By Kara (AnyaLindir@aol.com)
Disclaimer: The X-men belong to Marvel, Fox, and whoever else produced the most awesome comic movie to date. Most of this I stole from the Bard himself, in his greatest play, Hamlet. The rest...blame it on the National Ice Skating Championships and Natalie Merchant's Ophelia.
He brought me flowers today. Flowers and herbs, for me. Fennel and columbines-and rue for me. Does he rue it? Do the voices in his head tell him to regret? I regret. Oft I hear his regret in mine own head, his voices burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye. Rue for me, but for him also.
Have rosemary, Professor, for remembrance. Pray remember, Professor. And pansies, that's for thoughts. Think oft of me. He thinks of me when he may, when his voices let him. Tell him to think of me, Professor.
And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
No, no, he is dead.
You must sing, Professor
Go to thy death-bed,
He never will come again.
He fled, Professor. His voices, the voices I caused when at last we touched. I heard his voices, Professor. I had hoped all would be well. I had thought to be patient. But I cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him in the cold ground.
No, no, he is dead.
Go to thy death-bed.
He never will come again.
I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my love died. They say he made a good end. The violets withered, though I did not touch them. But him I touched, and now…
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass green turf,
At his heels a stone.
Did you see, professor? Did you see him, naught but a withered husk? White his shroud as the mountain snow, larded with sweet flowers? Nature is fine in love, professor. Where 'tis fine, it sends some precious instance of itself after the thing it loves. But naught was sent to me, Professor. Love is the false steward, and I its messenger, bearing the touch of death.
He is gone, professor. He never will come again. Never will I feel his whisper-light touch, cloth upon cloth, the breath of his skin close to mine. The voices wrought him so carefully a grave, his madness with no method in't. He would walk on air, had his voices the notion took. The voices spoke in mine own ear, in mine own voice. Marie, they spoke, spirits of health and goblin damn'd. Brought with them airs from heaven and blasts from hell. Drew him into madness, fathoms deep, til he heard it roar beneath.
And those voices I hear still, professor. There's rosemary, for remembrance. Pray, professor, remember. Rue for you, and here's some for me.
But no violets, professor. Violets and love withered all when Logan died. He is gone, lady, and now, I go to join him.