erik said without prejudice. ‘I don’t imagine you would understand.’
‘I wish I did, though,’ he answered. ‘It’s almost as if...’ He paused to choose his words. ‘Don’t misunderstand me now, but it seems as if you value what happened to you.’ Erik looked at him in silence before asking:
‘Is that so odd?’ He sat down in the armchair, still with his gaze on him. ‘After all, it made me into the person I am now. Even painful experiences influence us.’
‘Yes,’ Charles answered half-heartedly, not convinced that it was all there was to it. He thought that the key lay in that most of the memories Erik had from his childhood was from after his family was driven from their home, so whatever could represent the time before that, even if it was a manifestation of the oppression he had suffered, he cherished. He also guessed that Erik’s continuing obsession with Schmidt, which admittedly had a very Oedipal dimension to it, was also part of it. With sudden clarity Charles remembered the thinly veiled accusation of how insulting it was to ignore what had happened to his family. The twinge of guilt grew stronger.
‘I’m not asking you to understand this,’ Erik said, ‘but it made me stronger. Much stronger.’
‘Yes,’ Charles answered hollowly. There was that preoccupation of strength, the same which manifested itself in discussing how even the youngest students could be used in combat. Even if he had left the Brotherhood behind him, Erik had not changed how he valued might. It made Charles wonder what he thought of him, who was confined to a wheelchair. For all the power of his mind, he could not do something so simple as walking. On the other hand, often when he touched Erik’s mind, he would sense guilt in him, but he had seldom articulated it properly. Charles was not certain if merely one thought in the myriad which made up the mind was enough to constitute an actual opinion; there was no way to tell if the guilt was true if he did not accept it himself.
‘Charles?’ He looked up, and realised that Erik was watching him.
‘Oh, sorry,’ he said. ‘I was miles away.’ Looking for an escape from his thoughts and the awkward conversation about Erik’s past, he said: ‘Would you like a drink?’ Erik looked uncertain.
‘I have some French tests I need to mark,’ he said. ‘I had planned to do it before dinner, but your poking around in my head got in the way.’ Charles opened his mouth to ask for forgiveness yet again, but the words did not come when Erik’s frown relaxed and he smiled. ‘I’d love a drink,’ he admitted. ‘We could both use it.’ He prepared to rise, but Charles waved at him to stay in the armchair as he put his book aside and flipped the breaks on the wheelchair. As he crossed to the drinks cabinet, he heard Erik pick up the book.
‘The Once and Future King?’
‘Have you read it?’ Charles asked as he poured two glasses of scotch and placed them on a tray on his lap.
‘No,’ Erik admitted. How when Charles returned, he saw how he leafed through it experimentally. ‘What’s it about?’
‘It’s a retelling of the myth of King Arthur,’ he explained and put the tray on the table between them. ‘It’s one of my favourite books.’ Erik took one of the glasses and raised it.
‘Your health.’ Charles mirrored him. The first sip of the alcohol spread a comfortable warmth through his body and dulled the guilt over his actions and his worry over Erik’s opinions. After taking another sip, he gestured at the book in Erik’s hand and asked:
‘Would you like to borrow it? I’ve been meaning to reread it for ages, but I’m not going to get around to it.’ He watched as Erik drew his fingers over the white-and-blue cover.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and there was something oddly sincere in his voice, as if glad for the opportunity.
‘How are your classes going?’ Charles asked. He was still desperately looking for something to talk about which would suppress his urge to apologise again, and the school seemed like neutral enough territory.
‘The French group is being slow,’ Erik said with a sigh. ‘I tried to make them study for the test by offering to teach them to swear in French, but...’ Charles laughed. For a moment, he thought that Erik’s cheeks flushed, but he dismissed it as imagination. ‘The German group is doing much better. I’m going to start them on some proper literature next time.’
‘Can I sit in on the lesson?’ he asked, struck by a sudden urge to see Erik teach. He looked at him for a moment, and then smiled.
‘Why not?’
‘Thank you,’ Charles said, smiling back and glancing at him. Erik returned the glance, and at once it felt as if Charles were falling into his eyes. The sound of his mind suddenly grew stronger, and as the sensation of his presence became almost overwhelming, as if he could see inside Charles’ mind instead of the other way around. All those unattainable things he wanted but did not dare to admit wanting, his longing and his love, rose and appeared for him to see. Charles almost wished he could break away, because Erik was leaning forward a little, and now he felt his fingers against his hand.
‘Charles.’ Breathlessly he glanced down as Erik’s fingers ghosted his skin and then circled his wrist tenderly. He could not remember noticing his hands before. They were more fine-boned than would be expected, and the skin was uneven where cold weather and violence had cracked it. They were the most beautiful pair of hands he had seen. His breathing was growing erratic with excitement, and all those old thoughts of closeness which they had not achieved returned to him. He had not wanted to heed them, because it did not seem right to want such things, but now they rose to the surface, and ignoring them was suddenly impossible. All he wanted was to kiss the man in front of him; what had been a latent longing was now a blazing craving. He felt an answering yearning in Erik - it was written in his eyes and spelt out in his thoughts.
Erik moved minutely, and as though he was nuzzled close to him, Charles imagined he could feel the rise and fall of his chest. A new, equally violent emotion took hold of him. Fear. What would he do if Erik leaned in and kissed him now? What should he do? He wanted it more than anything, but at the same time, he did not want it at all - the thought of giving in to this urge repulsed him. Forfeiting control over his infatuation would mean throwing down all barriers, and not only would it devastate his peace of mind, and quite possibly put the school at risk. It would also ruin their friendship. Only an hour ago, he had been certain that he had harmed their connection through his wayward attempt to help, and so soon afterwards, here was another threat. If ideology could tear them apart, then romance would do it just as well. He could not afford to drive him away again, by whatever means - he meant too much. But there were other things which lay between them...
‘Did you sleep with Raven?’ He had not planned on asking, but as soon as he said it, he saw how the words hit home. His fingers released his wrist. Erik’s gaze spoke of his surprise at the question, and of the moment he had chosen for it, but it also showed his guilt plainly. Edging back into his chair, he said reservedly:
‘It meant more to her than it did to me.’
‘Is that supposed to calm me?’ Charles asked, his voice not entirely steady. ‘That you took advantage of her feelings?’
‘It was not like that,’ Erik told him, shaking his head. ‘She was very lonely.’ He broke off and looked away. When he spoke, it sounded like he was revising what he had said. ‘I was very lonely.’ Charles looked at him, as the memories of the encounters manifested themselves. The feel of her scales under his fingers - her flesh around him - the rise and fall of her breasts - the smell of her hair. The sound of her voice as she calls him by his mutant name. Knowing that she would turn herself into anyone he wants her to be. Deliberately only sleeping with her when she was herself, because he cannot ask. The way she laughs, without restraint or heed to convention...
Charles looked away too, disturbed at having felt what it was like to have sex with his own sister. Then again, it was a kind of feeling he had not felt for well over two years, and one he could no longer feel himself. Erik, ironically enough, had seen to that.
‘Still,’ he said disparagingly. Erik looked at him searchingly, and asked:
‘Are you trying to defend your sister’s honour? Surely you know that she would not want that.’
‘Yes, she always was headstrong,’ Charles sighed. A spark lit in Erik’s eye.
‘Why do you speak of her like that, as if she were some unruly pet dog?’ He bit his lip, wishing Erik would understand.
‘Before all this - before the CIA and her leaving - she needed protecting,’ he explained, failing not to sound offended at the other man’s criticism. ‘She never understood it, but...’
‘Why would she need it, then?’ Erik asked, leaning forward again, but where there had been tenderness before, there was now anger. ‘You caged her in, Charles - you kept her a prisoner within her own body.’
‘What else could I do?’ Charles retorted and took a mouthful of the scotch. The sting of the drink shot through his nose and sinuses, making him feel momentarily giddy. For a moment, he thought that there was something in Erik’s voice which sounded almost guilty, but he blamed it on the alcohol.
‘Her honour did not have to guarded...’
‘It wasn’t just that,’ he exclaimed. ‘If she lost control for even a moment...’
‘Yes, of course,’ Erik said sarcastically. ‘She might have offended someone’s sensitivities.’
‘What would they have done to her if they saw her in her blue form, Erik?’ he asked and gestured towards the window. ‘People out there wouldn’t accept her if they saw her like that - they would hurt her...’
‘Their bigoted opinions should not matter,’ Erik announced through gritted teeth.
‘But they’re a fact!’ Charles almost shouted and banged his fist against his armrest. ‘You can’t just ignore the standing social order - it will have an effect on people...’
‘Why should we have to heed it?’ Erik pressed. ‘If it does not embrace or even accept us, if they will not let us be part of their world, why should we try? We should not passively wait to be let into their society. It does not serve any of our interests, if we cannot be ourselves. If that is so, we are better off forming our own society...’
‘Erik, I don’t understand you,’ Charles said, staring at him in confusion. ‘Do you never feel shame? Don’t you ever feel a wish to fit in, and not be singled out? Don’t you long to be a part of something? Or has victimisation become an end in itself for you?’ Erik looked at him, anger rising in his eyes, but it remained restrained.
‘You hate your own kind, Charles,’ he simply said. ‘You hide, and you are not even honest about being a coward.’ Charles looked away, startled at the blunt accusation, because he knew that Erik did not mean about mutants anymore, at least not exclusively. He had sensed what he felt for him, and now he had the audacity to use his hesitation as a weapon in the argument.
‘I’m not a coward,’ he said finally, still not looking up.
‘Tell me why you are not,’ Erik challenged him. Charles rubbed his forehead, and could not think of a single reason why not. Perhaps he was right, then - perhaps sitting in this school, keeping the children from the real world, was an act of cowardice. But what was the alternative? Realising the answer to that was, he looked Erik in the eye and answered him, managing to keep his voice almost completely steady.
‘I have no choice,’ he explained. ‘That bullet you redirected made sure that, mutant or not, I would be an outcast from society. The best I can do is to teach others how to face the world which, yes, as you say, hates them. But what is your excuse?’ Erik stared back at him. ‘You lived the kind of life you advocate, but now here you are, teaching alongside the coward. Why?’ They looked at each other for a long, painful moment, and then Erik got to his feet.
‘You know why,’ he said as he looked down at him. The accusations were gone; left was only pity. ‘Sometimes there are things more important than society.’ Picking up the book, he gave him a nod and said: ‘Thank you for the novel.’ As he passed, he rested his hand on his shoulder for a moment. Then the contact was broken, and Charles heard him leave.
***
Charles was dancing. His arm was around Moira’s waist, and she followed his movements. He could feel her skirt sway against his leg.
‘Why won’t you look at me, Charles?’ Moira asked, their cheeks touching as they turned.
‘I am looking at you,’ he answered, but there was something in the corner of his eye. It distracting him, but he could not seem to focus on it, however much he tried.
‘No, you’re not,’ said Raven. As she pressed closer to him, he saw the figure watching them, Erik’s pale eyes following their progress with tightlipped disappointment...
The dream snapped in half, and Charles found himself in bed, staring up into the canopy. There had been no moment of waking, only one state being replaced by another. He fumbled for the light-switch on the bedside lamp; the alarm clock showed the time as a little past two. Sighing, he sunk back against his pillows, hand over his eyes. He was wide awake - there was no way now to go back to sleep, probably for several hours. He wondered if this would be an isolated sleepless night, or if his insomniac tendencies had been stirred by his worry. Whatever the answer, there was no reason to stay in bed, so he put on his dressing-gown and drew himself into the wheelchair. He might as well work on setting some essay questions for his advanced physics class. Halfway to his desk, he realised that he had left the papers he needed in the study. He was not fond of leaving his room in his bed-clothes, but dressing felt ridiculous. Instead, he took a pair of slippers from a drawer and put them on, pulling up each leg in turn by the knee to reach his feet.
The mansion was full of dreams. As Charles passed through the corridors, he felt them brush against his mind. He could sense the surreal realities of each one, the confused horror of the nightmares, the unattainable desire of the guilty dreams. When he reached the ground floor, however, he sensed another waking mind. Curious, he turned from the path to his study and headed for the library instead. Already when he opened the door, he could see the light inside, and knew the identity of the reader. As he approached the pool of light around the armchair, he saw the tiny figure, legs drawn up close to his body under the nightgown, the hair, which was long enough to start to curl, hanging down over the pages of the book.
‘What are you doing up at this time of night, Jason?’ The boy jumped, looking into the darkness with vivid eyes. ‘It’s alright,’ Charles added and rolled into the circle of light. ‘It’s just me. What are you reading?’ Jason angled the book so that he could see the title. ‘The Battle of Somme?’ Charles said, frowning, and then noticed the book pile beside him. ‘What’s this?’ Squinting through the gloom, he read the titles - Accounts of the Thirty-Years War, The Great Indian Mutiny 1857-1858, The American Civil War, Nothing New on the Western Front. ‘You’re fascinated by war, aren’t you, Jason?’ he asked and looked the boy in the eyes. He looked back, trying to form the words. At least it took less time now than a few weeks ago.
‘My father used to tell me stories.’
‘About war?’ Jason nodded. ‘Doesn’t it scare you?’ Now, the boy smiled.
‘Why would it?’
‘Well, it’s a terrible thing,’ Charles said. ‘Why does it interest you so?’
‘It scares other people,’ he answered with a shrug.
‘But not you?’ he pressed, and then remembered something. ‘When I first met you, you made an illusion of a no-man’s-land from the Great War. Is that why you read those books?’ He gestured towards the pile. ‘For inspiration?’ Jason did not have to answer it to tell him that it was true. ‘Why are you intent on scaring people like that?’
‘I need to be able to defend myself.’
‘But there’s no one here who wants to harm you,’ Charles insisted.
‘There are always people who want to harm me,’ Jason answered. Charles suppressed a sigh and leaned forward to look into his mismatched eyes.
‘Jason, I’m not your enemy. I want to help you.’ The light around them changed, and when Charles looked around, they were no longer in the library. Once again, he found himself in the no-man’s-land, but this time, it was different. ‘Now, this...’ he murmured, and could not help but smile. ‘This is rather extraordinary, Jason. Last time, that was based on photographs and descriptions, but this... We’re inside Otto Dix’s imagination.’ There was no colour in this world, only the grey of edgings. The horse carcasses, despite looking real, still bore the marks of a pencil. The edge of the trenches was built up by bones and roots, traced by the artist’s ink pen, their expressionism gruesome. The soldiers who occasionally looked up over the edge looked inhuman, lumbering four-fingered creatures with no faces, only staring glass eyes and the filter snouts of respirators. Eager to explore this illusion, Charles tried to turn the wheels of the wheelchair, but they would not budge, having sunken into the mud. Jason, looking out of place in his long locks and nightgown, a speck of colour in a grey world, smiled.
‘Why don’t you just walk?’ he asked. His voice seemed stronger than usual within the illusion.
‘I can’t,’ Charles told him. Jason shrugged.
‘I decide what you can and can’t do here.’ Then he took told of his arm and pulled. Charles called out, certain that he would fall facedown into the filth, but suddenly his legs jerked to life and his feet connected with the ground. He stared down at them in shock, realising that they were really supporting him. The grey water, mixed with blood, soaked through his slippers, but he could feel the cold and the wet against his feet. Even if he knew that it was just Jason planting a suggestion and making his brain imagine things, it felt so much more real than when he dreamed of walking. Experimentally, he took a few steps, relishing the squelch it made and the way the mud was caking around his ankles.
He realised now that Jason was simply enabling an image Charles had of himself, rather than creating another, but he was certain that with more training, he could influence people’s perception of themselves within an illustration.
‘This power of yours is astounding,’ he said aloud. ‘You could do so much good, Jason.’ When there was no answer, he looked down at Jason, who looked back, tight-lipped. ‘You’d like to do that, wouldn’t you? Help people?’
‘Can I trust them?’ he answered.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘People. I don’t think that you can ever trust people,’ Jason said with a shrug and then pointed behind him. ‘Look over there.’ Charles turned. Over the trench, a brownish mist was forming, drifting with the wind towards them. Then the soldiers came over the top, respirators rendering them faceless. They ran through the poison cloud, brandishing grenades and guns. Panic twisted his heart.
‘Jason, stop it!’ Charles shouted. The cloud reached them before the soldiers did, and the mustard gas burned his lungs. ‘Jason!’
Then suddenly it was over. The cold and the wet was gone, and so was the sensation in his legs. He was still sitting in his wheelchair - when coming to, he was afraid for a moment that the illusion would have made him move in reality, and he would find himself collapsed away from it. In an attempt to regain some of the dignity he felt that he had lost, he pulled himself up a little and tried to stop breathing so heavily. Even if the pain of the poison had been completely mental, the illusion had felt sufficiently real to unsettle him. Jason was still sitting curled up in the couch, smiling sweetly.
‘Don’t do that again,’ Charles told him grimly. ‘To anyone. Promise me that.’ Jason rolled his eyes, but then nodded. ‘No, answer me properly.’
‘I promise,’ the boy whispered.
‘Good,’ Charles sighed and pushed his hair out of his face. ‘Now, off you go to bed. You have lessons in the morning.’ The added mental incentive was probably what did it, because suddenly oddly obedient, Jason nodded and stood.
‘Good night, Professor.’ Charles offered him a small smile and then waved to him to leave. He stayed still until he sensed the boy making his way up the stairs towards his dormitory.
When he finally reached his study, he found the papers he had been looking for, lying on the desk. For several minutes, he concentrated solely on setting potential essay questions, but the encounter with Jason lingered in his thoughts, and to push them aside, he instead took up his sketches on what he had dubbed the Danger Room, which would be able to simulate any combat situation for training purposes. He had run many of his ideas by Hank, who seemed excited about it, but they would probably need to install their own generators not to cut the power to all of Westchester County when running it. It would probably mean taking out the floors between two, if not three, floors, and even Charles in his renewal frenzy was a little hesitant to do that yet. There was always the possibility to put it in one of the bunkers, which would be stable and sound-proof enough, but the plans were still in their infancy.
Suddenly, Charles looked up, aware of a presence outside. The mind was familiar, more familiar than any other mind. On the other side of the French windows, hidden by the heavy curtains, Erik stood. It should not surprise him. Even if Charles considered himself to be an insomniac, compared to Erik he slept like a log. He realised now that Erik often took to circling the mansion when he could not sleep, as if he were guarding it. Now he had stopped in his stride, and Charles felt how he recalled their last conversation, memories tinged with the disappointment that he had seen in his eyes in his dream. An urge to reach out and draw back the curtains, to see him and call his attention, to speak to him and this time not make him disappointed seized Charles, but he stopped his hand. The sound of feet was heard against the stone was heard, as he turned and continued. Charles lingered, feeling a pang of sadness at the chance which had passed.
Next chapter
Fandom X-Men: First Class
Pairings Erik/Charles, past Erik/Raven, mention of Hank/Raven, sort of brief Raven/Angel, references to future Scott/Jean
Beta cicero_drayon
Word count of chapter 6189
Word count of entire fic approx. 115 000
Ratings/warnings NC-17. Sexual situations, past physical and mental trauma, discussion of genocide, period transphobia, homophobia, ableism and racism, brief mentions of rape and suicide
Spoilers X-Men: First Class, X2 and (to a lesser extent) X-Men: The Last Stand. Some comic canon thrown in for good measure.
Disclaimer Marvel owns it, I don’t.
Summary Two arrivals to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters coincide - Jason Stryker, a child branded a freak because of his psychic powers, and Erik Lehnsherr, wanted terrorist and old friend of the professor. Jason is there as his father wants him cured - Erik claims that he has gone rogue from his own renegades. As tensions rise between mutants and humans, as well as between the suddenly reunited friends, who can truly be trusted?
Author’s notes The details about Erik’s hands is all because of this part of Magneto: Testament. In case you do not know the work of the German painter Otto Dix, he is well worth looking into. Comments are love.
For translation of non-English dialogue, hover the pointer over the text.
The speculations had started as soon as Erik arrived - that had been inevitable. When they were not given any proper explanations about their new teacher, the students instead spun theories about who he was, what he could do and why Sean had punched him as a greeting. None of the theories Erik had overheard had come close to anything resembling the truth. He had feared that he would hear the name Magneto in the corridors, but there were no whispers, and the children’s trepidation was only grounded in his annoyance at their grammatical mistakes.
Contrary to what he had expected when he started teaching, his German group was making more progress than the French class. The former was soon ready to start reading proper texts - Erik had spent the evenings making pencil marks by possible poems in the books he had purchased - while the latter was still trudging through the most basic grammar. In the third week of teaching, he gave the class a test, telling them that if everyone in the class passed, he would consider teaching them a small number of swearwords. He knew that Charles would appreciate that teaching technique; as he settled behind the desk and watched the children hunch over their tests with sudden enthusiasm, he imagined how his friend might laugh at it. The dignified frown he had taken to wearing would give way for the laughter, and it would make him look younger than his years. A spark often absent in his eyes would light again, and his appearance would become an intermarriage of dazzling colour - azure irises, vermilion lips and ivory-white teeth.
Realising that he was close to daydreaming, he shook himself mentally and concentrated on the Schiller he had brought with him, glancing up occasionally to make sure that no-one was cheating. Even as he tried to pay attention to the class and the poetry, he reflected that being close to Charles did not mean that he spent any less time thinking about him. Their reunion had certainly been different than he had expected, but he had only himself to blame for that.
An hour later, as he sent the children on their way and collected the tests, he was still occupied with that gnawing guilt. But there was not just guilt - there was hope too. He was here to redeem himself, after all; his presence was an act of asking for forgiveness, of throwing rocks into the river. What ultimately mattered was that they were both alive and no longer separated. From there, it would only take some courage and some patience, and he would be able to break down the wall of formality between them, little by little. Not that teaching left much time for wooing. It was that English word which strung to mind; he paused and tried to remember what he would call it in Yiddish or German. There must be some word in some language which did not sound quite so ridiculous.
He continued trying to find synonyms as he went back to his room. As he opened the door, he thought he heard something around the corner, and although there was no-one to be seen, he stopped, listening. The floorboards did not creak and there were no footsteps, so after a moment he dismissed it as paranoia and left the corridor.
Charles had given him the room he had had back when they had been training, and even during that short week, he had grown attached to the old portraits and the antique furniture. When he entered, he took his jacket off and threw it over one of the armchairs. His recently starched cuffs were uncomfortable around his wrists, so he unclasped the cufflinks without touching them and moved them to the dresser with a wave of his hand. Relinquishing his command over them, he rolled up his sleeves and then picked up the tests. As he read through the first one, he shook his head, feeling resigned. By the look of the first question, Scott had single-handedly deprived the class of a lesson in French curses. So much for that attempt at the carrot...
Erik stopped suddenly, with a distinct feeling that something was wrong. His gaze left the test sheets and he turned his left lower arm to inspect the unmarred skin. Surely that was his left arm? But he must be mistaken... Turning his other arm so that the underside was visible, he found it untouched.
The papers fell out of his grip. As puzzlement threatened to turn into panic, he ran his fingers over the skin on his arm, searching for some trace. The tattoo had been there in the morning when he dressed, but now...
‘S’iz nit miglekh,’ he said to himself. His resolve broke - his finger-nails sunk into his arm. Perhaps he could dig it up from behind his skin, make it visible and real again...‘Neyn, neyn - Got!’
As if he were a marionette whose strings had been cut, he fell to his knees, no longer certain what was happening. He tried to catch his breath and steadying himself with his right arm, looked at the left. Red welts were already rising over six numerals, inscribed in deep-set ink. A barely controllable yowl escaped him, and he felt himself starting to shake with relief and confusion. The door opened. When he looked up, he felt like he was groveling at the feet of an enthroned figure, not collapsed in front of a cripple.
‘Why...?’
Charles shook his head, his face a blank mask of shock.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered and reached out. Numbed with the violence of his reaction, Erik let him take his hand and pull him closer. Charles hesitated and then embraced him. Despite the revulsion he felt at what had happened, Erik, still on his knees, put his arms around him and rested his head against his chest. Obviously relieved, Charles dug his fingers into his hair and pressed him closer. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, his voiced hitching, and planted a dry kiss on the top of his head. It seemed like the only thing he dared to do, and the man’s obstinacy against himself angered Erik. Drawing back enough to break his grip around his head, he looked up at him. He noticed how Charles, ever the inhibited Englishman, swallowed at the sight of his tears.
‘Why did you do that to me?’ he asked. ‘Was that what you planned...?’
‘I couldn’t tell you in advance,’ Charles admitted weakly. ‘If you were preconditioned, it would tell me nothing.’ He shifted a little, leaning closer, and Erik realised how pale he was. Now, he took hold of his shoulders and looking at him properly, he asked: ‘Why did it agitate you so, Erik?’ Erik shook his head, wanting to draw away again, from the man and the question, but the grip and the brilliant eyes kept him in place. ‘Why is that physical reminder of your trauma so important to you?’ He swallowed to steady his voice and forced himself to answer.
‘I need the reminder.’
‘Why do you need to be reminded of it?’ Charles persisted, and then rephrased the question: ‘What does it remind you of?’ Erik looked away and watched the stitches in his slipover instead. Once again Charles’ hand came to rest on his hair, and, surrendering, he rested his head against his chest. At least it meant that he did not have to look him in the eye. But he knew that, however unwillingly, he had already provided the answer by simply thinking it. He remembered too little from before the ghetto, he owned nothing of his parents’, and despite feeling that the past had grown closer the past few weeks, there were still gaping holes in his early memories. He had been deprived of his family, his faith, his language, his innocence. The tattoo was all he was left with. It was a reminder of his origin as much as his past, and he must never forget it. Revenge had sated some of his grief, but much of it lingered. Remembering was the least he could do.
Erik felt Charles leaning over him again. He spoke in little more than a whisper.
‘That number isn’t you.’
‘It is part of me,’ Erik answered. He had no wish to explain this, because he knew that Charles would not understand what could be born out of darkness. Feeling a new sense of purpose, he stood up abruptly, tearing himself from his friend’s ineffectual touch. ‘It cannot be undone, Charles,’ he told him sternly. ‘Thinking that it can be is arrogance, and trying to is an insult.’ Charles’ empty hands fell and clasped the armrests, lips thinning in realisation.
‘I am sorry,’ he said again. ‘I did not mean it to be that.’ They looked at each other for a few long moments, and then Charles averted his eyes. ‘I’ll leave,’ he announced. ‘I’ll...’ He tried to gather what to say, but then shook his head and simply turned. His progress through the overfurnished room was slow. It would be so easy to reach out and stop him, whether with his powers or simply by grabbing the wheelchair, and force a confrontation, to explain to him what he felt... Instead, Erik let him leave, not knowing why himself.
***
As Charles left Erik’s room and returned to his own, the discomfort of the encounter grew. Shame at his actions and disappointment at his inability to grasp the workings of his friend’s mind, despite being able to read it, bordered on physical nausea. He had pushed over a boundary which he had not realised was there. In his enthusiasm at helping his friend, he had harmed him instead, and on top of that he may well have harmed their friendship. When he had first had the idea of manipulating Erik’s mind in that one aspect, he had guessed that his reaction to the disappearance of the tattoo would be telling, but he had not imagined finding him collapsed on the floor with his arm scraped red. It had been reckless and unplanned of him. Even if the illusion had only lasted a few seconds, it had apparently distressed him deeply. And now...? He could of course read his mind, but he felt that he had violated his trust enough for one evening.
His attempts at distraction before dinner failed. When he tried to settle down to read, he found that he could not bear to even open the book. Instead he ended up gazing out of the window, watching how dusk fell over the grounds. When Sean came to call him to dinner, he lingered and was the last to arrive. All through dinner and Hank’s gush over Magritte, he tried to catch Erik’s eye, but he did not answer his gaze, even if he did not actively seek to shun him. When Erik excused himself, Charles was still not certain what he felt.
When he returned to his room, he made another effort to read. He had meant to reread The Once and Future King ever since T.H. White had died early that year, but now when he sat in front of the fireplace with it in his hands, he felt no wish whatsoever to read it. The bedroom seemed oddly oppressive, but he could not identify why. He considered moving over to his favourite armchair, the only chair left in the room. He had decided to keep it there, and on particularly lazy evenings, he would settle into it to read, and let himself drop off. Guilt had taken away even his will to do that. Finally, he opened the book in his lap and started turning the pages leading up to the first chapter. With uncharacteristic effort, he started the first paragraph.
Two sentences in, he was interrupted by a knock.
Feeling his stomach give an unpleasant jolt with anticipation, Charles looked up, knowing who was there.
‘Come in,’ he called. The door opened, and Erik lingered on the threshold, his face difficult to read.
‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘No,’ Charles said quickly, and Erik closed the door behind him. ‘Erik, I’m so sorry...’ He shook his head, and he fell silent.
‘I didn’t come to fight with you,’ he assured him.
‘Aren’t you angry with me?’ Charles asked. Erik came a little closer.
‘Not angry,’ he said, sounding a little uneasy nevertheless. ‘It was unpleasant, but I did give you my consent. It wasn’t what I had expected you to do, but nevertheless, you overstepped no boundary.’ Charles looked away, sensing that it was a half-truth. Nevertheless, he was grateful that Erik held no grudge. ‘Did you learn what you wanted from it?’
‘It was a silly idea,’ Charles sighed. ‘If I learned anything, it was that I can’t understand things to the extent I imagine I do.’
‘No,’ Erik said without prejudice. ‘I don’t imagine you would understand.’
‘I wish I did, though,’ he answered. ‘It’s almost as if...’ He paused to choose his words. ‘Don’t misunderstand me now, but it seems as if you value what happened to you.’ Erik looked at him in silence before asking:
‘Is that so odd?’ He sat down in the armchair, still with his gaze on him. ‘After all, it made me into the person I am now. Even painful experiences influence us.’
‘Yes,’ Charles answered half-heartedly, not convinced that it was all there was to it. He thought that the key lay in that most of the memories Erik had from his childhood was from after his family was driven from their home, so whatever could represent the time before that, even if it was a manifestation of the oppression he had suffered, he cherished. He also guessed that Erik’s continuing obsession with Schmidt, which admittedly had a very Oedipal dimension to it, was also part of it. With sudden clarity Charles remembered the thinly veiled accusation of how insulting it was to ignore what had happened to his family. The twinge of guilt grew stronger.
‘I’m not asking you to understand this,’ Erik said, ‘but it made me stronger. Much stronger.’
‘Yes,’ Charles answered hollowly. There was that preoccupation of strength, the same which manifested itself in discussing how even the youngest students could be used in combat. Even if he had left the Brotherhood behind him, Erik had not changed how he valued might. It made Charles wonder what he thought of him, who was confined to a wheelchair. For all the power of his mind, he could not do something so simple as walking. On the other hand, often when he touched Erik’s mind, he would sense guilt in him, but he had seldom articulated it properly. Charles was not certain if merely one thought in the myriad which made up the mind was enough to constitute an actual opinion; there was no way to tell if the guilt was true if he did not accept it himself.
‘Charles?’ He looked up, and realised that Erik was watching him.
‘Oh, sorry,’ he said. ‘I was miles away.’ Looking for an escape from his thoughts and the awkward conversation about Erik’s past, he said: ‘Would you like a drink?’ Erik looked uncertain.
‘I have some French tests I need to mark,’ he said. ‘I had planned to do it before dinner, but your poking around in my head got in the way.’ Charles opened his mouth to ask for forgiveness yet again, but the words did not come when Erik’s frown relaxed and he smiled. ‘I’d love a drink,’ he admitted. ‘We could both use it.’ He prepared to rise, but Charles waved at him to stay in the armchair as he put his book aside and flipped the breaks on the wheelchair. As he crossed to the drinks cabinet, he heard Erik pick up the book.
‘The Once and Future King?’
‘Have you read it?’ Charles asked as he poured two glasses of scotch and placed them on a tray on his lap.
‘No,’ Erik admitted. How when Charles returned, he saw how he leafed through it experimentally. ‘What’s it about?’
‘It’s a retelling of the myth of King Arthur,’ he explained and put the tray on the table between them. ‘It’s one of my favourite books.’ Erik took one of the glasses and raised it.
‘Your health.’ Charles mirrored him. The first sip of the alcohol spread a comfortable warmth through his body and dulled the guilt over his actions and his worry over Erik’s opinions. After taking another sip, he gestured at the book in Erik’s hand and asked:
‘Would you like to borrow it? I’ve been meaning to reread it for ages, but I’m not going to get around to it.’ He watched as Erik drew his fingers over the white-and-blue cover.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and there was something oddly sincere in his voice, as if glad for the opportunity.
‘How are your classes going?’ Charles asked. He was still desperately looking for something to talk about which would suppress his urge to apologise again, and the school seemed like neutral enough territory.
‘The French group is being slow,’ Erik said with a sigh. ‘I tried to make them study for the test by offering to teach them to swear in French, but...’ Charles laughed. For a moment, he thought that Erik’s cheeks flushed, but he dismissed it as imagination. ‘The German group is doing much better. I’m going to start them on some proper literature next time.’
‘Can I sit in on the lesson?’ he asked, struck by a sudden urge to see Erik teach. He looked at him for a moment, and then smiled.
‘Why not?’
‘Thank you,’ Charles said, smiling back and glancing at him. Erik returned the glance, and at once it felt as if Charles were falling into his eyes. The sound of his mind suddenly grew stronger, and as the sensation of his presence became almost overwhelming, as if he could see inside Charles’ mind instead of the other way around. All those unattainable things he wanted but did not dare to admit wanting, his longing and his love, rose and appeared for him to see. Charles almost wished he could break away, because Erik was leaning forward a little, and now he felt his fingers against his hand.
‘Charles.’ Breathlessly he glanced down as Erik’s fingers ghosted his skin and then circled his wrist tenderly. He could not remember noticing his hands before. They were more fine-boned than would be expected, and the skin was uneven where cold weather and violence had cracked it. They were the most beautiful pair of hands he had seen. His breathing was growing erratic with excitement, and all those old thoughts of closeness which they had not achieved returned to him. He had not wanted to heed them, because it did not seem right to want such things, but now they rose to the surface, and ignoring them was suddenly impossible. All he wanted was to kiss the man in front of him; what had been a latent longing was now a blazing craving. He felt an answering yearning in Erik - it was written in his eyes and spelt out in his thoughts.
Erik moved minutely, and as though he was nuzzled close to him, Charles imagined he could feel the rise and fall of his chest. A new, equally violent emotion took hold of him. Fear. What would he do if Erik leaned in and kissed him now? What should he do? He wanted it more than anything, but at the same time, he did not want it at all - the thought of giving in to this urge repulsed him. Forfeiting control over his infatuation would mean throwing down all barriers, and not only would it devastate his peace of mind, and quite possibly put the school at risk. It would also ruin their friendship. Only an hour ago, he had been certain that he had harmed their connection through his wayward attempt to help, and so soon afterwards, here was another threat. If ideology could tear them apart, then romance would do it just as well. He could not afford to drive him away again, by whatever means - he meant too much. But there were other things which lay between them...
‘Did you sleep with Raven?’ He had not planned on asking, but as soon as he said it, he saw how the words hit home. His fingers released his wrist. Erik’s gaze spoke of his surprise at the question, and of the moment he had chosen for it, but it also showed his guilt plainly. Edging back into his chair, he said reservedly:
‘It meant more to her than it did to me.’
‘Is that supposed to calm me?’ Charles asked, his voice not entirely steady. ‘That you took advantage of her feelings?’
‘It was not like that,’ Erik told him, shaking his head. ‘She was very lonely.’ He broke off and looked away. When he spoke, it sounded like he was revising what he had said. ‘I was very lonely.’ Charles looked at him, as the memories of the encounters manifested themselves. The feel of her scales under his fingers - her flesh around him - the rise and fall of her breasts - the smell of her hair. The sound of her voice as she calls him by his mutant name. Knowing that she would turn herself into anyone he wants her to be. Deliberately only sleeping with her when she was herself, because he cannot ask. The way she laughs, without restraint or heed to convention...
Charles looked away too, disturbed at having felt what it was like to have sex with his own sister. Then again, it was a kind of feeling he had not felt for well over two years, and one he could no longer feel himself. Erik, ironically enough, had seen to that.
‘Still,’ he said disparagingly. Erik looked at him searchingly, and asked:
‘Are you trying to defend your sister’s honour? Surely you know that she would not want that.’
‘Yes, she always was headstrong,’ Charles sighed. A spark lit in Erik’s eye.
‘Why do you speak of her like that, as if she were some unruly pet dog?’ He bit his lip, wishing Erik would understand.
‘Before all this - before the CIA and her leaving - she needed protecting,’ he explained, failing not to sound offended at the other man’s criticism. ‘She never understood it, but...’
‘Why would she need it, then?’ Erik asked, leaning forward again, but where there had been tenderness before, there was now anger. ‘You caged her in, Charles - you kept her a prisoner within her own body.’
‘What else could I do?’ Charles retorted and took a mouthful of the scotch. The sting of the drink shot through his nose and sinuses, making him feel momentarily giddy. For a moment, he thought that there was something in Erik’s voice which sounded almost guilty, but he blamed it on the alcohol.
‘Her honour did not have to guarded...’
‘It wasn’t just that,’ he exclaimed. ‘If she lost control for even a moment...’
‘Yes, of course,’ Erik said sarcastically. ‘She might have offended someone’s sensitivities.’
‘What would they have done to her if they saw her in her blue form, Erik?’ he asked and gestured towards the window. ‘People out there wouldn’t accept her if they saw her like that - they would hurt her...’
‘Their bigoted opinions should not matter,’ Erik announced through gritted teeth.
‘But they’re a fact!’ Charles almost shouted and banged his fist against his armrest. ‘You can’t just ignore the standing social order - it will have an effect on people...’
‘Why should we have to heed it?’ Erik pressed. ‘If it does not embrace or even accept us, if they will not let us be part of their world, why should we try? We should not passively wait to be let into their society. It does not serve any of our interests, if we cannot be ourselves. If that is so, we are better off forming our own society...’
‘Erik, I don’t understand you,’ Charles said, staring at him in confusion. ‘Do you never feel shame? Don’t you ever feel a wish to fit in, and not be singled out? Don’t you long to be a part of something? Or has victimisation become an end in itself for you?’ Erik looked at him, anger rising in his eyes, but it remained restrained.
‘You hate your own kind, Charles,’ he simply said. ‘You hide, and you are not even honest about being a coward.’ Charles looked away, startled at the blunt accusation, because he knew that Erik did not mean about mutants anymore, at least not exclusively. He had sensed what he felt for him, and now he had the audacity to use his hesitation as a weapon in the argument.
‘I’m not a coward,’ he said finally, still not looking up.
‘Tell me why you are not,’ Erik challenged him. Charles rubbed his forehead, and could not think of a single reason why not. Perhaps he was right, then - perhaps sitting in this school, keeping the children from the real world, was an act of cowardice. But what was the alternative? Realising the answer to that was, he looked Erik in the eye and answered him, managing to keep his voice almost completely steady.
‘I have no choice,’ he explained. ‘That bullet you redirected made sure that, mutant or not, I would be an outcast from society. The best I can do is to teach others how to face the world which, yes, as you say, hates them. But what is your excuse?’ Erik stared back at him. ‘You lived the kind of life you advocate, but now here you are, teaching alongside the coward. Why?’ They looked at each other for a long, painful moment, and then Erik got to his feet.
‘You know why,’ he said as he looked down at him. The accusations were gone; left was only pity. ‘Sometimes there are things more important than society.’ Picking up the book, he gave him a nod and said: ‘Thank you for the novel.’ As he passed, he rested his hand on his shoulder for a moment. Then the contact was broken, and Charles heard him leave.
***
Charles was dancing. His arm was around Moira’s waist, and she followed his movements. He could feel her skirt sway against his leg.
‘Why won’t you look at me, Charles?’ Moira asked, their cheeks touching as they turned.
‘I am looking at you,’ he answered, but there was something in the corner of his eye. It distracting him, but he could not seem to focus on it, however much he tried.
‘No, you’re not,’ said Raven. As she pressed closer to him, he saw the figure watching them, Erik’s pale eyes following their progress with tightlipped disappointment...
The dream snapped in half, and Charles found himself in bed, staring up into the canopy. There had been no moment of waking, only one state being replaced by another. He fumbled for the light-switch on the bedside lamp; the alarm clock showed the time as a little past two. Sighing, he sunk back against his pillows, hand over his eyes. He was wide awake - there was no way now to go back to sleep, probably for several hours. He wondered if this would be an isolated sleepless night, or if his insomniac tendencies had been stirred by his worry. Whatever the answer, there was no reason to stay in bed, so he put on his dressing-gown and drew himself into the wheelchair. He might as well work on setting some essay questions for his advanced physics class. Halfway to his desk, he realised that he had left the papers he needed in the study. He was not fond of leaving his room in his bed-clothes, but dressing felt ridiculous. Instead, he took a pair of slippers from a drawer and put them on, pulling up each leg in turn by the knee to reach his feet.
The mansion was full of dreams. As Charles passed through the corridors, he felt them brush against his mind. He could sense the surreal realities of each one, the confused horror of the nightmares, the unattainable desire of the guilty dreams. When he reached the ground floor, however, he sensed another waking mind. Curious, he turned from the path to his study and headed for the library instead. Already when he opened the door, he could see the light inside, and knew the identity of the reader. As he approached the pool of light around the armchair, he saw the tiny figure, legs drawn up close to his body under the nightgown, the hair, which was long enough to start to curl, hanging down over the pages of the book.
‘What are you doing up at this time of night, Jason?’ The boy jumped, looking into the darkness with vivid eyes. ‘It’s alright,’ Charles added and rolled into the circle of light. ‘It’s just me. What are you reading?’ Jason angled the book so that he could see the title. ‘The Battle of Somme?’ Charles said, frowning, and then noticed the book pile beside him. ‘What’s this?’ Squinting through the gloom, he read the titles - Accounts of the Thirty-Years War, The Great Indian Mutiny 1857-1858, The American Civil War, Nothing New on the Western Front. ‘You’re fascinated by war, aren’t you, Jason?’ he asked and looked the boy in the eyes. He looked back, trying to form the words. At least it took less time now than a few weeks ago.
‘My father used to tell me stories.’
‘About war?’ Jason nodded. ‘Doesn’t it scare you?’ Now, the boy smiled.
‘Why would it?’
‘Well, it’s a terrible thing,’ Charles said. ‘Why does it interest you so?’
‘It scares other people,’ he answered with a shrug.
‘But not you?’ he pressed, and then remembered something. ‘When I first met you, you made an illusion of a no-man’s-land from the Great War. Is that why you read those books?’ He gestured towards the pile. ‘For inspiration?’ Jason did not have to answer it to tell him that it was true. ‘Why are you intent on scaring people like that?’
‘I need to be able to defend myself.’
‘But there’s no one here who wants to harm you,’ Charles insisted.
‘There are always people who want to harm me,’ Jason answered. Charles suppressed a sigh and leaned forward to look into his mismatched eyes.
‘Jason, I’m not your enemy. I want to help you.’ The light around them changed, and when Charles looked around, they were no longer in the library. Once again, he found himself in the no-man’s-land, but this time, it was different. ‘Now, this...’ he murmured, and could not help but smile. ‘This is rather extraordinary, Jason. Last time, that was based on photographs and descriptions, but this... We’re inside Otto Dix’s imagination.’ There was no colour in this world, only the grey of edgings. The horse carcasses, despite looking real, still bore the marks of a pencil. The edge of the trenches was built up by bones and roots, traced by the artist’s ink pen, their expressionism gruesome. The soldiers who occasionally looked up over the edge looked inhuman, lumbering four-fingered creatures with no faces, only staring glass eyes and the filter snouts of respirators. Eager to explore this illusion, Charles tried to turn the wheels of the wheelchair, but they would not budge, having sunken into the mud. Jason, looking out of place in his long locks and nightgown, a speck of colour in a grey world, smiled.
‘Why don’t you just walk?’ he asked. His voice seemed stronger than usual within the illusion.
‘I can’t,’ Charles told him. Jason shrugged.
‘I decide what you can and can’t do here.’ Then he took told of his arm and pulled. Charles called out, certain that he would fall facedown into the filth, but suddenly his legs jerked to life and his feet connected with the ground. He stared down at them in shock, realising that they were really supporting him. The grey water, mixed with blood, soaked through his slippers, but he could feel the cold and the wet against his feet. Even if he knew that it was just Jason planting a suggestion and making his brain imagine things, it felt so much more real than when he dreamed of walking. Experimentally, he took a few steps, relishing the squelch it made and the way the mud was caking around his ankles.
He realised now that Jason was simply enabling an image Charles had of himself, rather than creating another, but he was certain that with more training, he could influence people’s perception of themselves within an illustration.
‘This power of yours is astounding,’ he said aloud. ‘You could do so much good, Jason.’ When there was no answer, he looked down at Jason, who looked back, tight-lipped. ‘You’d like to do that, wouldn’t you? Help people?’
‘Can I trust them?’ he answered.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘People. I don’t think that you can ever trust people,’ Jason said with a shrug and then pointed behind him. ‘Look over there.’ Charles turned. Over the trench, a brownish mist was forming, drifting with the wind towards them. Then the soldiers came over the top, respirators rendering them faceless. They ran through the poison cloud, brandishing grenades and guns. Panic twisted his heart.
‘Jason, stop it!’ Charles shouted. The cloud reached them before the soldiers did, and the mustard gas burned his lungs. ‘Jason!’
Then suddenly it was over. The cold and the wet was gone, and so was the sensation in his legs. He was still sitting in his wheelchair - when coming to, he was afraid for a moment that the illusion would have made him move in reality, and he would find himself collapsed away from it. In an attempt to regain some of the dignity he felt that he had lost, he pulled himself up a little and tried to stop breathing so heavily. Even if the pain of the poison had been completely mental, the illusion had felt sufficiently real to unsettle him. Jason was still sitting curled up in the couch, smiling sweetly.
‘Don’t do that again,’ Charles told him grimly. ‘To anyone. Promise me that.’ Jason rolled his eyes, but then nodded. ‘No, answer me properly.’
‘I promise,’ the boy whispered.
‘Good,’ Charles sighed and pushed his hair out of his face. ‘Now, off you go to bed. You have lessons in the morning.’ The added mental incentive was probably what did it, because suddenly oddly obedient, Jason nodded and stood.
‘Good night, Professor.’ Charles offered him a small smile and then waved to him to leave. He stayed still until he sensed the boy making his way up the stairs towards his dormitory.
When he finally reached his study, he found the papers he had been looking for, lying on the desk. For several minutes, he concentrated solely on setting potential essay questions, but the encounter with Jason lingered in his thoughts, and to push them aside, he instead took up his sketches on what he had dubbed the Danger Room, which would be able to simulate any combat situation for training purposes. He had run many of his ideas by Hank, who seemed excited about it, but they would probably need to install their own generators not to cut the power to all of Westchester County when running it. It would probably mean taking out the floors between two, if not three, floors, and even Charles in his renewal frenzy was a little hesitant to do that yet. There was always the possibility to put it in one of the bunkers, which would be stable and sound-proof enough, but the plans were still in their infancy.
Suddenly, Charles looked up, aware of a presence outside. The mind was familiar, more familiar than any other mind. On the other side of the French windows, hidden by the heavy curtains, Erik stood. It should not surprise him. Even if Charles considered himself to be an insomniac, compared to Erik he slept like a log. He realised now that Erik often took to circling the mansion when he could not sleep, as if he were guarding it. Now he had stopped in his stride, and Charles felt how he recalled their last conversation, memories tinged with the disappointment that he had seen in his eyes in his dream. An urge to reach out and draw back the curtains, to see him and call his attention, to speak to him and this time not make him disappointed seized Charles, but he stopped his hand. The sound of feet was heard against the stone was heard, as he turned and continued. Charles lingered, feeling a pang of sadness at the chance which had passed.
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