There was nowhere, Wanda thought, worse than a cloud. Up so high - so very high, up above the people, among the mountain tops. With only the eagles and the goats as your companions.
The Romani woman did not beleive in ghosts. Spitits, yes - ghosts were only a thing of a child's tale, and she had yet to see even one ghost, for all of the spirits she had seen, and sensed, and talked with. Things were different for her, in more ways than one, she supposed. After all, when ones' father comes back from the dead -- just before one has joined their fathers' rival group -- it does not usually go over well, with anyone. Including the thought-to-be-decomposing person in question, whose fatherly wrath far outreached his manipulation of metal.
A traitor, she and her brother had been called, by their own (until recently) deceased father. It had hurt, although now a derisive voice popped into her head. iI have been called worse, much worse./i Perhaps it was the young adult rebelling in her, that she scabbed over the pain, and pressed on without regretting it; without regretting it to much, that was. On the outside. Pietro had not the same fortitidue as she had, however. Wanda coud little help but notice the pinching of his face when one of the other students mentioned their family.
Their mother was dead, and had died in childbirth. Their father had died once, and it sense of forebiding sat in her chest when Wanda recalled the Xavier students' rejoicing - some of the same people who had once been releived at her fathers' burial were now her freinds.
iHow the world changes, hmm? Ever spinning, working like an intricate clockwork that no mortal can yet understand./i, she thought, dark eyes closing for a moment, head tipping back as she sighed, feeling the wind brush her hair back, like a thin, soft hand. Like the hand her mother might have used to brush her daughters hair away with, had she lived.
The sombering thought made the gypsy woman close her eyes for a moment, blocking her veiw of the cloudy sky, brightly lit by the low-hanging moon and stars, when the puffy clouds deigned to move from their brilliant veiw. She opened them again, once more composed, her lips pursing together as she recalled a tune she had heard somewhere, though the words she could not remember exactly.
For some reason, the mutant who had once been taunted and feared as a witch, a powerful and harmful woman with ill-used (and perhaps ill-given) powers, began humming her tuneless memory. After a while, her hum turned into a whistle, lilting and soft, like her own voice rarely was, even now when at peace.
Absentmindedly, Wanda trailed her hand against the iron bars of the open gates, leaving the place of her mothers' resting spot, to come back another year, boots crunching softly in the snow.