DISCLAIMER: This fic is based on a weird idea I had one night when I couldn't sleep. It came out entirely different from the way I originally intended, and the plot's been through several major rewrites. The narrator in the story is mine, but the other characters belong either to Marvel or the pages of history. I did quite a bit of research for this fic, but my encyclopedia is somewhat outdated so I apologize in advance for any errors with historical references. Feedback is appreciated and encouraged, but flames will be ignored.

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I have been reborn countless times over the past three centuries, each successive life filled with incredible experiences. Throughout my existence I have seen the birth of new nations and the destruction of the old. I was there as improvements were made in health and education, and watched as the world was drawn together through better methods of communication. I witnessed scientific and technological achievements that society believed to be forever impossible.

Yet with all of these changes, I never cease to be amazed at how little we have changed as a society, and how many atrocities we continue to commit in the name of humanity.

* * * * *

Three hundred years ago the people of Salem regarded me with a moderate degree of respect. I was the daughter of a fairly successful shopkeeper and was a faithful member of the church. In two months time I was to be married to the eldest son of one of the most prosperous men in town. I was quiet, obedient and compassionate to others.

I also had a terrible secret.

Two years earlier, at age 15, I began having unusual dreams every evening as I slept. My resting hours were filled with vivid images of various citizens of Salem going about their daily activities. I knew that what I saw in my mind's eye was not real, and yet at the same time I felt as if I could reach out and touch the people I had seen.

But when I started seeing the events I had dreamed of being played out the next day around the town, I began to grow worried.

At first I tried to pay the dreams no mind. I dismissed them as mere coincidence, telling myself that it was no great feat to predict that Goodman Sawyer would tend to a broken wagon wheel or that Goody Thompson's chickens would cease laying eggs. Still the doubt held firm in the back of my mind. Though I knew not how these visions came upon me, I came to fear that I was committing an unspeakable sin. The minister had preached that God alone determined what would happen to his people, and that no mortal could fortell the future unless he or she were in league with the Devil himself. In refusing to acknowledge my new ability, I tried to convince myself that I was still a worthy member of the God's kingdom.

My fear grew as the dreams became more frequent and more terrifying. Every night I would see my fellow townspeople plagued by illness or harmed through accidents. As these events came to pass in reality, I became truly frightened, for I feared that I was the cause of their misfortune.

Then one night I awoke trembling in the cold darkness. In my nightmares I had witnessed the deaths of two young men from Salem as they toiled in the ironworks. I watched helplessly as a spark from the blast furnace fell to the ground and smoldered in the pile of lumber used as fuel for smelting the ore. Undetected, the spark quickly ignited the timber, and before long a blaze raced through the small wooden building. The two young men tried to escape the inferno, but planks and beams collapsed around them and blocked their exit. I was horrified as I witnessed their last moments in this world before they were consumed by the flames.

Even after I awoke I knew that what I had seen was not merely a nightmare. This vision had been a warning of things to come -- and I was the only person in Salem who possessed this knowledge.

I sat in the darkness for hours trying to decide the best course of action. I knew that I had to alert the two men to the peril that awaited them, yet I did not know how they would accept my warning. But I realized that I could not stand idly by and watch them perish when I knew that they were in grave danger.

The next morning, I walked silently from my father's shop over toward the ironworks. It was not a place for a respectable woman to be seen, but I had other factors to consider. I waited for the two young men from my dream to arrive for their day's labor.

When they arrived, I approached the men and warned them that they must show great care in their work, because I suspected that they were in harm's way if they failed to do so. I explained the dangers of storing fuel so close to the furnace and told them how fire could quickly develop if a spark were to stray too far.

The two young men refused to heed my warning. What did I know about the ironworks? Why did a mere woman presume to tell a man how to go about his occupation? Did I not think they were capable of performing the tasks that they had been trained to do?

A crowd of merchants, shopkeepers and other assorted laborers had gathered near the ironworks as the men continued to berate me for presuming dangers of which I had no knowledge. I tried once again to speak, but I was shouted down by the male citizens of Salem, who told me to return to my rightful place at home.

With that, the two men entered the small wooden building and the crowd began to disperse, the men going about their various labors. I was upset that no one would listen to what I had to say, but I was even more distraught knowing that I had failed to save the lives of those who refused to listen.

Early that afternoon smoke began to pour from the rear of the ironworks, and the structure began to collapse on itself. The two young men inside never had a chance to escape.

* * * * *

A week later I stood before the congregation in the church with Judge Corwin glaring at me from across the bench. The entire population of Salem had turned out for my trial. The town was distraught over the loss of two fine young men, and they blamed me for the deaths.

The judge interrogated me on the events of that dark day. Of particular interest was the warning that I had given the men before the fire broke out. It seems that following the fatal blaze, a few of the laborers from the crowd had alerted the sheriff and constables that I had known that the fire would occur.

I tried to explain to everyone how I had only wanted to warn the two men of the potential danger that came from their careless storage of firewood. But I hadn't anticipated the judge's next query, when he asked me how I knew about the fuel storage when I had not been inside the ironworks.

I could have invented some tale of visiting the building, but I was worried about my immortal soul and I would not compound my sin by lying within the church walls.

I had no other choice. I was forced to tell the court about my dreams.

* * * * *

From there the accusations started flying wildly. The Reverend Mather stood up and declared that I was guilty of communing with the Devil and that I must be punished severely. The townspeople were quick to agree, for they all knew the dangers associated with witchcraft.

One by one, my fellow townspeople began to present evidence of my evil ways. Some claimed to suffer from a particular ailment whenever I was nearby. Others claimed that I had been the cause of their various business misfortunes. The Reverend himself stood up and demonstrated that he could stick a pin into the birthmark on my arm without causing me any discomfort. This Devil's mark, he claimed, served as proof that I was a witch.

But the most damning evidence came from those who had claimed they were closest to me. An attractive young woman by the name of Mariah told the congregation that she had seen me in my father's home, casting a spell on the two men who had perished in the fire. She recounted a tale of how I had sewn two dolls, each resembling one of the deceased, and tossed them into the fireplace as I chanted curses and asked for the Devil's aid.

Her story seemed complete and unrefuteable to the people of Salem. Mariah failed to mention that she had envied my engagement to John and had been a rival for his affections. She was not one to handle a loss gracefully.

Next to speak was Andrew Sutton, one of the laborers who had crowded around and jeered as I tried to warn the two men of the danger that awaited them in the ironworks. He had been one of the men who had alerted the constables to my claims. Young Goodman Sutton recreated the scene before the court, emphasizing the fact that I had known what was going to happen. His friend, a fellow worker named Ethan, had also witnessed the confrontation. He agreed with Andrew's testimony. How could I be aware of what would happen if I had not somehow been responsible for creating the danger?

For all those who stood against me, not one person offered testimony in my defense. Even my parents stood by as their eldest child faced her enemies. I did not expect my mother to come to my aid, for she had always been envious of the affection my father had shown toward me. My father, I sadly realized, was not completely certain of my innocence, and he could not risk losing a successful business by rescuing the daughter that so many believed to be evil.

I knew of others who could save me, but they chose to remain silent. My friend Priscilla was an intelligent young woman, and was as dear to me as a sister. She had to know that the charges against me were false. Yet she had submitted herself to authority for far too long, and she would not dare challenge the leaders of both the town and the church. Mariah's younger sister, Judith, also refused to speak, though she had always accompanied her sister to my father's home and had never seen any vile acts committed. She would never admit it, but Judith was somewhat afraid of her sister, because she now saw the lengths that Mariah would go to in order to obtain what she desired.

I looked across the crowded courtroom to John, my eyes pleading with him to come to my defense. I knew all was lost when he looked away. He was my future husband, my last hope. Who would defend me if he did not? As I stared at him from a distance, I saw for the first time that he was empty inside, an emotional, soulless being whose instincts of self-preservation overcame any affection that he had once had for me.

The judge, heavily influenced by the people of Salem, declared me a witch and announced that I would be executed. Two days later I was led to a hastily constructed platform in the middle of town with an upright beam surrounded by branches and straw. The people had decided that burning at the stake was a just punishment for one who had killed two men with fire.

As I was led before the crowd to accept my judgment, I looked out over the people, and for the first time I saw the spirit of darkness. It lived in the hearts of those who had accused me and remained just below the surface of those whose testimony could have set me free. The people were right. Evil did live in Salem, but they had been looking in the wrong direction -- they should have been looking within. I watched the faces of my parents, my friends and the other townspeople as the fire was lit. Not one of them displayed any remorse.

* * * * *

The witch trials of Salem ended in the 1690s when Sir William Phips was appointed as the first royal governor of the colony. Twenty people had been executed, and 150 others left to rot in prison cells. The governor's decree ended the persecution that had plagued the small northeastern town for several years, but it did nothing to halt the atrocities occurring in later centuries, when society moved on and found other classes of people to torment.

The most recent target of hatred is mutants, people born with special abilities that set them apart from the rest of the population. Some can move objects with only the power of their minds. Others have superhuman strength or can shoot energy beams from their hands. Many try to keep their powers hidden, knowing full well that exposing these abilities could bring serious harm upon them. In another time, they would have been called witches, warlocks, demons, or any variety of creatures that allegedly had close contact with the Devil.

I stand on the streets of Boston this afternoon, bearing witness to a confrontation between homo sapien and homo sapien superior. The "humans" call themselves the Friends of Humanity, and today they have set their sights on a particular group of mutants, some of them no more than children. The young mutants are clad in matching, skin-tight red and yellow uniforms, complete with masks to guard their identities. But they can never hide from me.

I watch as one of them, a beautiful young black woman, is hit by a beam of energy. She is struck down for a moment, then shakes off the effects of the blast and returns to the fray. I shake my head and smile slightly. That's the girl I remember -- she never did let anything stop her from getting what she wants, whether her rival be a former friend or a heavily armed stranger.

As the battle wages on I recognize others in the group. A young man with grey skin extends a hand around a lampost and pulls himself above his attackers. Once there, he wraps his distended skin around the humans and tosses them aside so that his friend, a young black man, has time to get back on his feet after being knocked into a wall. I look at the two of them, still together after all this time. I can't help but wonder if they remember another time when they stood together, when they accused me of being the Devil's servant.

I look toward the young Asian girl. She seems stronger, more confident than she was centuries ago, though she still shows some trepidation toward her older team member. I watch as she shoots sparks in the face of one of her attackers, and cringe slightly as I hear the young black woman berate her for having such an ineffectual power. After three centuries, the girl still allows the young woman to intimidate her.

Another young woman, this one with short, blond hair, rips off her flesh to reveal a metallic version of herself underneath. She transforms just in time to absorb the impact of the bullets fired by the FOH. I am somewhat saddened by the attack on the young blond woman. We were friends a long time ago, and I had loved her as if she were my sister. But I remind myself that when I needed her most, she refused to help me. I can't help but ponder the irony as I stand now in the shadows and watch the throngs of people turn on her.

For the first time I look at the struggling mutants and see the young man who was to be my husband. He had refused to come to my defense when he had the opportunity, preferring to stay silent rather than expose himself to harm. He is set apart from his peers, clad in black leather and wearing some type of covering over the bottom half of his face. I realize before long that they are bandages covering a severe injury. The young man would not speak up for me years ago at my trial; now it appeared that he would never speak again.

I turn my back on the scene, not wanting to stay and watch the outcome. It does not matter who wins the fight. The ones who accused me have learned the truth. Though they may not remember the accusations and the punishment they thrust upon me, they will surely remember how they have suffered here today. I walk away from the violent scene, secure in the knowledge that justice has finally been served.

As you sow, so shall you reap.

THE END