Prologue: When There Is No God, Who Will Hear Our Confessions:

I can claim that I want to fix Charles Xavier, but I think we all know that's a lie.

I am an instrument of death, of blood and revenge. A sword is a tool for destruction; it cannot create anything other than loss. I can hear him in my head, wistful and exasperated and even a bit fond: A sword can be melted down, Erik, reshaped into a tool to build. You can be reshaped too—if you chose to. I still hear his voice so clearly and there are times when I can't help but wonder if he'd found a way back in after all. There's a comfort in the idea, having him with me, still pleading for the better man he believed so strongly in. (I know better of course, his voice is nothing more than a weak echo, I severed that bond nearly a decade ago.) I also know the inescapable truth—metal can be reshaped, repurposed, molded into something completely new. Humans are far less malleable.

Not that you could ever convince him of that. If I am the sword, he is the hammer. His power is frightening in its potential; he could be a great weapon, a destructive force more terrifying than the bomb. And yet, he only seeks to construct, to bring together, to unite.

I cannot understand him. He, who sees the darkness in humanity more intimately than any other being, will lay down his life in their defense. I had warned him, years and years ago, that such idealism would destroy him in the end. I'd seen it time and time again—I saw it in the ghettos, in the eyes of our leaders, so blinded to the cruel intentions of our captors, I saw it in the trains, in the lies the passengers whispered into each other to shield themselves from their fate, I saw it in my father, right up until my sister was ripped from his hands and shot in the street (deemed too weak to complete the trip to a more systemic death.) Every being wants to believe in the good of humanity, despite all evidence to the contrary. They carry that belief with them like a talisman, like a prayer to blind themselves to reality. I have seen what comes of such beliefs, and I have abandoned faith—in God and in man.

Charles may have stumbled, may have chosen to hide in the darkness, to bury his head in the sand, but I never believed for a second that he would chose to abandon his faith. Men like him cannot waste their lives wallowing in self pity. He may fear the pain, the burden, the promise of future loss, but wallowing does not suit him. You do not leave a hammer out to rust, it is meant to be used.

I tell myself that I need him; he is the light, the unifying force that will draw our brothers and sisters from the shadows. If I intend to build an army, I need soldiers in my ranks. I tell myself that I must fix him for that reason. But that is a lie (we all know it is a lie) for two reasons:

I cannot lose my friend to the same darkness that consumed me.

And I cannot fix him.

~xXx~

Author's note: Despite the prologue there is actually a plot to this piece, God help us all.

Next up: Erik is a terrible house guest.