Author's Note: Well, I know I said this would be the last chapter of this story, but given the way it has broken down, there will be one more chapter after this. There's a few minor changes in this too…instead of Erik hiding in San Francisco the way he is at the end of X3 (since we see Warren fly past the Golden Gate Bridge before he flies past Erik in the park) Erik is instead still in New York. Also, I made reference to Charles' regaining the ability to walk, but being temporarily unable to due to the power of his own mind. This is a reference to an event from the original Uncanny X-Men comic books from the 1960's, specifically issues 167 and 168.

Enjoy!


Four months later…Central Park…

He really was pathetic. Everything he had seen, everything he had been, and yet everyday found him coming to the damn park, dressed like a refugee from a retirement community, the chess set from Charles under his arm. He would sit at one of the tables and set up the game, but no one ever came over to join him. So he would sit there for hours, staring at the beautiful set and remembering the many games of chess he had played with Charles and the discussions they had had.

The weather was steadily growing colder, and it would be Christmas again soon. New York was already turning out its finery – elaborate window displays, strings of lights, advertisements for sales and gifts. And what would he be doing? Most likely he'd still be coming to the same damn park, freezing his ass off, setting up a chess game, and sitting there, lost in his memories.

The era of peace Charles had dreamed about was still progressing. There had been a few outbreaks of violence between mutants and non-mutants, but the man who had once called himself Magneto couldn't bring himself to care. He was no longer a mutant, after all, but at the same time he couldn't count himself among the humans either. He hadn't thought of himself as human since he was twelve years old.

Finishing Charles' letter had done nothing to allow him to put the telepath out of his mind, the way he had hoped. Rather, it had only caused him to think of his friend more often. His thoughts were constantly dwelling on the years he had wasted preparing for war, wondering why Charles had felt the need to be so damn noble and so generous with his forgiveness, and thinking about his friend's words about the mansion always being his home.

Why can't I just lay you to rest, Charles? he wondered in frustration as he set up the iron and marble set at what was quickly becoming his regular table. Why are you so determined to haunt me?

Absently, he moved a black pawn forward two spaces. Just like him, the pawn was merely a tool in the hands of others, a tool used to lure more powerful pieces into traps. Most people would look at a chess board and believe that the king was the most powerful piece on the board – but in truth, the king was merely a glorified pawn. In reality, the most powerful piece on the board was an honor given to the queen, the king's stalwart defender.

Which were we, Charles? he wondered, not for the first time. Pawns or kings? And if we were the kings, who were our queens? Our defenders?

Until recently, he would have said Mystique was his queen. She could take so many forms; she could assume the powers of the rest of the king's defenses, direct attention away from him. Like the rook, she could be steady and cold in her resolve. Like a knight, bold and flamboyant in her attacks, and like a bishop subtle, yet strong in defense. Yes, Mystique had been his queen.

Of course, like him, Mystique was no more. Now she was simply Raven, the girl – the woman – he had met so many years ago. Mystique had died, just as he had – at the tip of a syringe, through a drug injected into her blood. The black king and the black queen had fallen, and fallen hard.

But who then was your queen, Charles? Who was your steadfast defender; who would have laid his or her life down for you?

Jean? From what he had heard, the girl was certainly willing to sacrifice herself. After all, she'd proved that at Alkali Lake. But then again, she was host to the Phoenix for so many years, and the Phoenix had used her "death" in order to break the psychic bonds that Charles had leashed it with. So perhaps not.

Storm, maybe? She had certainly defended Charles' ideology, and she had the power to be the telepath's defender to the very end. More so, she was willing to defend regular humans, and stand up even to him – such strength of character had deeply impressed him, even though she had been firmly one of Charles'.

He considered the positions of the white and black queens, sitting on the board beside the kings, ready to leap forward in their defense. Yes, it was more than likely that Storm, not Jean, would have been Charles' queen.

A white knight was moved forward to counter the black pawn and provide a threat.

We have both had our knights, have we not? Other than our queens, any of our followers could have served the roles of knight, bishop, and rook, couldn't they? In that, we were evenly matched…but you played the weaker hand, Charles. You could never think of your students as pawns to be sacrificed.

Slowly his self-played game progressed, each move causing a moment of introspection, just as it had when he had played with Charles. If he concentrated, he could almost imagine the telepath sitting across from him, amiable smile in place as he tried not to hear the strategies being broadcast across the board. Piece by piece, each move therapeutic, the game played itself out, with neither side gaining a clear advantage. The purpose of this game was not for one side to defeat the other handily, after all – it was to bring peace to his troubled mind.

Eventually, of course, even the kings had to take the field of battle. He reached across the board to move the white king out of a trap set up by a black bishop and a black rook, only to pause as something about the configuration of the board and its pieces struck a chord in his mind. He studied the layout carefully. What was so familiar about it?

Charles sighed and reached to move a piece. "Cuba. Russia. America. It makes no difference. Shaw's declared war on mankind, on all of us. He has to be stopped." The telepath leaned back and reached for his glass of scotch as Erik set his martini down on the table behind him and leaned forward to take his turn.

He eyed Charles closely. "I'm not going to stop Shaw." Charles looked up. "I'm going to kill him." He moved his king forward to capture Charles' bishop. "Do you have it in you to allow that?"

He watched his friend as Charles huffed out a little breath and leaned forward again to study the board, although the telepath didn't respond immediately. "You've known all along why I was here, Charles. But things have changed. What started as a covert mission – tomorrow, mankind will know that mutants exist. Shaw, us – they won't differentiate." Charles looked up at that. "They'll fear us. And that fear will turn to hatred."

"Not if we stop a war." Charles reply was quiet, but rang with conviction. "Not if we can prevent Shaw. Not if we risk our lives doing so."

"Would they do the same for us?"

"We have it in us to be the better men," Charles insisted, his bright blue eyes boring into him.

"We already are!" Erik locked gazes with Charles, trying to make him see, to make him understand. "We're the next stage of human evolution –" Charles was shaking his head, "- you said it yourself!" Charles looked away and swallowed some of his scotch. "Are you really so naïve to think they won't battle their own extinction?"

No response.

"Or is it arrogance?" Erik asked, knowing that would provoke a response.

Charles looked up, his face showing his shock and – for the briefest of moments – a little hurt. "I'm sorry?"

"After tomorrow, they're going to turn on us. But you're blind to it, because you believe they're all like Moira."

"And you believe they're all like Shaw." Charles met his gaze again. The compassion, caring, and intensity of those eyes was always enough to swallow him in. It was…nice to have someone who cared about him after all these years, but it was such a foreign feeling. But it was because of that care that he had to make the telepath see the truth. To be so convinced of the acceptance of mankind, only to have that shattered…it would destroy everything that was good and innocent about Charles. Erik couldn't let that happen, he had to prepare Charles for what they would be facing the next day.

"Listen to me, very carefully, my friend." Charles' voice was firm, but there was a tremor in it from the emotion that he was trying to convey with the same quiet intensity he approached everything. "Killing Shaw will not bring you peace."

He had given up on peace a long time ago, when he watched his mother gunned down in front of his eyes. "Peace was never an option."

Erik pulled back sharply as the memory crashed into the forefront of his mind. He tried not to gasp for breath, despite the fact that his heart was racing as the emotions from forty years ago swamped him. The last thing he needed was for one of the bystanders to think he was having a heart attack and alert the authorities.

It took him several minutes to calm himself, but he finally got his racing heart back under control and steadied himself against the solid table. As he slowly settled back into his seat, one of the pieces wobbled ever so slightly. At first, he assumed that he'd bumped the board, but none of the other pieces moved at all.

Could it be? Hesitantly, he stretched out his fingers towards the piece – the black king, he realized a moment later – and focused on it with all his concentration. Nothing happened. The chess piece stayed stubbornly still.

Charles' voice echoed out of the past just then. "Remember, the point between rage and serenity." Along with the voice, the memory of standing on the mansion's lawn, gazing at the giant satellite dish as Charles awoke the memory of his mother, and raising Shaw's sub from the depths of the ocean forced their way to the forefront of his thoughts.

The tension in his shoulders bled away as he sought the place in his mind that the telepath had mentioned, his focus sharpening and becoming crystal clear. A tingle started in his fingers – and the iron king trembled ever so slightly.

A smile stretched across his face for the first time in a very long time – the first time since Charles' death, at least, and possibly longer. His powers were returning – Magneto would soon be back on the playing field in the battle between Homo sapiens and Homo superior.

A shadow passed by overhead – too large to be a bird, too quickly to be a cloud – and a moment later a white envelope fluttered down to land on his chess board, neatly lying beside the white king. He glanced up and saw a winged mutant climbing back up into the clear blue sky. Something about that mutant was familiar…

Frowning, he picked up the envelope and opened it, extracting a thick sheet of fine writing paper, written on with a bold black ink – in a familiar hand.

December 15, 2003

Erik, my friend,

I would appreciate it very much if you would come to see me at your earliest convenience. There is much I would like to discuss with you.

Charles

His breath caught in his throat. Charles

It was impossible! Charles was dead! His body had been completely destroyed by Phoenix! There was no way it could be true. Surely this was a cruel joke, or perhaps he was going mad.

But…it was Charles' handwriting. After reading Charles' very long last missive, he would know that elegant script anywhere. And the date on the letter was that very day. Surely no one would be cruel enough to try to trick him. He was certain this letter had come from Charles Xavier…but how could it be?

He was torn, however. The last time he had been at the mansion his life had been threatened by Wolverine, Beast, and – however subtly – by Storm. If he went back and it turned out that this really was a cruel trick…

But if Charles was alive…

Making up his mind, he removed the pieces from the board and carefully turned it over, so as not to scratch the iron and marble playing surface on the concrete table. With great care, he placed each piece back into its own, customized, velvet-lined compartment. The last thing he wanted to do was to damage Charles' gift. His heart was pounding again – with anticipation, dread, curiosity…

Once the set was carefully packed away, he tucked it under his arm and headed for the park entrance to catch a cab. He debated with himself about whether or not to return to his apartment and retrieve the helmet that he hadn't used since Alcatraz. He wasn't sure he was comfortable with the idea of facing Charles without it – assuming that Charles really was alive.

But then again…Charles had hated that helmet. Erik remembered the relief on Charles' face when he had seen him at the Senate meeting, and he had not been wearing his helmet. True, Charles had used that opportunity to find out about his plan to send Sabretooth to Canada to grab the girl known as Rogue, but at the moment he had no plans that Charles could take from his mind.

Unbidden, a phrase from the damned letter rose up to the forefront of his mind. 'And silence is the thing that I fear most of allBut there is one mind I can no longer reachyours. And that does frighten me, Erik. It frightens me more than you can possibly comprehend, because it makes me feelalone, truly alone, for the first time since I was a small child.'

He was still torn, but he decided that he would get the helmet and wear it until he knew for sure whether or not Charles was really alive. If this was a cruel trick, at least his mind would be protected from whatever the X-Men were trying to do. But if Charles was at the mansion, he could always remove the helmet to speak to his friend.

He flagged down a cab and gave directions to his apartment. He would pick up his helmet, and then return to the one place that he had thought he would never again set foot.

The Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters.


Two hours later…

The iron gates were just as imposing as they had been the last time, but this time the estate seemed – somehow – more inviting. The last time he'd been here, a gloomy cloud that had nothing to do with Storm or the weather had seemed to hang over the estate, as if the estate itself had been mourning the fallen telepath.

But this time the cloud had lifted. Erik could see Christmas lights sparkling in the windows, wreaths hung on the doors, and lanterns lit the driveway, welcoming people to the mansion. This was a magnificent place that Charles had created, a place where everyone was welcome, mutant and human alike. True, the school itself was only for mutants, but parents, friends, or others who were not mutants were welcome to come and see that the students were prospering, learning control of their gifts, and learning to appreciate peace and cooperation. This had been Charles' dream, and he had brought it to life with hard work, devotion and dedication, and a group of wonderful young mutants to aid him in helping to realize the vision he'd had when they had moved the first group of mutants to the estate from the covert CIA facility in 1962.

Erik had asked the cab driver to drop him off at the edge of the property and he had walked up the private road that joined to the main road until he reached the gates of the school. Now he waited, watching, searching for any sign of the telepath that he hoped had returned. His helmet was discreetly wrapped in his cape and bundled in his arms for the moment. If Charles was alive, the telepath would know that he was here, because he would have sensed Erik's presence as soon as he had crossed the property line.

That was why he loitered outside the gates. Charles would know that he was here, and Charles would give him some sign of where to come if he was alive. He was in no mood to confront Storm, Beast, or Wolverine again. His powers might be returning, since the Cure appeared to be defective, but they still were not back to full health, and he hadn't come here to fight. He had come to see if Charles was still alive and…

Well, to be honest, he wasn't sure what the "and" was. Did he want to berate Charles for that damned letter? Did he want to beg the telepath's forgiveness for causing his death?

Or did he simply want to sit down at a chess board with his old friend and work out their differences as they had so many times all those years ago?

He didn't know…and that frightened him. He was not a man prone to indecision. Once he had a goal, he pursued it single-mindedly. But Charles Xavier was the one person on the earth who could throw his mind into turmoil and make him question everything that he knew, thought, or believed.

He stood at the gates, gazing at the windows, grateful that his eyesight was still sharp and that the mansion was brightly lit enough that he could see inside the building clearly. There was no sign of the telepath, and his heart sank. Despite the note he still clutched in his hand, there was no sign that Charles was really alive – but he had not thought that the X-Men would stoop to such lows as to make him believe that Charles was alive.

It was a joke. Either that or I'm losing my mind.

Oh, my friend. You underestimate my X-Men. I would have thought that you would know better by now.

The voice – sophisticated British accent and all – was warm and welcoming, and oh so familiar as it rang in his mind. There was amusement in the tone, along with sadness. But there was no anger, no bitterness, which Erik would have expected, considering the circumstances of their last meeting.

I'm not angry with you, Erik. You did what you felt you had to. The Phoenix was too powerful, too full of revenge and hatred for me because I chained it up inside Jean's mind all those years ago. It was never going to allow me to leave that house alive.

Charles? Is that really you? Erik wondered silently, his eyes still scanning the windows of the mansion, looking for some sign of the telepath's presence.

Of course it's me. Who else would know that you almost always lead with your queen-side knight when we play chess? Or that you prefer your martinis made with four parts red, sweet vermouth to one part gin, and that you garnish it with a cherry?

That right there was enough to convince him. Whereas Charles had preferred to drink scotch or brandy when they played chess in the evening, Erik had instead chosen to avail himself of martinis, a drink he had learned to appreciate when he had been on the recruiting trips with the telepath. Charles had suggested it when Erik had gotten tired of drinking German beer, having already been disgusted by what Americans called beer, but hadn't wanted to try anything as strong as what Charles was drinking. Charles had actually suggested the blend that Erik preferred, commenting only that it had been his mother's favorite choice of a cocktail. Whereareyou,Charles?

In my office. Come around the back, the alarms are off.

You don't trust your students not to attack me? Erik asked, knowing that a hint of sarcasm had crept into his tone.

Of course I trust them, Erik. However, the younger ones are enjoying their Christmas celebration before they go home tomorrow, and I don't want to worry them. I do believe that I am entitled to a quiet Christmas conversation with one of my oldest friends, don't you?

Put that way…Erik carefully approached the gates, which swung open to admit him. No doubt Charles was controlling them from inside his office, given that they closed right behind him. Instead of going directly up the driveway to the front door, where someone might see him and alert the X-Men, he veered off to the left and crossed the grounds until he was around the corner and could see the French doors that lead into Charles' office off the veranda. Only then did he cross quickly to the house. He noted that the large obelisk that had been Charles' marker had been removed, but the smaller one that bore the names of the other three fallen X-Men was still in place.

They will always be honored, Erik. But it would certainly be odd to see a grave marker for me when I am alive and well, would it not?

Charles had opened the French doors and sat there waiting for him, the metal wheelchair once again filled. Erik couldn't help it as he stopped in his tracks and studied Charles closely. The man hadn't changed at all…he was still bald, still in a wheelchair, and those blue eyes were as intense and welcoming as they had always been.

"Charles…" Erik breathed his friend's name in disbelief and awe. It was one thing to hear the telepath's voice in his mind, but it was quite another to see him alive in the flesh again, especially after watching the way that Phoenix had disintegrated his body into nothing. "How is this possible? I saw you die."

Charles smiled good-naturedly. "I know you did, my friend. However, what the Phoenix didn't count on was the resources at my disposal and the power of my mind. I'm sure you remember Moira MacTaggert?"

"Of course I do. But what does she have to do with this?"

"After Cuba, I used my powers to make her forget everything. I was protecting the boys, and I was trying to protect her as well. If she didn't know where to find us, she couldn't be hurt by people who would go to any lengths to find where we were hiding. I thought that was the last I would see of her, but somehow she tracked us down and demanded that I restore her memories. She had resigned from the CIA – she had seen too much to continue working for them. She stayed here for a time, helping us get the school established, and then she went back to school herself and got a doctorate in genetics. She runs a lab and a hospital on Muir Island in Scotland now. We've collaborated on many projects over the years, and recently she's been working with me to try to help a man who was sent to her by his caretakers. He was born with no higher brain functions except for the barest minimum needed to keep his body alive, but he's really survived only because of advanced life support. His last caretaker recently died, and the hospital he was at refused to continue to provide care for him, so the family's lawyer had him sent to Moira about a year ago."

"How does that explain how you survived?" Erik asked.

"Moira and I had been discussing the feasibility of transferring one psyche, perhaps that of someone who was dying, like a cancer patient or an accident victim into the man's mind. It was an ethical morass, however, so we hadn't gone much further than theorizing what would happen. When the Phoenix attacked me, however, I used my powers and linked myself into the man's mind – transferred my essence into his body. It was dangerous, and done more out of desperation than anything."

"But…you look like you. I mean, you look like your old body."

"An unexpected side effect and one I hadn't anticipated or even truly been aware of. Every person's psyche is imprinted to a specific body. It's how I, as a telepath, can astrally project myself outside of my body and find my way back. When my original body was destroyed and I linked myself to a body that had no psyche attached to it, my more powerful mind took over, and there was a shape-shifting effect – a painful one, I might add. Granted, I was unconscious for most of it while my mind integrated itself to its new host, but I still felt some of it on a very deep level."

Erik shook his head. What Charles was describing was too much for him. He had spent some time around other telepaths and other mutants with a degree of psychic power – Emma Frost being the most notable for a few years after Cuba – but so much of their abilities and the way they viewed the world was a mystery to him despite that experience. But one thing did register. "So this is a completely new, healthy body, which just happens to look like your old one because of a mind-blend and a shape-shifting effect."

Charles nodded.

"So, why are you still in a wheelchair? Did the shape-shifting effect include damaging your spine?"

"Ah, no. My spine is completely intact, however, in this instance, the fault is purely mine. Despite the fact that I couldn't feel anything from my legs, I could still feel pain in my back and the place where the bullet hit me because of the partially severed and traumatized nerves in my spinal cord."

Erik winced at that.

"Don't be upset, my friend. I never blamed you. The pain didn't affect my life in the slightest until recently."

"How so?" Erik asked, wondering how Charles had found the strength to live with what sounded like chronic pain for forty years.

"My mental powers. For the last forty years, I walled that pain away with powerful psychic shields. My inability to walk is, at the moment, psychosomatic. My mind is conditioned to believe that I cannot walk and that I will feel pain if I try, so when I do try, my mind itself causes me pain. It will take time and intense retraining of my mind before I'll be able to walk unaided, so for the time being, I have no choice but to continue to use my chair. Hank has placed me on an intense course of physical and mental therapy, however, so I have no doubt that I will be able to walk again, given time."

Erik had no response to that.

"Erik, my friend…it is cold out here. Please, come inside where it is warm." Charles turned his chair expertly and retreated back inside the house. Erik was left with the option to follow him or to remain standing out in the cold.

He made the logical choice.

He followed.


to be concluded...