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The ocean was humming in his ears. Clean, salty smell of water and light breeze filtered in as well as sharp, stinging pain in his foot. Charles drew in a pained hiss, as his eyes focused on the pale sea urchin, barely visible on white sand, whose spines went deep into the instep of his right foot.
Confused, he stumbles back, and though he doesn't quite lose his balance, he is dangerously close to it.
What is he doing here? On the beach? How come?
His eyes take in the faint yellow hue spreading up from the line of horizon, merging with the deep blue of the night sky. Moons are already losing their dominion. Their outlines are becoming thin and gentle. The ocean sighs and Charles groans and does drop on one knee.
He twists his neck back when he hears the rustle, and a hybrid stops right on the spot, as though Charles has developed the ability to freeze time. He never did. He can't even get into the creature's chaotic, yet awfully simplistic mind. A general impression of something he interprets as anxiety is the only thing his telepathy can conceptualize.
"I'm alright," Charles says, as he feels pain and numbness spreading through his foot and immediately recognizes what it entails.
The hybrid stays unnervingly silent, watching Charles with all of its glinting eyes. Its front limbs are hovering over the sand.
"Though, I'd appreciate some help," he gives up then because pain is spreading too fast to his liking.
The hybrid is by his side that instant and Charles berates himself for flinching at the other's touch. The creature is nothing but careful and gentle, helping him get rid of the urchin.
"Be careful," stutters Charles a bit too late, but then realizes that his warning is uncalled for.
"Needn't worry, Master's Friend," gurgles the hybrid proudly, casually handling the urchin. "Thick skin."
"How many times should I ask you to call me Charles?"
"Aren't you Master's Friend?"
"I'm not the person you're taking me for," Charles closes his eyes, suddenly nauseous. "I hope your lot didn't wake up Erik because of this. Ah, yes. Of course, you did."
He hears Erik's worried mental call in his head as clear as if Erik is speaking right beside him. Charles looks back at the villa in the distance. Lights are on.
I stepped on the urchin. Sorry, that you had to wake up.
He doesn't get an immediate reaction and this is a testimony of all that legendary mental training the Eisenhardts are so proud of. And, well, Erik has been good at giving him space. Actually, he has asked quite a few times if Charles is fine with living in the same house. Charles feels that his mind is dangerously close to jumping in the cursed loop, so he forces himself back into the reality of dilating pain and pulsing nausea.
I need an antidote.
He formulates a thought, though it might not be necessary, because Erik never forgets about this stuff.
Also, I probably need some shoes.
Erik responds with a wordless, amused bit of emotion.
As hybrid and he sit there in silence, watching Erik and another one of the spidery lifeguards crossing the sand, Charles marvels at what has happened to him. He went to bed when the second moon showed up. And then, he finds himself, clad only in his pajama pants, on the beach.
The rush of heat following the injection is very brief. Erik makes him put his finger on the portable scanner again, then. The readings seem to be satisfying, because Erik nods and stands up, holding out a hand.
"It shouldn't even be here," Erik looks at the urchin, picked up by the hybrid. "Not this season, anyway."
Charles hums in agreement.
Where would he go, had he not been stopped by this unfortunate animal?
Supported by Erik, he limps back to the villa, eyes downcast.
He has never been sleepwalking before. Why now?
"Do you want anything to drink?" asks Erik as they enter the kitchen area.
"No, I'm good."
"You are still a little feverish," points out Erik, finally letting go of him.
His new job makes Erik sound the part, thinks Charles, and smiles.
"Going for a walk this early is not like you," Erik is prodding, so very evident.
"I'm getting very lazy," Charles huffs an awkward laugh. "Maybe, I need to change my routine. To do something out of character."
Lying by omitting the truth is not excusable, should not be, but it comes to him faster than ever. A prick of guilt follows up.
"Out of character? For instance?"
Charles shrugs. This conversation has abruptly made a rough turn. He does acknowledge and appreciate the sweetness of monotony, all well-memorized late dinners and walks they have, the fragrance and sight of tropic plants, the air, which is always laden with ozone, the long, precious quiet.
As Erik turns to say something, one of the hybrids clicks in that otherworldly tongue of theirs, and Erik responds with a shake of his head.
"Told you to speak so that Charles could understand," he reprimands the creature and poor hybrid drops to the floor, limbs shaking.
"Nice groveling," Erik comments, "but unnecessary."
"I believe, they don't understand your sarcasm," speaks up Charles.
"I'm strangely comfortable with it right now," drawls Erik, picking up a glass.
Hybrids and Erik leave to start their morning training routine, which is an interesting sight if one is into mixed martial arts. Charles, after some contemplating, limps to the room he claimed as study and plugs in his tablet.
A message from Moira pops up on screen. Seeing that she and Erik are the only humans, who he has been communicating with on rather amicable terms these past two years, Charles is always glad to engage in a small talk. At the moment, though, there is a different concern on his mind.
He adjusts the armchair so that his head can rest on the cushioned top, and puts the sensor pads on his temples. At times like these, he is extremely grateful that the abilities of his mind allow him to dive deeper and process more than an average mainframe user ever could. Diving into global network lets him stretch and exercise his awareness. One more thing he actually hasn't done for a long time. Recently, while reading about the war, he accidentally came across some odd virtual bug. Something about it caught his attention, made him look into it more closely. That is, until he discovered that it was a curiously twisted piece of code, that kept on changing again and again. Which, when he finally takes hold of it, reveals a short, enigmatic message. The promise of salvation? And what or who is "Nova"?
He immediately thinks back to Erik's and his exchange this morning about him doing something unusual, and he cringes when he realizes that when he refers to Erik in his mind he sometimes keeps on picturing Max. Like a shadow. Except that it is so much more.
And Erik. Why isn't Erik tired of caring? How could he insist on — Charles stomps on the dangerous thought.
He opens his eyes and closes them gain. Gentle sunlight is caressing the side of his face, which means that the sun is already up.
His foot doesn't hurt anymore. When he puts his weight on it, it feels fine. Apprehensive of his new discovery in the virtual, Charles gets up to leave the study and completely forgets about Moira's message.
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Occludera is basically one giant holiday destination. A planet, habitable subtropics of which were housing resorts of various kind. It used to be a distant, quiet world, with minimal human presence. But, it was before the war and before that groundbreaking technology of interdimensional travel was introduced. Since then, Occludera has been turned into a great post-war rehabilitation center, accepting ships from all over the Union.
"I bought you an island here," said Erik out of the blue, not even lifting his eyes from the control panel.
They were entering the planet's troposphere, their ship was just about to pierce fluffy, white clouds. Sensors were silently analyzing data, while Charles was mutely digesting the fact that his not quite enemy, not quite friend, has apparently presented him with the entire island.
"Well," he cleared his throat. "Thank you for bringing me up to date in such a timely fashion."
"You told me you didn't want to go home. Not yet," Erik gave him a brief sideways glance. "You know, it's not a big deal. You can take this ship and claim your property back any time you want."
Charles hardly knew what to do with this kind of information. The painful sense of detachment never left. It was possible he might go back. To loyal Hank, to his estate, to the discovery he had made. Or was it? His native world was a true domain of advanced technology shouldered by an archaic system of law. In fact, should he decide to show up and stake his claim, he will, most likely, face a lengthy legal nightmare.
The ship plunged down and was hovering right above the spaceport, awaiting registration. Charles closed his eyes and almost sunk in the seat. All these minds, bright and dull, quiet and loud, were suddenly pressing on his shields. The suppressed dread was forcing its way to the surface. There was no evading it.
"An island would be nice," he said. "Thank you."
Erik said nothing. His mind was a still, vibrant beacon — it remained perfectly steady and soothingly familiar, and, under the circumstances, it was, perhaps, the very thing that helped Charles assert his ground. Literally.
The island was lovely, indeed. And reasonably remote from the continent.
After they put the ship in the underground hangar, Charles ventured onto the beach. He itched to take off his rough uniform, relieved that the background noise of collective consciousness was out of reach. To face a vast, empty ocean was a relief on its own. Behind him, there were rich, dark greens and browns of tropical woods. When he looked ahead, the colors he could see were blues and greens of water and sky.
"Listen, I was being unfair to you back then," he said, sensing Erik's approach. "I must apologize."
Erik stopped when he came level with him.
"You have done no such thing," Erik replied with the same unbearably strong composure. "I'm grateful you're alive. That you're talking to me at all. I don't know how I would have reacted were our positions reversed. I'm even more grateful that you didn't get to go through all these things you've gone through during the war."
Charles thought back to the impressions and glimpses from Erik's mind — naturally enough, those recollections of torture and brutality were remarkably vivid. An unpleasant idea was attached to these flashbacks, born in the depths of Charles' mind. He was an anomaly.
"Hey," Erik patted his back and withdrew his hand just before Charles could fully comprehend the notion of touch. "What you are thinking, it's not —"
"How do you what I'm thinking? Am I projecting again? "
"No, not like that. I just know that look."
Charles smiled a little. As a matter of fact, there was something grimly amusing about Erik's and his relationship: Erik not being his old friend, not exactly, and Charles not being the Charles.
"You're right," Charles let tension bleed from his shoulders. "The war is over. This is what matters."
Without a word, Erik looked him in the eye and Charles saw something he didn't expect then. Hesitation.
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"Where are you going?" asks one of the hybrids, smartly adding his unusual clothes and visible appearance change together.
"I'm going to the city," Charles eyes four grey figures on the porch with contemplation. "Who is coming with me?"
On hearing his words, hybrids start clicking excitedly, peering at him with dark, glinting eyes full of all hope in the universe.
"Oh, my," Charles sighs and then folds his arms, leveling hybrids with a shrewd look. "Listen, guys, we agreed, that you can go in turns. Since I can't tell you apart, it's up to you to establish a queue. By the way, this is what I hope you're learning — how to organize your own community. This is something neither Erik nor I can do for you. Yes?"
One of them steps up.
"I want."
These words evoke some different degree of excitement among the rest.
Straining all his senses Charles cannot detect that anything is off, but he knows that something is. Maybe, he has just learned to read their body language.
"Is agreement mutual?" he asks, because he prioritizes prevention above all, in this case.
A bizarre sight of big humanoid spiders with their jaws wide open could send chills down anyone's spine. As for Charles, he is torn between being amused and exasperated.
"I guess, it is. Come along," he says to the one who is the closest to him.
He takes a thin path circling the hill, which masks the hangar. Hybrids clean it every other day, otherwise, thick vegetation would cover it completely, so intense is its growth. Cedar smell is particularly concentrated today. Its aroma is thick and heavy, like a lingering cloud, covering the woods. It's perfect, thinks Charles, as he looks up at the sunshine falling through the leaves.
No, wait a minute. It's too quiet.
He stops by the hidden backdoor to the hangar and frowns.
"Where are the birds?" he asks the hybrid, trying and failing to nip the suspicion in the bud.
His question is met with a curious look in round eyes and a tilt of a bald head.
"Everyone, I know that you can hear me," Charles says mildly. "Evidently, there should be certain limits in place, which we failed to establish. When I come back, we're going to talk about hunting rules."
His flyer is stationed in the far corner, just by a ventilation vault, and, since Charles doesn't use it as often as Erik does his, it is covered up, looking like a big snowball. With hybrid's help, Charles uncovers it and, after letting his companion crawl into the backseat, initiates a routine system check.
While his hands are busy, his mind is elsewhere. By his calculations, he will reach his destination in an hour. Erik is not expected to arrive till midnight: he's got a shift today. There is no way he is going anywhere without at least one of Erik's hybrids. It is beyond dispute. And Charles understands that Erik's life has been constructed on and around such precautions. That's why every time Erik leaves he wears a mask, which disfigures his features just enough not to be recognized as an Eisenhardt. And Charles picked up that habit as well. Telepathy could help him in most cases, but it is useless against certain species and technology, such as reconnaissance drones, for instance.
It is simple for Erik, who has decided to break up with his legacy. Though, if someone asked Charles what exactly he was hiding from, he would take his time to answer.
Out there, in the sky, the clouds are gathering: grey and ready to burst with warm rain. When Charles leads them through the thick patch, everything turns dull and lifeless for a while. Until the flyer passes the storm, and sun lights the skies again.
He lays course to Harlan, the main tourist attraction of the latitude if he is to believe local media. He dimly remembers the city as the one bursting with life. While exploring the planet and relearning what it means to be amongst thousands upon thousands of minds, he paid a visit to this city too. Actually, it was Erik who took him out on a carnival night. Charles has got a handsome backlash from all that torrent of raw desires and tipsy joy. Despite Erik's apologies, that occasion made Charles suspect that Erik, in his misguided attempt to help him take reigns of his ability, had resorted to a sink-or-swim tactic.
Harlan doesn't betray his expectations.
Without a doubt, Charles has managed to restore his equilibrium at least to some extent. At the moment, he adjusts to mental noise with relative ease.
They leave the flyer in the parking zone, as flying within city limits is banned. Charles discovers that they have to use underground. He certainly doesn't remember that, for some reason.
City park covers a gigantic area by modern city standards, but, here, far from the central worlds, land is not a luxury.
While Charles is strolling, deliberately carelessly, through the park, the hybrid is following him from the distance. Charles lets his awareness spread out. Farther and farther. He sweeps through minds gently and carefully, mindful of picking up only surface impressions. The snow-white statue of Erik in ceremonial Valkar cape catches his eye and Charles can't help it. He pauses to take in Max Eisenhardt ХIХ, the Peacemaker, in his full glory.
"You like it?"
Charles darts a look at the long line of statues, adorning the sidewalk.
"I have mixed feelings about it," he says honestly and turns to the young, tall woman with flaming hair.
He loses his speech momentarily.
"Oh, I know. I look just like her," she smiles ruefully.
And indeed she does. If pictures are right, she is the splitting image of the Empress, born Jean Grey. The impostress taken down by Eisenhardt himself in the final battle for L'har.
"I considered doing something to my hair, or getting my face refixed. If you know what I mean," she says with sincerity common between strangers, who will never come across each other again.
Charles lowers his eyes, amazed by an unexpected and strange encounter.
"That must be very inconvenient," he says with feeling.
"I try to look at the bright side. Sometimes, other people get strangely complacent when I ask for something," she smirks and Charles responds in kind.
"At least, I'm not a mutant," she adds and slightly wrinkles her nose. "That would be awful."
Charles takes a look at her mind and swallows a question, because her mind is not just bright. It is burning in the spectrum Charles came to associate with great psychic potential. Yet, it's dormant, as though asleep, and Charles withdraws quickly.
"I'm not from around here, so sorry for a weird question," Charles begins, meeting her eyes. "I'm looking for a meeting spot of a kind. Is name "Nova" familiar for you?"
"Universe provides, you see," she smiles with an odd expression. "Today, Universe has provided you with a guide. This war, it had taken so much from us, had hurt us in so many ways, that we, believers, feel the need to unite. Against the lies."
She gestures to the statues and Charles' skin turns cool, as if exposed to a drop of temperature.
"Only those who are aware can see the signs and find us," she goes on. "I'm Madeline. And you?"
"Charles," gets out Charles, and, shocked at his slip, draws in a breath.
"What did it take from you? What is it that you lost, Charles?" Madeline asks him gently.
"My life," he says and he means it.
On the way to the rendezvous point, Madeline shares her own story. She tells Charles that her parents and her fiancé were killed in the crossfire when Herlir attacked a Union convoy. They were traders, she says. They were just coming home. Her incredible calm is what strikes Charles the most. Her mind remains full of light, her mental landscape stays serene and quiet, despite grim words spilling from her lips.
Charles feels as though he is caught is a web of a bad recurring dream, but he knows the value of confession very well. That exact feeling of being betrayed is often lingering, sometimes detaining human will and spirit for a very long time.
Together with him and Madeline there are only forty-two people there. They are sitting in the circle right on the grass, on the patch of parkland comfortably tucked between two hills. When Charles enters the range of the portable projector, he finds himself in the large, tall hall, adorned with white curtains, with a square podium in the middle. There is a projection of a speaker on that podium. The projected face gets distorted by random flashes and voice is interrupted by white noise, so Charles can't really tell how that person looks or sounds. It must be transmitted from a great distance.
"We admitted we were made powerless," says a voice, "that our lives were unmanageable. Our hopes and dreams, our plans, our feelings, were altered by that unlimited atrocity. Some of us reacted with rage, some humbly asked for it to stop, some tried to bargain, but did it matter?"
Charles takes a seat next to Madeline and carefully reaches out to feel the crowd. He is met with less resonated emotion than he initially expected. Mostly, all these people are just so quiet. One way or another, it's not something he was hoping to hear.
"We are here together, because we've made a searching and fearless inventory of ourselves," continues the speaker and his words are slowly but surely charging the crowd. "We are here, because we know what lies beyond. Because there is a world filled of power that can change things, that can bring war lords to their knees, that can make the worlds collide…"
Well, Charles admits to himself, it does sound very generic, despite that initial rather interesting hook in virtual. Instead of listening, Charles is slowly yielding to his thoughts, so particularly centered on his sleepwalking episode. He reflects that he should have told Erik about it, to give a sketchy account of what happened at least.
"A Power greater than ourselves came into our world when it was on the verge of epiphany. No human or arrogant mutant can ever hope to overcome —"
Truth be told, he could fill up this whole discourse. Charles is toying with an idea to wipe his presence from everyone's minds and disappear, and, probably, share this misadventure with Erik later. Erik will, perhaps, be slightly entertained, will propose his brand sarcasm to spice the tale. Or, he can switch to subtle interrogation mode, always picking his words carefully when around Charles, always mindful of his emotions, always on the watch.
"He is amongst us now. The Power that brought him back from the dead showed him the exact nature of wrong and right. The false heroes will fall. He will bring the traitors to justice and thus remove all their faults."
A moment before Charles' intention to leave cements, he stops in his tracks, truly frozen, as the voice is saying, implying something only a few living souls can know.
"He knows what transpired two years ago, for nothing can stay hidden from him. He knows that she is alive. He is searching, he is ready to triumph over the Cursed Empress and over the Valkar fraud who conspired against us all."
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Just as Charles touches his sensor pads, he feels a sting and hears a hiss of static. The sound faintly resembles the one he used to be witness to in the lab about a dozen times per day. Now is not the good time to malfunction, please.
Charles turns to the hybrid, loitering in the corridor by his study, too curious to leave, but too obedient to come in, and sighs a heavy sigh.
"Do you think Erik will mind if I borrow his equipment?"
The question was most likely phrased in a way, that was difficult to comprehend, understands Charles a fraction too late.
"Are you asking whether Master might get angry with you?"
"Oh," Charles stares at the hybrid, a tad disgruntled with his own clumsy self. He doesn't do them enough justice, it seems. "Sorry. Yes, something like that."
Charles knows that Erik thinks his hybrids are scaring him and that's a valid concern, seeing that they have been created with the purpose to withstand telepathic influence and, consequently, to eliminate those psionic hostilities. But this is not exactly the case. There is something else about these creatures, forever allotted to bear the burdens of the past… Something, that unsettles Charles so very deeply and jeers his mounting guilt.
"He likes you very much," hybrid makes a show of spreading its front arm-tibias and baring fangs. "He might, but he will not."
"Thank you," Charles makes sure to pause and pat that lowered bare head.
Hybrids usually get rather pleased when touched by Erik, so, after melting his initial reservations, Charles decided that trying it was worth it. After all, upon seeing Charles by the lake they didn't give any notice that they might tear off his arm, or, well, do something worse.
There are four blue spheres constantly alight around Erik's workstation and Charles touches the one by the door to force it into brightness. Organic crystals, the spheres are cut of, react to warm touch. Charles recalls that they are said to have cleansing, almost healing qualities. He was surprised that Erik, or Max, for that matter, who never was into any décor, except for Valkar traditional attire, developed a wonderful preference for these lights.
Charles wanders around the big, circular desk, unsure where to begin looking. Erik's desk in perfect order, as always. Charles peers over at the glazed shelves, which are displaying a variety of medical scanners and other related equipment, some of which he can't even recognize.
If he were spare sensor pads, where would he be?
The blinking dot in the corner of the side holographic screen on the terminal is so tiny, it's easy to miss. Still, Charles focuses on it, and he has no idea what makes him unfold the screen — what is one dubious decision of this day among many?
"It figures," he whispers, as a stream of data lights up in front of his eyes.
Mind control, possession, mental amnesia, telepathic illusion, psionic shielding. Disorientation, mood swings, short-term memory loss, perceptual distortion, impaired language capabilities, aphasia, dissociative disorder, sleep disorder. Everything neatly referenced and ordered into interlinked categories.
It is a cruel coincidence that this is the exact moment he hears Erik's voice in his head, senses Erik approaching from the direction of the hangar.
I'm in your room, says Charles and then adds quickly, not the bedroom, your workshop, in case I didn't make myself clear.
You did now.
Erik's mind is capable of formulating nicely distinct messages and even attaching emotional coloring, like a smile, for instance.
"I apologize for the intrusion," starts Charles, as Erik appears around the corner. "I was looking for a spare pair of sensor pads, and I didn't mean to, um, pry into your research."
Erik, still wearing a plain-featured face, looks over Charles' shoulder and cringes, coming to a stop by his desk.
"Lord, that's unfortunate," he says, but the absence of inflection in his voice and only the faintest coloring of guilt speak for themselves. "I mean, I can't even guess what you might be thinking. But, let me explain, because, I swear, I harbor no malicious intent towards you."
"I like how you single me out," Charles slowly shakes his head, mutely wondering how similar two of them are. "What I'm thinking? I'm thinking, you've been researching telepathy and related ailments because you've made it your mission not to let anything bad happen to me again."
"I won't," says Erik harshly, proving Charles right and proving his rigid, inflexible purpose.
Scanning Erik in his current state feels a lot like getting tipsy, for Erik's demonstrative desire is intoxicating enough to both drag Charles closer and push him away.
"It's fine. I caught a cross-reference to my father's research, which, I thought, was buried for good. You've done a truly amazing job," speaks Charles softly, because his calm reaction, instead of putting Erik at relative ease, is forcing him to wind up, instead.
"There is not enough," is Erik's answer. "I was on that plane of reality, in that dimension, and yet it is hardly ever mentioned in any of the chronicles. Also, telepathy is an entire subclass of mutation, which started evolving hundreds of years ago. There should be damn archives somewhere. There aren't. My people, my Empire waged war against a telepathic alien race. And where is the data? What I know, it's not available even with my resources."
"Essex… Rumors are he had been studying psionics for over a century," mutters Charles, and he hates that the sound of that name has yet to fail as an unfairly painful reminder for Erik.
Erik nods, sharply, thrusting his hands in his pockets. Charles knows that he isn't cross, he simply can't bear the combination of that name and Charles uttering it.
"I store them in my bedroom, actually. Sensor pads," smirks Erik, shifting to an initial topic. "And, if you're interested in what I found, it's all yours. Like it meant to be. Surely, with your abilities, you can sort it out faster than me."
"Thank you. I also need to talk to you."
"Is anything the matter?"
Erik must have picked up something, for alert has triumphed over sadness in a heartbeat and he is coiled like a predator before the attack.
"I'll tell you. I just need to try something, to do a trial, if I may say so."
"Come again?"
"While you've been busy with my issues, I've been thinking of something too, which makes weird sense right now," Charles explains, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You see, you're absolutely right. There are probably thousands of us, telepaths, scattered all over the known universe, with varying degrees of skill and capabilities, and yet, we don't always utilize our powers properly. What was done to you, is, to my utmost regret, not a single violation committed by a telepath. But, despite the atrocities, it made me think that there's a whole range of possibilities we are missing — like, say, storing up, writing down a memory, an actual memory, not the construct. We tried to and we failed so many times, that it was deemed fruitless. Think about it, Erik, what if it's not about the technology, but about choosing the conductor. And, I believe, this discovery, if made, can —"
"Can change the world," finishes Erik and Charles experiences a strong, hot rush of pride and affection, that enhances Erik's attention and, which, to Charles' sudden embarrassment, brings color to his cheeks.
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After dark swimming became one of Erik's new quirks. And, though, the dip must certainly be refreshing, Charles is watching the skyline and the moving dot that he thinks is Erik with a bit of weariness. Moons are faint tonight, therefore they hardly illuminate the ocean, as if wary of caressing its uneven waves. The ocean breathes, magnificent and desolate, a glorious observer of fleeting human passions.
Charles checks the sand for any wildlife before sitting right on the spot beside Erik's carefully folded things. He is nursing a warm drink in his hands, a local tea he grew quite accustomed to. There can be no harm in affirming, so he casts his mind out and around: the ocean and the island are still and safe, shut off from the rest of the world. A place to dream in. One may come to doubt it even exists.
So far, Charles muses, this day has been one of the most eventful in his new life.
Coupled with his excitement, there comes tiredness, that's why he is watching the ocean with dropping eyes.
Erik comes out from the water with some god-like grace Charles has always admired. He looks the part too. Honoring body and mind can very well be a vital part of Erik's inherited dogmatism.
"I wanted to test whether I can record my today's memory, but no, it didn't work with the stuff I've got here," mutters Charles, looking up at approaching Erik, half-covered in darkness.
"You need another medium?"
Erik's shadow runs a hand through his wet hair.
"Nanomachines won't do, I'm afraid," Charles manages in a drowsy voice.
"Can it wait till morning?" asks Erik, rolling back his shoulders.
Charles frowns, glancing up at the starry sky doubtfully.
"Do you mind? I can show you right now."
"I never mind you showing me stuff," grins Erik, unfairly energized by his swim.
"Done."
The absence of immediate verbal reaction from Erik is full of words not spoken. That's why, he decides to wait, patient. It occurs to him that he should outlast his curiosity, should refrain from reading Erik's mind.
"It's safe to say, that were you not the person, who might neglect his own safety and who would insist often on venturing out, in the dark unknown, I'd be as good as dead. It's not like I'm trying to force you to abide, far from that."
Erik mutters the rest harshly, standing immobile and watching his face.
"But, I will ask you, still. Can you, please, let me be there for you?"
The serene stillness and lulling cadence of waves become crashing. Something long overdue is taking place right here, right now. As Charles slowly lifts his eyes, a few stray thoughts come, get startled and leap away, but, when he finally does meet Erik's eyes, Erik looks away.
Far away, above the horizon, a thin red line crosses the sky. The impeccable night sky seems to be stained with a malicious smother.
"Better be safe than sorry," Erik bends to pick up his stuff. "If something strange and potentially dangerous is in the works, it'd better be crushed sooner rather than later."
He speaks like a warlord that he is, and this way of thinking is natural, just like his honed combat style and the way he carries himself.
"What if they are just, you know, like-minded individuals looking for a therapy. For an outlet. I saw such amounts of grief in each of them."
"However, it made you worried. I see why. That speech. It's disturbingly reminiscent of something. Or someone," points out Erik. "'Post-war world is always extremely fragile: while the agreements seem temporary and weak, the wounds are fresh and not closing as fast as expected.' This a quote from my mentor on war strategy. She was very explicit about keeping civilian population under control during and even after structural reconstructions. A frugal, commoner's mind cannot defend itself, she would say."
"Well, if it's not condescending, I don't know what is."
"Yeah, indeed. But, she was right. A little cheap oratory, a half-mystic and glorious ceremony, certain preliminary lead-up — and the blood is spilling."
Reluctant, yet trying to be impartial, Charles thinks back to Madeleine and the rest of them with regret.
"I, no — we," Charles corrects himself. "We will investigate."
"Of course," recaps Erik.
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