Life Among The Ruins by Dannell Lites Life Among The Ruins
by Dannell Lites
part two
So many memories ...
To her certain knowledge, the very last person on earth Charles Francis Xavier had ever spoken to was Magnus. She hadn't meant to ease drop, of course, but ... worry for Charles had gotten the best of her. Or so she told herself. Across the gulf of years and pain she could yet recall the horror in his voice.
<"My God, Erik! My God! What have we *done*?">
And the pain in Magnus' simple reply.
<"*God* had nothing to do with it, my old friend. Nothing at all.">
There were other memories, of course; even harsher ones.
She went cold, as though in the teeth of a strong north wind, at the recollection of finding Scott Summers in the devastated ruins of their cozy boathouse home. There hadn't been much of it left by the blast wave from the NY bomb. Despite Hank's help and her own frantic efforts, it had taken more than three hours to dig him out. And when she'd seen the burns around his eyes ... those horrid burns ... she'd screamed herself hoarse. He must have been gazing into the peaceful blue sky at just the wrong time, she'd realized later. Scott had always enjoyed cloud watching. Not any longer, of course ... But they still spent the odd, lazy afternoon enjoying the sun. She smiled to remember some of those days. "Now that cloud," she remembered saying, once, "looks *exactly like Cain's nose!" Charles' step-brother Cain Marko was dead now, of course. Along with Charles. But Scott always knew just what she meant. He didn't need his eyes to see the beauty she'd described for him so lovingly. The sound of it in her voice was enough.
Her husband was still shy about the scars left in the wake of his fearsome injuries. In public, he still wore those battered, old sunglasses with the rose tinted lenses she'd found for him, somehow still intact among the rubble. God only knew to whom they had once belonged. To the casual eye, they covered all his scars. The ones that showed, at least. The ones on the outside. But they were all hiding scars in one fashion or another, Jean decided. Herself not least of all.
Just how Xavier's School For Gifted Youngsters had evolved into the Xavier Compound after the events of Silent Tuesday, she wasn't certain. She and Scott had both enjoyed teaching at their former alma mater. Along with their fellow teachers the small, quiet, private academy had suited them well. Hank McCoy might have been a Nobel laureate but he still enjoyed simple teaching. Along with his wife Moira, he had also managed to find ample time for his research in the well equipped lab that Charles Xavier provided for his most honored student. Nor could it be denied that Warren Worthington had been an excellent teacher of mathematics and the intricacies of aerodynamics. It wasn't the money that kept the independently wealthy playboy at Xavier's side. Bobby Drake had simply not known what to do with his life. So he had taught physical education at his old alma mater, pleasantly surrounded by his friends. Comfortable and familiar, Jean and Scott had gone joyously, almost directly from being graduate students to being teachers at Xavier's School. Her heart still ached at the toll Silent Tuesday had taken among their students.
Beautiful Xian Coy Mahn and her playful younger siblings Leong and Nga.
Shy little Rahne Sinclair, Moira's beloved goddaughter ...
Danielle Moonstar who loved the horses and the Proudstar brothers...
Moira's small son Kevin ...
The Madrox quintuplets ... all five of them, dead within scant minutes of one another; as if they were a single person ...
Jono Starsmore ...
Kitty Pryde and Doug Ramsey, the young computer geniuses sent to them by S.H.I.E.L.D for training ...
Argumentative Alex Summers ... Scott's younger brother ...
The list was virtually endless, it sometimes seemed.
In the end they had all lost someone. Some small part of themselves gone into the earth. and fading memory.
The painful lingering death of radiation poisoning ...
Sharp quick death at the hands of terrified mobs or wandering raiders ...
So much *death* ...
They might all be dead, she knew, if it hadn't been for John Logan. Wandering down from Canada admidst the chaos of the days and weeks ensuing from Silent Tuesday, the solid, capable man had taken on the job of protecting the people of the Xavier Compound with dogged fierceness.
"You jaspers don't know the first thing 'bout fightin', do ya?" he'd said, after a few days of close, unobtrusive observation. "Well, yer in luck. Ya found yerselves an expert."
And so they had.
And a woman named Jean Grey-Summers found a missing part of herself. It frightened her to think that were it not for Silent Tuesday she might never have meet John.
Magnus, on the other hand, she had known from the beginning.
She never knew just what it was that had driven Magnus and Charles Xavier apart. When she had first come to Xavier's School For Gifted Youngsters as a teen aged girl, Charles and Magnus had already dissolved their partnership in their "Institute For Theoretical Studies" and gone their separate ways; Charles to found his school, while Magnus remained head of the government backed Institute. Charles and Moira had quarreled when Moira invited Magnus to the School as a guest lecturer in physics, she remembered that vividly. Charles had been furious. Over the years she had eventually come to understand the philosophical differences that drove the two men to snipe and tear at one another so in public. But not the personal ones that lead them to keep reconciling and reaching out to one another. Of those, they never spoke.
But when Charles Xavier had politely declined the International Committee's award of the Nobel Prize for Medicine ... so had Magnus, his co-winner.
"It's not as if either of us needs the money," Xavier had remarked, dryly.
When Magnus returned to his government funded research, Xavier had said nothing. But the sadness in his eyes had haunted Jean's dreams for quite some time afterwards.
Enough reminiscing, woman! she told herself. Pay attention to what's happening *now*, if you please. Scott's depending on you. Beside her, she felt Scott Summers stir.
"I've been expecting you, Magnus," he said to the man making his way slowly to the forefront of the other group with quick strides of his long legs.
Perhaps because she was intimate with such things, Jean noticed Magnus' small half smile when he passed briefly by Ororo Munroe's side. Like John, Magnus was not a demonstrative man, although his feelings ran deep, if she were any judge. Neither, she suspected, was Ororo Munroe. The camera had always captured a certain icy reserve in her manner. But the quick brown hand that reached out and took the hand of the young boy Magnus led in his wake lingered a bit longer, perhaps, than it might have.
"Have you indeed?" Magnus said, watching Scott Summers. There was little mirth in his grim chuckle. "What made you think I was even still alive, Summers?"
"I knew you were still alive, Magnus," was the other man's quick answer. "Not even Silent Tuesday could kill *you*."
Jean watched as Magnus' fingers, the long elegant fingers of a musician or fine craftsman curled themselves into fists at Scott's biting, acerbic words. Unless she was mistaken, she was the only one in a position to see Ororo Munroe clearly when the exotically lovely woman reached out and gently but firmly uncurled them.
"No," Magnus finally replied, his face expressionless, with the shadows of remembered pain dancing in his pale eyes, "I am not easy to kill. I have a talent for survival, just as you say. Call it a talent, if you like ... Or a curse. But surely there was more to your belief than that."
"Oh," said Scott, a certain dryness invading his voice, "when I started hearing stories about 'The Engineer', the man who lit the halls of Washington DC once more, who brought fresh water from Lake Superior to what's left of Chicago, I suspected it was you. Fighting off Lee Forester's pirate fleet to get to the Lake must have been difficult. But you always were a determined tinkerer, Magnus. Did you know that some people are beginning to call you 'The Creator'?" Magnus had the good grace not to blush or pretend modesty.
"Nor have I come to *you* empty handed," he informed Jean's husband. He snapped his fingers, held out his hand in expectation. Swiftly, Pietro handed him a full saddle bag, then led the two pack horses forward and pushed one of several heavy looking chests off the first animal's broad back, to spill it's contents on the ground.
"Ammo!" whispered Logan in his co-husbands ear. "Hot damn, Scotty!" He eyed the other chests greedily. "Lot's of it! That's gonna come in damned handy." He looked at Magnus with grudging respect and gratitude.
Hoisting the saddle bags in his hands, Magnus smiled at Hank McCoy and proffered them to his fellow scientist.
"I thought you might find these useful, Dr. McCoy," he said.
Moira watched with deep suspicion as her husband opened the saddles bags and perused their contents eagerly. Her distrust of Magnus was evident, but the tall man ignored her scathing looks.
"Oh my stars and garters!" the bespectacled physician breathed, reverently holding up several crudely stoppered vials of thick, bright blue liquid. "Penicillin! How did you make --?" This time Magnus' tight smile was quite genuine.
"It's only a derivative of ordinary blue-green bread mold, after all," he said mildly.
"Damn ye, mon!" cried Moira, her fierce Scots heart aroused. "Where were ye last month with yair treasures? When influenza killed so many?" She shook a fist at Magnus, clutching one of the precious vials. "Ken ye not how many *this* could have saved?" Before Jean rose the specter of Moira's children; her son Kevin and her adopted daughter Rahne, burning with fever until they were both consumed by it. Henry McCoy took his wife's shaking hand tenderly in his much larger one. He looked into Magnus' eyes, dark now with some hidden passion, then looked swiftly away.
"He knows, dearest," Hank said. "He knows ... "
"And there's more!" Jean watched Hank's broad face light with joy.
The large vacuum tube that Hank held in his hand, examining it carefully, was crude by the standards that might once have prevailed for such things. But, today, in this time and place, it's existence was little short of a miracle. Blinking, Hank realized that he was looking at the solution to the problem surrounding the makeshift glider he and Warren Worthington labored so hard to construct.
"I can't imagine how you did this! Without the proper resources ... !" he exclaimed, cradling the fragile tube in his hand. Magnus seemed pleased with the implied praise.
"It helps if you have access to a good source of tungsten filament," he supplied.
Running agilely for his lab with his wife Moira and co-husband Bobby Drake in hot pursuit, his prize clutched closely to his deep chest, Henry P. McCoy was a happy man. Through the hand she held lightly Jean could feel Scott's mistrust, his fear of these gifts, so freely given.
Perhaps not free, at all, Jean's reminder to herself was harsh. Everything had a price. She wondered what Magnus' could be. And it was as if, once more, Scott read her thoughts.
"And what do you want in exchange for these riches, Magnus?" he wondered. Magnus' grim smile flashed forth like the blade of a scythe, keen and cutting.
"Why, I want to introduce you to someone," he replied. Holding out his hand, he gestured two boys forward. The younger one, about five Jean guessed, ran into his arms and demanded to be held.
"Pappa, Pappa!" the little boy with the silver hair cried. Magnus reached to pick him up and the child laughed with delight. The hard lines of Magnus' aristocratic face softened for an instant as he brushed the boy's hair from his wide blue gray eyes.
"This is my son Charles," Magnus said with pride. "And he's a very special little boy, aren't you, young man?"
"Special!" chimed Charles, nodding his head in vigorous agreement. "I'm special! Me and David!"
The older boy, who must have been around fifteen, stepped forward with a toss of his long black hair, regarding the others before him with alert, mismatched eyes.
"And this is David Haller," Magnus introduced the quiet youth, " ... Charles Xavier's son."
Jean's eyes went wide with shock and she felt Scott's hand tighten in hers in astonishment. Good Lord, she thought, we thought he must be dead. How in the name of all that's holy did he get here? He was in Israel! And Gabby! What's happened to Gabby? Is she - ?
With great care Magnus sat the little boy down. Handing him the contents of a small leather pouch hanging at his side, the tall man smiled at the child. In the twilight, the rays of the dying sun sparkled off the painted surface of several pieces of oddly shaped metal lying on the ground. Delighted, the five year old reached for his toys. Gently, Magnus spoke to the child.
"No, Charles," he instructed, "not with your *hands*."
Uncertain, the little boy peered up at his father from out of trusting but confused eyes. He frowned and bit at his lip in anxiety.
"But Papa," he confided, "it's supposed to be a big secret! You tol' me not to -" All at once nervous, he glanced at the strangers of the Xavier Compound.
"It's all right, Charles," Magnus caressed the little boy's silver hair in brief affection. Looking to the others waiting in silence, he regarded then carefully, then came to a decision.
"These are our friends," he told his small son. He knelt and smiled at the child. "You may play with your toys without touching them. No one will harm you."
Almost at once the bright pieces of metal flew into the air and began to dance about, whirling in a kaleidoscope of motion and color. At her side, John wrinkled his nose and Jean's own senses brought the brief tang of sharp ozone to invade her nostrils. After a few moments the small toys fell gently to earth and the boy made a face.
"I'm sorry, Pappa!" he lamented. "I did better this time! Longer."
Jean could her John's harsh whisper as he described for his co-husband, Scott, what had happened. Beneath the heavy glasses he wore, Jean could sense her husband's astonishment. Very much like her own she suspected. Good God! It must be a trick of the light ... or a trick of some sort ...
Mustn't it?
"Nor is Charles alone in his ... uniqueness," Magnus pressed his advantage with ruthless skill. He turned to the older boy, who was calmly watching the younger child, busy now arranging the metal bits into complex patterns known only to him. Firmly, Magnus handed the youth a small piece of wood.
"David, it's a rather chill evening, don't you agree? Perhaps a nice fire to warm us might be in order ... "
Nodding, David accepted the bit of wood and cradled it in his palm. The teenager's face furrowed in concentration, his eyes narrowing with strenuous effort. Several moments passed before he was rewarded and the wood fragment burst into flame.
"Lord God, Almighty!" gasped Sam Guthrie.
David Haller dropped the still burning ember and Magnus extinguished it beneath the toe of his boot. Politely he waited until John Logan once again described the events just passed to Scott Summers. Grim faced, the man known as 'The Engineer' watched startled wonder blossom on the haggard face of the Xavier Compound's co-Leader. Anxious now, Magnus' face grew tight with concern. Jean's green eyes widened and she was certain she shook her head to clear it. How was all this possible ... how ... ?
"I'm afraid that Charles Xavier and I had much more to do with this than any God, young man," Magnus addressed himself to the young ex-Kentuckian. He closed his eyes, awash with guilt and unexpressed pain. When he opened them again her turned them on Jean and her co-Leader. Although she was greatly tempted, the fiery red head forced herself not to look away. She meet that gaze with steady calm and was quite proud of herself for that.
"They're mutants," Magnus explained softly. "All that radiation ... Humanity is growing ... changing ... *evolving* ..." His blue gray eyes swept over the two boys, protectively. "There will be others like them. Many others. They are the future." In her bones, Jean could fell the truth of that. "But what will become of them?" Magnus' voice rang out strongly. "What will become of these 'Children of the Atom'?" he demanded. "Humanity will not be kind to them I think!"
"No," Scott Summers agreed, slowly. "You're probably right about that. What do you suggest?"
"We can seek them out," cried Magnus. "We can find them and gather as many of them as we may together. We can offer them sanctuary, a place to live and grow. And we can teach them! Charles made a school here. Then let us teach, my friends, let us teach!" He pointed at the two boys. "We have our start right there. If we join forces, work together, there is much that we may accomplish." A moment passed and Magnus slowly held out his hand to Scott Summers. Around her Jean Logan-Summers saw many faint nods of agreement.
But there were looks of reservation, too.
She watched as Warren and Charlotte climbed down off the roof. James Proudstar rose seemingly from the earth at the rear of Magnus' small group, startling Victor Creed, who growled menacingly. Jean looked at the small boy playing so innocently at Magnus' feet and thought of her own children again. But, in the end, it was the sense of purpose beyond mere survival she glimpsed in Erik Lensherr's eyes that made her decision for her. She felt Scott Summers' fingers tighten questioningly around hers. His own path was clear, she felt sure, but he waited for her to reach her own decision. Slowly, but with resolution, she guided Scott's hand until it encountered Magnus'. The many callouses that come with hard labor and grievous toil were plain to his touch as he shook the older man's hand.
"You'd better come inside," he said. "We've got a lot to talk about."
************************************************************************************** Jean stepped out into the coolness of the deepening night, inhaling a sharp breath, pulling her jacket closer around her shoulders against the Fall chill. The negotiations were going well, she thought. Soon, there might be new people, new skills and strengths added to the Xavier Compound. That was good. There was always strength in numbers, if nothing else. She smiled at the thought of new people, new friends. Sometimes it chafed her, the smallness of her world, now.
It wouldn't be easy, of course. Too much shared pain and animosity lay between Magnus and the rest of them for that. But Magnus was right. Wasn't he always? Their futures lay together. Theirs and the future of children like Charles and David. Uneasily, Jean thought of her own children, Rachel and Nathan and the one growing slowly in her womb. What if ... ?
Jean forced herself to abandon that train of thought. There was hope, she told herself. It was possible to put aside the past for the sake of the future. Her smile broadened at the thought of the proof of that she'd witnessed. Logan and Creed had begun the evening tucked casually into opposite corners of the large room that once served as a Teachers Lounge for the Xavier School, in almost identical postures of watchful alertness. Surprisingly, it has been Creed who made the first overtures.
"How ya been, runt?" he'd grunted at Logan. "Figured you fer dead. Shoulda known better."
"Yeah," Logan had growled, "ya shoulda. But ya never were much on thinkin', Vic."
Creed's lips had moved in soundless mirth. And when Logan offered the huge man a thick hand rolled cigarette from his precious supply, Creed accepted. Hunkering down before the fire blazing in the room's great stone fireplace, the two enemies had begun to talk, cautiously, feeling one another out like the hunters they were. After a while, smiles and subdued laughter had begun to waft from their small corner.
And if those two could come to terms with one another, then Jean's faith began to grow that they all might find the strength to do that. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Jean Logan-Summers offered up a tiny prayer for success.
And then she offered up another, even more fervent one, that they weren't all making a terrible mistake.
Magnus ...
My God, allying themselves with Magnus ... were they mad?
Perhaps ...
But was there really a choice?
<"There are always choices, Jean, my dear."> the memory of Charles Xavier whispered in his strong, clear voice.
Perhaps she should go and talk to Charles. Yes, she decided, talking to Charles might clear her head and focus her thoughts. In the beginning she'd spoken with Charles quite frequently, tending his grave with fresh flowers every day and news of the goings on of the Compound. Shocked, she was shamefaced to realize that she hadn't spoken to Charles in a very long time. Yes, it was past time that she did. With quick steps she began her somber trek to his side.
The large spreading oak tree by the small lake was giving shelter to two young lovers, she saw. The Compound co-Leader had lost count ot the times she and Scott or she and John had sought refuge in it's cool shade. And how many times had she found Hank or Bobby with Moira or Warren and Charlotte seeking comfort there? Too many to count. It's majestic shadow was one of the most popular places within the Compound. It was nice to think that the venerable old landmark would have new lovers to watch over.
Smiling, she watched the young man named Remy draw a coin from behind the ear of the girl they called Rogue with a flourish, as if by magic. When Rogue laughed and reached for the coin it disappeared again in Remy's clever hands. Her grin, when she hugged the young man tightly, was broad and full. Apparently she would allow no other man to touch her ... to even come near her.
Jean shut the gate leading into the cemetery and latched it carefully. Approaching the grave, she sighed. What were they to do? Could they trust Magnus? Who were these strangers he'd brought with him? What was it that would draw them all together, make them put aside their differences as they must if they were to succeed?
"Charles, it's Jean," she began softly. "I need to talk - " But she got no further.
For there, laying on the simple, rough hewn tombstone marked, "Charles Francis Xavier" was the answer to all her questions. Her eyes glistening tears, she wondered where he could possibly have gotten such a thing. Somewhere, they must be growing wild.
It was dark, but still her eyes clearly brought her the sight of the single red rose Magnus had left laying on the grave. The freshening wind hadn't yet blown it away.
The End
