I'm fully aware that there are many flaws to be found in this fic. So, before you read this, please take note that I took some liberties with it. First of all, I tried, I really did try, to get this accent business down. I guess accents just don't agree with me. Another thing, I'm not too familiar with Ororo's background story. On wikipedia it says she spent some time in Cairo as a thief apprentice before moving to some part of Africa where she was worshipped as a goddess of sorts. Let's just say, the scene takes place some time in between those two places, okay?
Disclaimer: X-Men does not belong to me.
Steadfast Silence
1.
The first night, Charles cannot sleep. He spends hours staring up at the ceiling instead, letting his mind wander, listening to the gaping silence as it stretches around him. Sometimes, he shivers; the windows are open, the thin curtains billowing like sails in the wind.
It's unbearable.
2.
"You know, it would really work better if you'd just agree to have your head shaved."
He laughs at that, letting the suggestion slide off him as easily as water slides of ducks. "Sorry, Hank. The answer's still no."
Disappointed, the young researcher merely sighs and motions for Charles to lean back. The helmet is heavy, cool metal embracing the shape of his head. Funny that, how wearing a helmet helps expand his thoughts instead of containing it; funny how out there, somewhere, there is another helmet designed specifically to block the effects of this one.
"Ready?"
All around him, the monitors beep in rhythms, soft and tinny. Charles tries to relax, urges his muscles to loosen.
Exhaling, he says, "Ready."
Like a dream, the world falls away from him. Reality melts as gently as snow as his mind replaces it, growing rapidly until he is completely surrounded by vast, pure space. A millions minds whisper all around him, all converging into one gigantic mash of voices.
Charles breathes in; the noise is exhilarating.
He is vaguely aware of Hank speaking to him but the words dissipate into the air, lost in the throng of minds. Charles tilts his head a little and lets himself be carried away by the flow of thoughts, imagining himself as a log swept away in the smooth currents of flowing water. He traces the paths carefully, mindful not to stray to close as he searches for the next recruit.
When he finds her, he edges closer, trying to figure out where she is by scanning her surface thoughts. Somewhere on the edge of his conscious, he can hear the machines whirring as they jot down the coordinates of her location. He is aware of Hank creeping towards the map, scanning the map eagerly as one finger runs down the roads marked in carefully contained interest.
While Hank fiddles with the map, making quick notes in his book, Charles closes his eyes and reaches out once more, searching.
Only silence greets him.
3.
Charles believes—truly believes—that they can coexist, can eventually learn to live together in peace through tolerance and acceptance.
Erik had laughed and wrote him off as insane.
Sometimes, Charles wonders is his friend was right.
Still, when they find her dancing in the rain, hands raised to the sky in an act of supreme command and surrounded by cheers, he realises that he's not quite ready to give up hope. Not just yet, anyway.
"I don't want to leave," she says once they're alone. "I like it here."
Sean barely suppresses a snort, but can't quite keep the sarcasm out of his words when he follows up with, "I can't possibly imagine why, seeing as how everyone here seems to worship you."
The young woman gives him a small smile but the expression is brimming with all the intensity of thunderstorms—wild and dangerous. It's enough to make Sean shift uncomfortably and look away. "I'm not leaving," she says again, and Charles knows enough by now not to argue.
Once they're back up in the sky, the steady rumble of the jet's engine filling up the background, Sean turns to him and asks, "Is it really okay to leave her here?"
He nods. "It should be alright. I'll check in on her every now and then."
Shrugging, Sean shrugs and sits down, picking up the magazine Alex left in the jet four days ago, during their trip to China.
Charles looks out the window, where storm clouds have begun to gather, huge black clouds moving towards the village with the sweet promise of rain. Lightning flashes brightly through the sky and Charles can't help but grin; he can almost hear the villagers cheering.
4.
Sometimes, if he listens hard enough, he can catch fragments about Erik. A brush here, a casual touch there, and through the vast coverage of nervous network provided by Cerebro, Charles can collect information from all over the world.
Magneto, they say.
From these brief snippets of thoughts, he forms his own report of the mutant vigilante, updating the file every time he gets a new piece of information. Through this, he fills up the silence with the pseudo presence of his estranged friend.
Magneto is behind the massive explosions in Russia; Magneto is the mastermind behind the chaos in North Korea; Magneto broke into the Pentagon; Magneto this, Magneto that.
Charles wonders if his friend ever misses 'Erik.' These days, it seems only Raven calls him by that name. Perhaps the man himself has cast it away, thrown it aside in favour of picking up that accursed helmet. He wonders if he would find it hidden under layers upon layers of sand, if only he searched hard enough.
But then again, 'Erik' and 'Magneto' have always been the same person. A transition of names, he decides, simply another form of evolution.
Some nights, he sits alone in his room and reenacts their games, shifting the pieces along the checkered board according to memory, reliving their past conversations. With every piece he moves, he asks himself, 'Was it here? Was it at this point that I could have changed his mind?'
He knows, of course, that even if he did find the answer, it wouldn't change anything.
Erik. Magneto.
Both are out of his reach; both are gone.
5.
He finds Hank deep in thought, surrounded by an audience of wires as thick as his arm. The man is reclined in his chair, manual in his lap as he scribbles numbers into a hastily drawn diagram while one leg grips the side of a steel table, casually rocking himself to and fro in a gentle tinny rhythm.
Charles pauses at the doorway. The growing ease in which Hank wears his new form is a true achievement, one that Charles can't help but smile at.
He looks up when Charles enters and flashes a smile in his direction, all traces of his former diffidence gone. "Morning, Charles. Have you seen the new recruits?"
"I saw them on the way here. It seems Alex and Sean are doing their best to impress upon them the importance of self-control."
Hank blinks. "That…should be interesting."
"The new recruits certainly think so. I can hear them laughing all the way here," he says, grinning as he moves closer to Cerebro. "Now, shall we begin?"
They find their next recruit at a casino, idly drinking his time away at the bar. Charles approaches him carefully, aware of the constant vigilance shadowing the man's thoughts. Still, Alex makes the mistake of looking his way one time too many and in an instant, there is a sudden demanding presence of a hole in the wall and a very insistent absence of the mutant they had come for.
Ten minutes later, Charles is moving down the alleyway where Hank has their runaway pinned on the floor.
"There was no need to hurt him," he reproaches, noting the bruised lip and bleeding nose.
Alex shrugs his self-defense. "You know that wasn't me. He blew up one of the garbage cans and threw himself into the wall."
Underneath Alex, the young Cajun mumbles a curse into the pavement.
"I run a school for gifted children," he begins as Alex shifts to make enough room for the mutant to sit up. "At the institution, we can help you learn to expand and control your gifts without fearing what other people think of you. Perhaps you'd like to consider joining—"
"Institution? Ain' de thin' fo' me," he says, meeting Charles' gaze and offering a wry smile. "Dis one's had enough o' de institution deal to last a lifetime."
The smile belies his panic; underneath his expression, Charles can hear the Cajun's thoughts shimmering restlessly. Charles immediately turns away, closing his mind out of respect for his privacy, but not before he hears snatches of memories—the cruel streets, the slave trade, the holding pen.
It's at time like these that Charles wonders, fleetingly, if Erik is right after all.
6.
One night, he is floating in and out of dreams when someone says, "Charles."
The process of waking is slow, almost hesitant, as if his mind cannot accept what his ears have heard. Yet there is another part of him that wants to rush, wants to wake immediately, else it be too late.
So he wakes, and blinks at the ceiling in wonderment; the silence is close, so very close.
Pushing himself up slowly—his movements are slow; his heartbeat erratic—he squints in the darkness where he can feel a pair of eyes watching him, waiting. Softly, as if speaking too loud might chase him away, Charles says, "It's been awhile, my friend."
"Indeed." A switch flips and the lights flicker to life. Erik is standing by the window, arms crossed, lips twisted up in a lazy smirk.
Charles gestures towards his surroundings. "Please, make yourself comfortable."
Walking over in a few large, confident strides, Erik plops down on one of the chairs with an exaggerated flourish. "You're not even going to ask me how I got in?"
"Oh, I'm sure you had no trouble," he replies easily.
"Spoilsport," Erik chides, albeit without heat. "And here I had the story all planned out, complete with burning forests and damsels in distress. Ah well." He casts a furtive look around him. "I see you've found yourself a nice batch of young mutants to brainwash."
Charles laughs. "They're all very fascinating. I'm looking forward to watching them grow."
"Hmm." He leans back, humming softly, arms crossed behind his head. "Of course, they're no match for my army."
A pause. "I am not," he finally says, "forming an army."
"But isn't that what this is all about?" Erik asks leaning forward once more, his dark eyes intense. "Your army against mine. Your beliefs against mine. You against me. Isn't that what we're doing now?"
Some part of Charles turns inexplicably cold, a heavy presence settling under his skin. "Is that what you think? Is that what you want this to be?"
"Well, Charles," he says, raising his hands to his head as he lifts the helmet off, placing it gently on the side table. "Why don't you find out?"
Suddenly, the silence lifts, sighing like curtains; the noise is liberating. Charles closes his eyes and finds himself reaching out without meaning to. The thoughts feel so familiar, so close that it's all he can do to remain at the surface, shivering with the effort as insistently refrains from delving into the mind that is Erik.
He can stop it now, before things get any worse. If he acts now, he would never have to listen to that silence again. A simple thought here, a few alterations there—it would be so easy.
"Don't," he finally manages to say, every breath a painful gasp—because there are some lines Charles refuses to cross, not even now. "Do not tempt me, Erik."
Erik smiles then, and the expression is soft, apologetic. "I'm sorry, Charles."
7.
In the morning, there is a piece of paper lying on the bedside table.
Charles stares at it through the after haze of sleep, trying to will it into non-existence through the simple act of wishing hard enough. When nothing happens, he rolls onto his side. Slowly, wearily, he reaches out for the note, bringing it closer for inspection.
Until next time.
The silence returns once more, wide and yawning.