Logs:Tabiya

Tabiya
cn: discussion of child death and near-death
Dramatis Personae Charles, Erik
In Absentia	2015-01-30 << I trusted that however bad things got between us, we would always keep the promise we made each other -- the promise that our dream will survive. >>
Location <???> Super Seekrit Plastic Prison
The experience of being in this prison cell is much like being in a fishbowl – the plastic walls are clear on every side but below, the wide lens observation cameras and microphones suspended outside at some distance. Not that it particularly matters – if the man under observation wasn’t currently power suppressed, the distance would be trivial to his ability to short out the camera, yank the smallest steel components out of their casing and make good his escape. Magneto, Master of Magnetism, cuts a far less imposing figure now than he did just a few weeks ago. Gone are the charcoal grays and blacks of his suit, the red lined cape, the burnt red helmet that has begun to adorn shirts the nation over. He’s in beige prison scrubs now, looking absolutely plain without his jewelry and tired in the harsh light. The sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, exposing the lone tattoo on his left arm. Erik considers the camera from where he lays on the sterile white cot. << They have startling little faith in their poison, >> he thinks, tilting his head slightly to one side so he can direct this observation at the glass chessboard set up on his desk. Poison conjures to mind both the temporary cure serum they have doped him up on as well as the mood stabilizers. He’s been cooperating more with both since the chessboard arrived, though ‘more’ is a relative thing. The resulting quiet in his brain has given him a lot of time to think. He hates it. Today’s main object of consideration is the sudden movement of his confines to – well, somewhere else. Without his full senses it’s almost impossible to tell in what direction he’s been moved, let alone where on Earth they could be. Perhaps his Brothers had gotten too close to the previous location. Perhaps it ‘’is’’ his Brotherhood, infiltrating the facility and making plans for his freedom. He hopes not, somewhere deeper inside – Erik would rather not be seen like this. The door on the other side of the probably unnecessary moat around Erik's cell opens as the walkway extends to bridge it. The temperature spikes, a fiery wave preceding the two guards and the man in the translucent wheelchair between them. The first guard frowns and grumbles something to his partner about the climate control as he works the (mechanical!) lock. The other one shrugs and draws his lucite billy club. The heat subsides as abruptly as it came when the cell door opens. Noted geneticist Dr. Charles Xavier propels his specialized metal-free wheelchair over the threshold. Though the old man does not cut an imposing figure either -- would not even if he were standing upright -- he's impeccably groomed and dressed, the classic cut of his black three-piece suit dignified rather than dated. His slate blue eyes fix sharply on Erik, his face unreadable. "Leave us," he tells the guards without looking back at either of them, his tone somewhat peremptory. "Please. I am quite confident Mr. Lensherr will not harm me today, though I will of course speak up if I require any assistance." Nervous and uncertain, the guards look at each other, at Charles -- somewhat dubiously -- and finally at Erik. "We'll be just on the other side, Dr. Xavier." They seem eager enough to retreat to their station, withdrawing the bridge behind them. Charles remains where he is, just inside the door. "Hello, Mr. Lensherr." Erik, already prone and still, stops breathing when the heat blasts past him. << Charles? (no) (how?) ({thank God}) ({oh, God help me}) >> He manages to sit up shortly before the clear door slides open, staring determinedly past his visitor at his guards with uncomfortable intensity. He concentrates on slowing his heartbeat, suddenly loud and overwhelming in his head, with slow deep breaths. The corner of his lips twitch upwards at the guards discomfort, his brain clinging to the one thing about this situation that seems to make sense. He holds up one hand, slowly, and waggles his fingers at the guards as the bridge pulls them away. Without the distraction of maintaining appearances for the sapiens, Erik’s attention turns solely to Charles. He presses his lips together to prevent the twitch from becoming a tremble. It’s a pointless endeavor, because Erik knows his mind is already betraying him. << Is this a trick (how could I tell) >> comes with a swell of frustration at how helpless he feels without his powers. All other thoughts are momentarily washed away when Erik meets the other man’s gaze with a crashing wave of relief. “Hello, Charles.” Only now does he consider the implication of ‘Mr. Lensherr’, and the promise Charles made to the guards. “Here to retrieve your calling card?” He nods towards the chess set. << Here to finish the job? >> This thought comes with a blast of heat from Scott’s visor but no bitterness, no accusation. In his mind, metal shields, rusty with disuse, slowly reassemble themselves into a wall against surface level telepathic probing. Charles does not move from his spot, but his jaw tightens. << How dare you? >> The fury in this thought is strictly intonation--there is no heat in it at all, which by contrast with the usual faint warmth of his mind feels cold and jarring. << If you must thank someone, thank Jean. >> "I had meant to accompany my gift," he says aloud, conversationally, "but I was, alas, indisposed and forced to postpone my visit. Nevertheless, since I am here now -- fancy a game?" He tips a hand toward the table. << You owe me an explanation and I need an excuse not to look at you. >> Notwithstanding, he's still staring daggers at Erik. << Finish the job? I never started it -- that was you. >> A memory inserts itself seamlessly into Erik's mind as though his defenses weren't even there: he's sifting through the beautiful surreal slipstream of countless minds, kept from overwhelming him by Cerebro until suddenly they're not, and he's drowning, frantically drawing back through his terror and agony but he feels the seizure coming on and knows he won't make it and he's going to take all those people with him if he doesn't do something like slam down every inner shield as hard as he can shutting himself into utter darkness and he's falling, sure in every instant he'll hit the bottom now but he doesn't he just keeps falling and falling -- Charles finally turns away, his gaze settling on the chess board. << If Scott had wanted to kill you, you would be dead. >> He sounds as tired now as he does angry. << But he was only there to save that poor child, and whoever else you saw fit to sacrifice on the altar of your ego. >> << How dare I? You’ve come all this way to just to lecture me? >> There is something strangely joyful underneath the prideful indignation. The relief of Charles’ living presence, even if only to berate him, eases a sharp pain Erik had been nursing since the mood stabilizers brought him back into himself. << And yet, here you are, still looking. >> “White or black?” Erik gestures to the open side of the table, taking a seat on the room’s lone plastic chair. Underneath the projected calm detachment and the useless shields, a vortex of panic spins a little faster; << ({he’s too pale, too skinny, has he been eating}) ({if not to kill me then why}) >> — The spiral is cut short by the insertion of memory. Only the slight widening of Erik’s eyes betray how it unmoors him, gaze growing distant as he falls and falls through the second-hand memory. << (It wasn’t supposed to be like this) >> Betrayed anguish ripples through Erik, dredging up the memory of creating the gas to begin with. “It’ll be painless,” a Brotherhood member promises in the recent past, siphoning the gas carefully into the tube, while Erik nods and approves with conviction he can’t remember feeling anymore. << {You weren’t supposed to feel such pain.} >> He bows his head slightly, as if he just wants to study the board before his first move. << I do not expect you to understand any explanation I give you — take what you will. >> The shields flatten themselves into a shining, steel path, winding through Erik’s last six months of memories to where Liberty Island really began — the mania sneaking up on him at the same time Irene sees a young girl in her visions and declares her the key to the survival of mutantkind. And for once, Erik could see so clearly what Irene meant — because he was brilliant, and strong enough to do what needed to be done to stop registration and secure mutantkind’s future. It made so much sense, then. Charles lifts his eyebrows. << You tried to kill me, my family, and a child under my protection, but lecturing you is a bridge too far? >> He pushes his unwieldy chair to the table and parks it opposite Erik. "White." It's not impossible he chooses this just so they needn't rotate the board as already set up. His brief stillness might not be all that noticeable, but the trembling of his hand when he advances his Queen's pawn is harder to miss. << Painless, >> he turns the word over and over in his mind, pointedly where Erik can perceive. << I suppose it might have been, if I'd just rolled over and died as you intended. But a man I loved and respected taught me better than that. >> "Do you get the paper in here?" Charles laces his fingers together and does not look back up from the board. "Or a calendar, by any chance?" By dint of long practice his eyes do not lose focus when he turns inward, but Erik is shortly enveloped by the warmth of his psionic presence -- not naturally gentle as is its wont, but a blazing heat harshly contained. << It is a curious way to waste your time. >> Erik pushes a frosted glass pawn decisively forward, barely considering Charles’ move at all. In his mind he tries to push away the accusation, tries not to let the thrum of guilt or the beat of the Al Chet resonate through this mind. << You should place a stone on that man’s grave, Charles, for he certainly isn’t here. >> “They say I might earn the privilege, for good behavior.” Erik’s eyes flick up, once, only going slightly glassy as he follows Charles into his own brain. “Maybe even a book, should I be quiet enough.” << The fatal flaw of prophecy is what we project onto it. >> This is quiet, intimate, like Erik's own thoughts annotating his memories in Charles's voice. << I know you were compromised, but you call the Brotherhood family -- what kind of family lets you do this? >> << The kind that is unwilling to hide any longer, and is unwilling to be marched to their end by weaker men. >> The road leads them to his lieutenants — Mortimer, Victor, Raven, all eager, all winning, all seeming to understand why they must do what they do. Somewhere distantly behind the trio is an older man with a yellow star pinned to his threadbare coat, some mix of memory and apparition that watches them plan with approval. << They understand there is no peaceful way to stop what is coming, Charles. At least my delusions are not intentional. >> The warmth softens to something familiar and sorrowful when Charles draws Erik's first glimpse of a frightened Rogue to the forefront. << Would you have sacrificed Kitty, when she was a child? Or Anya, if she hadn't been murdered first? >> Erik looks at the memory of Rogue again, pain and guilt clawing at his gut. << Irene — not Kitty, no — (am I Nostefaru now) ({..and for the sin which we have committed before You by hard-heartedness… forgive us (how) pardon us (impossible) grant us atonement (there will be none)}) — >> The last name cuts through the rush of self-loathing and begins a new pounding pressure of memory — << Anya’’ (Anya) (“Anya, sheyna punim, {to bed with you,}”) >> — until a dam breaks and Erik is there again in the street of Vinnista, the smell of burning flesh acrid in the air, the oppressive heat as likely to be coming from the memory of flames as it is from Charles psionic hold. Erik is back in the first quiet moment, where the streets are running with blood and a scrap of his daughter’s nightgown is clutched in his fist. << Is that all she is to you? >> Erik’s thoughts flow cold past Charles, icy and powerful and in so much pain after all the years. << A tool to punish me? >> The waves crash against the edges of Charles’ hold. << Get out of my head. >> Charles makes his answering move, quick and aggressive and little resembling his usual leisurely defense. << (not a waste)(not alone)(not this time) >> "It's the 30th of January." The words come out clipped, the flare of his anger is harder to conceal through their linked minds. << This man, he does not give up so easily. He is a survivor. >> His eyes fix back on Erik's, slitted and openly furious now. << Your delusions would have cost thousands of lives. Your family either didn't bother to consider the consequences, thought that was as it should be, or were too afraid to speak their minds to you. So, what would you? Butchers or sycophants? >> Though swept along with Erik's flashback, Charles keeps his own equilibrium with ease, and steps smoothly into the long-vanished street. << No, >> he says firmly, taking hold of Erik's shoulders. A blanket of calm descends briefly over them both, everything around them muffled and slowed. << I want you to see what you did. >> He meets Erik's cold rage without flinching, his own wrath searing hot. << Do not look away. >> His hands squeeze down harder for a moment before he's able to tear himself away. << You owe that to her. >> The calm vanishes with the warmth and with Charles's image, leaving Erik alone to face not his own burning house so many decades ago, but the wreckage of his machine atop Lady Liberty's torch only a few weeks past. << Just thousands? >> One eyebrow arches. << Thousands of our enemies? You’re right, I should have been thinking bigger. >> He doesn’t mean that, but the number isn’t sinking in either, nor this tack of admonishment. Charles knows the answer already to this question, and Erik sees no reason to mentally voice it. Erik moves a knight without looking at Charles’ piece. << Enemies. >> Charles studies the board, doggedly trying to play the game. << Is that what you call the men, women, and children who would have died for being in the wrong place with the wrong genes? >> A glimpse of Senator Kelly through Ororo's eyes as he finally disintegrates from the radiation that had mutated him. << Or anyone who happened to be near me, if I hadn't fought off your poison? >> When his shields waver this time what radiates through the cracks is not rage but queasy horror at the thought of his home, his school, and the town beyond its gates deathly still and silent, bodies -- humans, mutants, animals -- lying where they fell. << You are the one deluding yourself if you think the rest of us want a future built on atrocities. >> Erik presses his lips together, only a little shaken by the glimpse behind Charles’ defenses. It’s not so different from the bodies in the recalled street to him. << It is a gentler fate than they would grant us. >> He’s trying, somewhere lower in his consciousness than the surface, to convince himself that the horror is worth it, convince himself that there was some grain of sanity in his plan, and finding little other than memories of other bodies, stacked high on carts before they burn. “Is it?” Erik asks, voice carefully modulated to just vague curiosity. “I seem to be losing track of time more easily these days.” It’s not all deflection from the date — November and December are a hazy blur in his recollection, days blending together into constant planning and building, interspersed with just the barest amount of sleep. Erik does not look away, even as the memory of himself tumbles to the ground. A traitorous tear spills from the corner of one eye, sinking into the deep bags hanging underneath. << (so small she’s so small) (would have been worth —) (I’ve become him) >> He pretends to be considering the board when he wipes it away, pretends to not let out a breath of relief when Logan manages to bring her back. << You could have lead with this. >> Erik’s mental voice is quiet, almost subdued, as a heavy regretful weight crashes into the split second of relief he has realizing neither Charles nor Rogue perished (though he has still heard nothing of Raven, and wonders if this too is on purpose). << Your upayas are wasted on me, old friend. >> "I am sorry, my friend." It's hard to tell whether he's answering Erik's spoken words or prefacing his own unspoken ones. << I wanted to, but you're very distracting (full stop)(even here)(even now) when you're antagonizing me. >> Charles makes his move, still all attack and no defense, little though his opponent is taking advantage. << I trusted you, Erik. >> This is soft and broken, but something in the set of his shoulders eases. << I trusted that however bad things got between us, we would always keep the promise we made each other -- the promise that our dream will survive. >> He looks up, searching Erik's face, his own expression betraying nothing. << Maybe I cannot reach you. But I have done it before, and I can never think any effort I spend on you wasted. >> Erik moves, reckless, capturing a pawn with a bishop near the white side of the board. << I ‘’am’’ sorry, Charles. >> It’s hard to tell what he’s apologizing for — for being a distraction, maybe, or for breaking the trust, or simply for ‘’being’’. << You should be be more discerning with whom you share your dreams. >> There’s a sag in Erik’s expression, a tiredness that is from more than just sleep deprivation. << How many times must I break that promise (my love) before you realize this is who I have always been? >> Charles looks up from the board. He's re-asserted his grip on his powers now and nothing bleeds through psionically, but his carefully neutral expression slips. For just an instant his eyes are wide and wondering and bright, his lips parted in sheer astonishment, the breath he draws unsteady and not strong enough to fill the words he starts to shape before swallowing them back down. << We are all capable of horrors, even if most are never forced to reckon with that capacity as you have. >> He has given up trying to speak aloud, but continues the slapdash chess game, ignoring the attack in favor of his own costly gambit. << I've always known, Erik. But you are so, so much more. >> The recollections come so quickly they should overwhelm, but somehow the intensity of the rush is bearable, if only just. Erik in his forge, hammering out an elegant curve of wrought iron for the mansion's gate, radiating focus and satisfaction. Erik wheeling a despondent Charles out to a picnic on the sunny lawn, hopeful but patient. Erik dressed to the nines, crushing a lightbulb beneath his heel and drawing his husband close, heart singing with joy and praise. Erik kneeling in the rich dark soil of Utopia's gardens, brimming with pride as he teaches a bespectacled youth to sow. Erik letting go of the field lines around a submarine that would have drowned him, following an impossible stranger back up to the light. << I know you. Out of the depths of pain and despair, you choose life. You will do it again. >> Erik looks up just a beat after Charles does, catching his gaze across the chessboard. He catches the parting of Charles’ lips and knows what it means, and an old and almost forgotten protectiveness spills out. He castles kingside, the first defensive move Erik’s made, at the same time he shores himself against the memories. They move him, of course they move him, but perhaps not in the way that Charles hopes. Each memory has its own painful echo in Erik’s mind – The slam of the forge and heat of the kiln (the slam of the oven grates and the smell of human ash); lifting Charles out of his chair onto the soft blanket (waving at a young woman across the grounds as an old man’s eye begins to stray); kicking the shards of glass away to pull Charles close (grasping at the shard of shrapnel lodged in his husband’s spine); shaping the earth under his and Hank’s steady hands (digging graves on a long abandoned island); some sort of angel pulling him to the surface, forcing him to let his demon go (pulling Charles’ too still body off the ground, shaking for him to wake up). Now it’s Erik’s breath that catches, but he doesn’t look away – just looks at his opponent with an anguish that Charles has never been awake to feel. “I am tired, Charles,” he says at last. << Don’t you see? The depths have already claimed me (you weren’t there to pull me to shore). >> "So am I." Charles replies so quietly it's hard to tell whether Erik hears it with his ears or his mind. << I know your darkness. That has never frightened me, and I doubt it ever will. >> His gaze ticks down just long enough to watch Erik shift his king to safety, and by the crinkles at the corner of his eyes he's biting back tears. << I've been here all along, Erik (should have gone to him)(should have fought for him)(should have joined his bloody war) >> It takes him a few seconds to get his breathing under control and blink away the tears. << I'm still here, and if I must have hope enough for us both, so be it. I've done that before, too. >> Charles draws a deep breath and lets it back out, abruptly shifting his own strategy, somewhat transparently angling for a stalemate. << Madness or no, what you did was wrong, and you know that. However... >> He laces his fingers together as he looks back up at Erik. << We never had the chance to report Robert Kelly's death. Raven took his place, whereupon he had an abrupt change of heart about his bill. There's a lot of talk about fighting mutant terror, but registration, at least, has been tabled. >> His gaze does not waver. << It is a relief, but I trust you'll understand if I cannot bring myself to thank you. >> << Oh, my dear friend. >> Something in Erik’s chest twists with despair. << I know, and that’s what frightens ‘’me’’. >> Erik frowns at the board, moves to take a piece that should have been defended. His fingertips linger on the rook for a moment after his turn. << Once again I have underestimated her resourcefulness. (She’s free) (“The most parsimonious answer is the most desirable in these matters — Erik, are you listening?”) ( stupid stupid ‘’stupid’’ ) >> He shakes his head, small, trying to balance his relief and frustration and dread out so they don’t unmoor him. << She cannot take his place forever. This is nothing but a delay. And when they bring that hateful law forward again — will you throw the dagger then, Charles? If Raven and I are not there to do it for you? >> Charles continues methodically emptying his back rank to pin his opponent down. << I'm not afraid of you. That doesn't mean I trust you not to stab me in the back. >> There is no sharpness to this blandly reassuring clarification. << You fought it your way, and I will fight it mine (you respected that, once)(respected me)(admired me) >> A whisper of his heartbreak and exhaustion and fear gets projected along with his thoughts. << Killing them won't buy our freedom. They kill us, we kill them back -- where does it end? There are seven billion of them. We have to build our future with whosoever will stand with us, if we only give them a chance. >> His shoulders sag almost imperceptibly. << Call me a fool or coward or whatever you like, but I will not give up. Not on humanity, not on our dream, and not on you. >> Erik captures another piece. << So you say. >> The whispering doubts are echoed back at Charles, a different resonance but at their core the same. << There are seven billion of ‘’them’’. What future can we build in the shadow of that? What freedom is there in trying to please them? >> A memory Charles has seen before, of two old Jewish men arguing over a table in a cold ghetto room, slips out. Across the table, Erik’s shoulders pull almost imperceptibly tighter, the man making himself a fraction smaller. “Check.” He moves a piece into position, knowing full well that it is easy to escape and that Charles could end the game in a moment. << Then if you will have hope for both of us, it seems I must hold twice the despair. >> Charles looks up again, lips compressing. << Not beneath them, but beside them. Society is a collaborative venture, and meeting humanity half-way isn't appeasement (doesn't have to be)(it won't come to that)(not this time) >> He heaves a quiet sigh and captures the piece that has him in check, simultaneously bringing his queen to bear on the besieged black king. "Check." He does not announce mate in three, because Erik already knows, had knowingly walked into the trap, and is not trying to win, in any event. << I cannot fault you for feeling how you feel, but I beg you not to despair on my account. I will fight if I must. >> "I'll see about getting you the papers. If you've a particular book in mind, I shall bring it on my next visit." << If you must. >> Erik moves his king out of check, opens his queen up for capture. << Will you know when that time comes, I wonder. >> “The Times, if you can.” There is a stutter in Erik’s brain at ‘’next visit’’, a cascade of conflicting feelings << (next time you fool you think there will be a next time) (will there be a next time how long how long) (leave me ‘’be’’ Charles) >> that resolve themselves into something not unlike a held breath, a nervous anticipation for their next game. “I do believe you know all my old favourites.” Unbidden, a particular copy of ‘’The Once and Future King’’ floats to mind, margins dark with pencil and ink from a simpler time. “I —“ and here, as well as he tries to hide it, Erik’s breath catches for a moment, “— look forward to our next game, old friend.”