"Kindling," Magneto, PG
Title: Kindling
Author: kethlenda
Fandom: Xmen (1602-verse)
Pairings/Characters: Enrique (Magneto)
Rating: PG
Tarot: Ace of Wands
Word Count: 445
Warning: BLASPHEMY and anti-Christian sentiment (the character's sentiment, not mine). Did I mention blasphemy? You have been warned. I am so going to hell for this, but the plot bunny made me do it.
The Inquisitors laugh as they pile Enrique's books on the pyre. Pitiful, gullible Christians: as always, they see what they want to see. Oh, no, do not burn my books, cries the old man, and they scurry to stack them like kindling in the hopes of seeing the old man weep before he is cooked to charcoal.
But what can a man expect from this foolish race that made a God of some hapless Jewish Witchbreed, and makes cordwood of every other Jew and every other Witchbreed they can flush out? They see what they want to see.
"What is this?"
"A helmet."
Onto the pyre it goes with the rest, and the imbeciles nudge elbows into one another's ribs. They're expecting a spectacle, Enrique knows, and he plans to give them one, though not the sort they're expecting.
The torch is lowered to the logs. Enrique fancies he can hear screams amid the crackle and roar of the flames, and spares a moment--a brief one only--for the countless Witchbreed he himself has condemned to this fate over the years. A necessary sacrifice, he tells himself, so that the rest of us might live; surely it is justified.
He suppresses a flicker of a smile as the greedy fire licks at the strewn books. My life's work. There is more knowledge about the Witchbreed in those volumes than in all the secret archives of the Church. Fools. You have made your own task immeasurably harder.
It is only when the books are consumed that he makes his move. With the thin trickle of power at his disposal, Enrique calls to the helmet, bidding it rise like the tiny flecks of burnt paper, like the sparks thrown from the cracking logs. It slides neatly onto Enrique's head.
There is a bending in the acrid air, a shift in pressure like that of a breaking storm, as every sliver of metal in the courtyard turns to its rightful master.
He intends never to tell Petros and Wanda that he broke their chains first, a split second before making quick work of his own.
The iron links shatter, crumble to dust. Enrique raises his arms in triumph, savoring the gasps of the incredulous Inquisitors. The irony of his pose does not escape him. The thought comes on feet as swift as Petros's: That damned fool Jesus would have better served, in the end, by my talents than by those he possessed.
The Inquisitors wave weapons of iron and steel. Enrique does not condescend to pity them as he bends their pathetic implements to his own will. They are but vermin, and their hour will be brief.
Author: kethlenda
Fandom: Xmen (1602-verse)
Pairings/Characters: Enrique (Magneto)
Rating: PG
Tarot: Ace of Wands
Word Count: 445
Warning: BLASPHEMY and anti-Christian sentiment (the character's sentiment, not mine). Did I mention blasphemy? You have been warned. I am so going to hell for this, but the plot bunny made me do it.
The Inquisitors laugh as they pile Enrique's books on the pyre. Pitiful, gullible Christians: as always, they see what they want to see. Oh, no, do not burn my books, cries the old man, and they scurry to stack them like kindling in the hopes of seeing the old man weep before he is cooked to charcoal.
But what can a man expect from this foolish race that made a God of some hapless Jewish Witchbreed, and makes cordwood of every other Jew and every other Witchbreed they can flush out? They see what they want to see.
"What is this?"
"A helmet."
Onto the pyre it goes with the rest, and the imbeciles nudge elbows into one another's ribs. They're expecting a spectacle, Enrique knows, and he plans to give them one, though not the sort they're expecting.
The torch is lowered to the logs. Enrique fancies he can hear screams amid the crackle and roar of the flames, and spares a moment--a brief one only--for the countless Witchbreed he himself has condemned to this fate over the years. A necessary sacrifice, he tells himself, so that the rest of us might live; surely it is justified.
He suppresses a flicker of a smile as the greedy fire licks at the strewn books. My life's work. There is more knowledge about the Witchbreed in those volumes than in all the secret archives of the Church. Fools. You have made your own task immeasurably harder.
It is only when the books are consumed that he makes his move. With the thin trickle of power at his disposal, Enrique calls to the helmet, bidding it rise like the tiny flecks of burnt paper, like the sparks thrown from the cracking logs. It slides neatly onto Enrique's head.
There is a bending in the acrid air, a shift in pressure like that of a breaking storm, as every sliver of metal in the courtyard turns to its rightful master.
He intends never to tell Petros and Wanda that he broke their chains first, a split second before making quick work of his own.
The iron links shatter, crumble to dust. Enrique raises his arms in triumph, savoring the gasps of the incredulous Inquisitors. The irony of his pose does not escape him. The thought comes on feet as swift as Petros's: That damned fool Jesus would have better served, in the end, by my talents than by those he possessed.
The Inquisitors wave weapons of iron and steel. Enrique does not condescend to pity them as he bends their pathetic implements to his own will. They are but vermin, and their hour will be brief.