Without hope we often find that we cannot go on; that we are broken. But hope isn't something so easily obtained, not like it used to be; hope, it would seem, is incredibly scarce these days.
Hope is something that comes in many forms, and fashions. Under many names. Many forms (many faces).
Hope often times will keep us alive under the most strenuous of circumstances, against the greatest of odds.
Hope will lift us from the ground, when we crash down under the weight of all of the pain; anger; hate (deathviolencehatehatehatehate).
Hope will tell us to keep walking, even when the winds are knocking our feet out from underneath us.
Hope will smile, and offer a hand when we don't think we can stand on our own again.
Hope will lie to you, until you believe in yourself. Hope will make you keep walking, running; crying; begging; hope will ensure you make it through.
But hope was much harder to find these days than it used to be. Hope had flown from him the same way the missiles had. Hope, he realized, had gone by the name Charles Xavier; it had had eyes so blue the sky looked dull; lips red enough to make him think of blood; flush on its cheeks pink to make him think of the sunset; hands soft enough to soothe him; and a mind like a trip wire.
And hope, he realized, would be trying to call him back, as long as it could. Because hope was persistent, and hope never gave up on you; even when you had long since given up on yourself.
Idly Erik wondered if he loved hope; be he concluded that he loathed it.
… until he would remember the sweet, honey smooth voice hope would use on him.
