Despite What Dreams May Come

Cigar smoke floated lazily through the office, circling in hazy, grey- silver wisps. Although the room was well lit, it seemed dim, the rich oak paneling greedily drinking up the golden glow of elegant lamp light. In the mansion, everything was dark and quiet, everyone asleep. Even the owner of that comfortable office. An interloper sat in a well-worn red leather chair in front of a mahogany desk. The man, his eyes reflecting the dark glow of his burning cigar, was silent. At least, his vocal chords remained unmoved. His mind, however, continued speaking in the stillness, pondering whatever thought happened to swirl across his consciousness. And so he wrote on stationary that was not his own, his digressions, his random, yet necessary, ramblings.
All the little mutants asleep in their beds. Even the older mutants, dreaming dreams of fairies and sugar plums. And it's only June!
 A soft chuckle at that, sounded only in his thoughts.
But for some, sleep is denied. Like so many other things. No matter how badly sleep is needed, it shall not come. Not if I remain the way I am now. The responsibilities of what I have become are too great to be ignored.
 His mind paused then, with a flick of cigar ash in the glass tray lying on the desk.
Will I be like Hamlet, then? Entertaining deep, meaningful soliloquies in the dark of night? So be it. This wasn't meant to be some sort of letter, but I had no doubt that's what it would transcend into. This, like all things, is inevitable.
 The pen made soft scratching sounds against the thick, creamy paper.
But I know this has to happen, this letter...everything. Everyone needs sleep, and I am no exception, no matter how hard I try to make myself seem otherwise.
So much time has passed. So many decisions. So many mistakes. We try to make images of ourselves in our minds, but not of who we think we are. We become what people see in us, what people need from us. You are the father, the guide, the confidante. I am the crusader, the leader, the fighter. You offer peace and I offer war. Either way, we give those who come to us what they need. But what about what we need, old friend? We are merely mutants, after all, not deities. I won't assume to know what you really need. Years ago, I would have felt safe hazarding a guess, but not now. It's been too long. Too much time has passed.
 A rustling noise jolted the man from his written reverie, but it was only the heavy curtains covering the large, open window behind him, rustling in the night breeze.
And yet, time passes here, while I sit remembering. I can reminisce all I like, try to theorize about some different solution to this problem. But I come back to the same old equation, and there's no changing it's cold, gray answer. We're both the same kind of person, you and I. We need to be needed. We need to have a following, a group that believes in whatever mission we've decided upon. Same motivations, same goals, different approaches. That's what makes us the perfect friends. And the perfect enemies. Until now, the tide has been even on both sides, kept balanced through small skirmishes and shifting alliances.
But now, everything has changed.
You've turned the tables, old friend. You won immense sympathy after the Stryker ordeal and gained some important allies. All the votes are in your favor and my purpose is slowly, inexorably coming to an end.
 No one needs me anymore, save a chosen handful of followers. But what do a shape shifter, a toad, a tiger, and a firebug mean compared to a school full of mutants and a team of superheroes? They're not enough, anymore. Just like it never was for you, so long ago, when all you had was some silly dream of peaceful coexistence and nothing to attain it with. Somehow, you beat me, despite all my glorious plots and machinations. Despite it all, you've taken nearly everything from me. And yes, part of me will always hate you for that. Make no mistake. But only a small part, old friend. Mostly, I'm almost grateful. Defeated, but smart enough to see the solution when it presents itself. I am no longer needed. Therefore, I can satisfy my needs now. My need, actually. All I want to do is sleep. Just to rest. It may be a bitter, unsettled sleep at best, but my need has become to great. Sleep now, old friend, and forever hold your peace. For you've taken all of mine, and all I have left is that one, single need. I think it's high time I fulfilled it.
 Setting the pen down on the blotter, the man crushed out his cigar in the glass tray. With a soft creak, he rose. Behind him, the thick, red curtains, like the ones gracing a stage, hung in all their cumbersome, velvety glory. His gnarled hands ran over the material before pushing them open. A small sigh escaped his lips as he stared into the clear night sky, the light of the stars unmarred by the moon's overbearing face. Suddenly, he nodded to himself and turned back to the desk. Reaching up, he pulled his sleek metal helmet off his skull, turned back to the window, and walked off the ledge.
It was then that the owner of the office, Professor Charles Xavier, awoke with a start. A single thought floated like cigar smoke in his brain: "To sleep, perchance to dream." The perplexingly content feeling attached to the quote unsettled the professor. But his own need for sleep called him, and he dismissed the old Shakespearean line in favor of easy, pleasant dreams.
No one found the body of Erik Lensherr until the next morning, where he lay broken and bloody upon the smoke-gray flagstones.

A/N: This was inspired by the Challenge in a Can website. It gave me three words: Erik Lensherr. Need. Curtains. The whole story unfolded from there. Visit the website: http:www.dymphna.net/challenge/about.html