Chapter 28

-Wars of the Heart-


'A pity beyond all telling, is hid in the heart of love.'- W.B. Yeats


-2 Months Later-

"…It shall be the policy of this nation to regard any nuclear missile crossing the embargo line that surrounds Cuba as an attack, by the Soviet Union on the United States, requiring a full retaliatory response upon the Soviet Union."

It took perhaps a moment for the mutants to fully comprehend what exactly had been expressed by the President. War had been declared. A war not one of whizzing bullets or high flying bombs where fighting required face-to-face combat, but of weapons that had the power to destroy not only those living now but the many generations to come.

As Elsa looked around her friends, she became painfully aware of the gravity of their situation. The brief happiness and alleviation from their responsibilities her birthday had brought, and all the little things in-between, was now clearly gone. The bubble had been burst, the fantasy dead, life and all its pain had returned.

"That's where we'll find Shaw," said Erik, pointing at the television with a small handgun. Elsa could not help but wince at the realization that Erik holding a gun seemed as natural to her as a fish in the sea.

"How do you know?" asked Alex.

Charles sighed heavily, shaking his head.

"Two super powers facing off and he wants to start World War three; he won't leave anything to chance." said Charles solemnly, his eyes glued to the television.

"So much for diplomacy," Erik chuckled sardonically. He stowed the gun into the pouch of his jumper. "I suggest you all get a good night's sleep."

He turned on his heel and strode out of the living room, and slowly and solemnly, the others followed suit until only Alex and Elsa were left.

Elsa sunk unto the arm of the sofa, swinging her legs idly over the side. She ran her fingers through her hair, gently running them along the misshapen scar towards her ear. She couldn't remember getting she but she could onlassume me it was Lewis' work.

Alex sat down across from her, stroking the apple of her cheek with his thumb.

"What is it? What's wrong?" He held her chin between his fingers. "Hmm?"

Elsa sighed, training her eyes on her feet. She could not help but marvel at how blistered her toes had become.

"Are we doing the right thing?" she asked him, quietly. It was more a question for herself.

"What do you mean?"

Elsa looked up at him.

"Preventing nuclear war?"

Alex took back his hand and leant back. His brow was furrowed, his blues searching her brown ones.

"What? Elsa, of course-"

"Protecting the humans?" Elsa interrupted him, twisting her fingers in her lap.

"That too," Alex said, his tone alarmingly condescending. Elsa felt rather belittled; it was as if he were talking to a child.

"The actions of a few don't reflect-"

" 'The actions of a few'?" Elsa repeated, jumping up to her feet. She crossed her arms over her chest, and narrowed her eyes at him. "Like the few who murdered my family? Like the few who doused Irene Adler with acid, or set my uncle and aunt alight? Like the few who slaughtered six million of Erik's people?"

Alex took to his feet, pulling himself up to his full height. Elsa took a few steps back, suddenly intimidated.

He sighed, one hand tangled in his hair.

"Lewis was truly acting alone on both occasions, Irene was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time," He said, "and as for Erik…well, there's nothing I can say to justify it only that Man is capable of doing terrible things to each other and that was, thank fully, the worst it'll ever be."

"Do you really think after tomorrow, they'll embrace us?" asked Elsa venomously. "They'll welcome us with open arms and accept us into their society?"

"Maybe they will, maybe they won't." Alex shrugged. "But we need to make sure that we're doing the right thing. They can ridicule us, beat us, or even murder us but doing the same to them doesn't make us better. It makes us worse, Elsa."

"There'll come a day when you'll throw those values against a wall, Alex," chuckled Elsa.

Alex smiled. "Perhaps. But right now, this is where I stand."

It took a moment before Elsa sat back down again. She felt as if the fire within her had been doused a little, but it did not change much. Her family was still dead, Irene was still blind and Erik was still the most damaged man she had ever met.

Perhaps Alex really was her equal; who else could quell her so quickly like this? Arguments with Warren resulted in days of silence and ill-will; they never sought compromise or middle ground and Elsa had resented the idea of caving into someone simply because she loved them. And she did so so willingly with Alex.

But she could not keep the resentment out of her voice.

"You see the good in everyone, Alex." She said quietly.

Alex sighed, sitting beside her and resting his chin against her shoulder. "I should be saying the exact opposite though, shouldn't I?"

Elsa looked at him. "Your guilt outweighs your anger."

Alex wrapped his arm around her shoulder, placing a kiss on her cheek.

"You're the doing the right thing, Elsa, trust me. You're here now, this is your purpose."

The notion was ridiculous, the idea rather senseless. Being a part of something, rather than acting alone, did not make it more or less right. She had literally got up and left England and had not looked back since. She hadn't had time to think about whether what she was doing was right or wrong. Charles and Erik had offered a chance at solidarity, a means of being among those who understood and she had jumped at the opportunity.

What was her purpose? At nineteen years of age what was her purpose on Earth?

She snuggled beside Alex, feeling his arm tightening around her as she did. It was strange how quickly their brief spat had evaporated.

"It's strange, isn't it?" she said quietly." How this is all coming together?"

"Yeah."

"Makes you think about that…that other life."

Alex pulled away, holding her out as she stared at her bemusedly. "What do you mean?"

Elsa immediately felt her cheeks flush. She wasn't too sure what she meant, and she was afraid her thoughts would not be able to translate so fluently into words

"The-the road your other-self went down. Like, what life might have been like."

It was a tiny idea, a fantasy in many ways that Elsa had entertained for a while. In her mind, there was two of her and both were living separate lives; the one she was living now and the one she might have had. Alongside her, growing as she did, the other Elsa lived the life she had always thought she was going to have. The other Elsa was sitting under the large oak in the Worthington garden, watching as her little brother played happily in the field beyond, tumbling and somersaulting in the dewy grass. Klaus had learnt to overcome his fear of the outside and was bathing in the bright sun. Mum and Dad were there, and Rolf was smiling happily with a pretty young girl on his arm.

And Warren was there too, arm around her and lips against her hair.

These were the people she had loved her entire life and in this tiny bubble, they were safe and sound. It was a means of coping for her, especially in the dead of night when she woke sweating and her heart beating furiously from her nightmares.

"Do you still think about him?" Alex's question was sudden and a little hesitant.

"Who?" Elsa asked absently, not entirely detached from her thoughts.

"…Warren."

Elsa looked up at him.

"You don't trust me." she frowned.

"No, no! It's just… You would have been with him, if you hadn't-" Alex hung his head. He sniffed. "Do you think about what he's doing…what he's…? Do you still love him?"

Elsa detangled herself from Alex's arms, pulling herself onto her feet. She brushed herself off. "You're being incredibly persistent; do you want me to say yes?"

She simply could not keep the bitterness out of her voice.

"No. I…People don't…I don't…" Alex stuttered, his cheeks as bright as a tomato.

He waved his hand dismissively. "Nah, forget it."

Elsa remained where she was; she certainly was not going to forget it.

Alex looked up at her, looking more and more lost by the second. "I don't think, I don't think…Elsa, I'm not very good at relationships. I get if you still feel…"

Alex sunk back into his seat, chin rested against his chest and looking utterly deflated. Elsa could not help but feel sorry for him, especially when she remembered how he had been like when they first met. Quiet, if not a little fearless, detached and completely immune from the world.

Look at what she had done to him.

Elsa got down onto her knees in front of him, taking his hands into her own.

"Alex, I need you to understand what I'm saying, and understand very clearly. There is a part of my heart that will always belong to Warren. Always." Elsa paused. "But there's another part that…that belongs to you."

Alex slowly looked up, a small smile spreading across his handsome face.

"I loved Warren, yes, and a part of me always will." Elsa continued, smiling herself. "But it's dead, Alex. It's there, but it's gone. It died the night he killed me, but it still lingers. Does that make sense?"

Alex nodded.

"What I feel for you…it's unlike anything I've ever felt." Elsa ran her fingers absently along Alex's knuckles, feeling the hard bone and the power that lay beneath them. "I love you, Alex Summers."

There was a pause before, in one quick motion, Alex swept Elsa off the floor and into her lap. Elsa could not help but giggle. Alex held her, every line of her body matched with his.

"And as for what he's doing right now, he's probably contemplating married life."

"He's married?" Alex asked, "Isn't he your age?" It was news to him; how old was this guy, to be married now?

"No," Elsa shook her head, "Warren is two years older than I am."

"Are you…are you ok, with that?" Alex asked hesitantly.

"With him being older?"

"With him being married." Alex laughed.

There was a long pause, as if she was carefully choosing her words. Finally, Elsa shrugged her shoulders, pouting her lip dismissively. "It stung a little, given how quickly he moved on."

Smiling, she gave Alex a quick peck. "But I've moved on too."


The last remnants of the setting sun flickered luminously over the Banbury fields, shards of bright orange and red light colouring the usually dull grey skies. Despite the spectacular display of ethereal and unearthly beauty above, below was quite different. A particularly wild storm had left its mark all in the shape of sullied and muddied earth, split branches and bright green saplings which were now nothing more than a sad and twisted mess. Apparently there was a light breeze, but its presence was marked by nothing more than the slight movement of the trees; its usual howl was absent.

Cynthia Worthington watched from within Warren's bedroom, seated right beside the grand oval window and her cheek pressed against the cool, frosty glass.

It was times like these, where even in a house so magnificently large and she so terribly lonely, that she truly hated Banbury. She had done so in her adolescence because she had been frightfully bored of its dullness, its predictability. She had long for the flashy, excitable life London offered, where one would attend innumerable parties and social functions, surrounded by dapper young men with smiles that glinted like diamonds; where she would be constantly updated with the latest fashions and trends; where the continuous noise and bright light would fill the darkness of her soul; where her thoughts did not have the opportunity to echo so loudly.

And now as a young woman, she hated Banbury even more because its vast and empty landscape reflected upon her own life so accurately.

A single tear rolled down her cheek, and instantly, she swabbed it away. She shook her head and hopped up from her seat, pulling her loose golden tresses into a bun.

Stop it! She thought to herself. Stop crying! What good will it do?

But what else did she had left?

Here she was, eighteen years of age and married, living in a house she could not live in and bearing the name of man who acknowledged her only in the mornings, and if she were lucky, very late in the evenings.

She understood how busy Warren was; being a second year medical student and de facto chief supervisor of his father's laboratories and other minor investments was no easy task. But was it so necessary, Cynthia often thought, to stay up to eleven in the evening at Worthington Laboratories when older, far more learned men had already been employed to run it? Or was it so hard for a man who could want for nothing to simply take a day off university and spend it instead with his wife?

Of course it is, Cynthia thought bitterly and almost automatically.

He did not love her; it was as simple as that. Why should he accommodate her? His heart belonged to someone else and no matter how hard Cynthia had tried, she could not sway him.

She was an imposter to Warren, and though the serving staff would not say it, she could see in their eyes that they thought it too.

Cynthia could remember the night of her wedding, arriving at Worthington Manor still in her gown and still red from all the dancing and frivolity, and for the most part, still smiling. She could remember one of the maids asking Warren if he would like for the Manor to be empty for the night? And as if it had happened yesterday, Cynthia could remember how Warren had so immediately and almost humorously dismissed the idea.

She had not spent a night with him since their wedding day; whenever her friends politely enquired, she pretended that they had consummated their marriage when in reality, she had not even seen Warren's bare chest.

Even now, they slept in separate rooms. Which was good in a sense; at least Warren did not have to witness her crying herself to sleep every evening.

She looked around Warren's bedroom, with both sadness and amusement; it was still very much the personal chambers of a teenage boy. Large printed photographs of George Best hung in varying positions along the back wall, the football great caught in various moments of sporting glory. A long emerald and ruby school House banner was slung from one corner of his study desk to another, with little plastic flag paper weights that read 'ETON' holding the tips down.

Cynthia could remember how reverently he had insisted to his father that he should remain in his room, rather than move into another one to be shared with her.

'This marriage doesn't change anything.'

Upon a large and ornate desk, sat a copious number of silver framed photographs of varying size and Cynthia realized that she had never really examined them properly.

They were mostly family shots; his frightful father, his poor mother, school friends and extended family members. And more than a few, contained a pretty black haired girl and in each, she looked older than she did in the last one.

Cynthia quickly averted her eyes, already feeling a hard lump in her throat and was shocked to see their wedding photo staring back at her. There was no colour of course; they were nothing but various shades of grey. But what startled Cynthia was that both she and Warren were smiling-

There was sudden and loud creak, and Cynthia quickly turned round. Warren bundled through the door, still clad in his evening coat and his grey scarf wrapped tightly around his throat. He seemed, at first, not to have realized that he was not alone and promptly began removing his clothing.

Cynthia stood awkwardly, half silenced by fear and half by desire as she watched Warren undress himself, humming as he did. He did not get very far, but feeling that she could not stand the embarrassment of seeing him bare, she announced herself by coughing just as he was about to remove his shirt.

"What-?" Warren almost fell back. "Good heavens, Cynthia! How long have you been standing there?" He placed his hands on his hips, a bemused smile playing on his lips.

"A minute or two," Cynthia managed to say, shocked by the croakiness of her voice. Her mouth was drying and she could feel her heart beginning to beat furiously. She had never been so nervous, frightened, subdued or out of place her whole life; why did he have this effect on her?

"I got home." Warren muttered, clearly unable to stand the silence.

"So I see." Cynthia chuckled dryly.

The two stood awkwardly for a moment more, both unable to completely look each other in the eye. They were united by name and convention, but they were truly nothing more than strangers at a party.

Finally, Warren shook his head and began remove various files and folders from his brief case, seemingly overcome by his discomfort.

"What were you doing in my room?" he asked absently, his back to her. Cynthia noticed there was nothing accusatory in his voice; she hadn't done anything wrong yet.

"I can see a lot more of...of Banbury through your window. So..." She muttered quietly, twirling a loose lock of her hair between her fingers. She sat down on his desk chair, trying her best to shrug off her uneasiness.

"How was your day?" she asked timidly.

"Good, good. I met a friend of my father's today." Warren turned to look at her. "Bolivar Trask. Do you know of him?"

Cynthia could vaguely remember the name, perhaps from eavesdropping upon her father's business conversations or a random guest from a dinner party; for some reason an unnaturally small man springing to her mind. Nevertheless, she shook her head.

"Well, the man has interests in robotics, which is a waste of time if you ask me; it'll never take off. Tiny fellow. Big ambitions, though."Warren chuckled. He placed his hands on his hips. "And apparently, so is my father; did you know he's invested £40,000 in Trask's ventures?"

Cynthia knew Worthington Senior had plenty of extra curricular activities; the whole town knew. But what they were exactly, or why he did them, only he knew.

Besides, she had no interest in them. Her marriage, or rather lack of one, was her number one concern and Warren's complete dismissal of it quietly enraged her. Of course, Warren was not her first choice of spouse but she understood the basic principles which underpinned her society. Marrying only those who could equal or better you in social rank was paramount and given Warren had grown up as she had; she found it insulting that he sulked for the daughter of poor German-descent imposters. And though she felt hopeless and silly for thinking it, she loved him a little.

"I was just looking at your photos." The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could think about them.

Warren stilled, every muscle in his body clenching.

"Oh?" he asked, but the cheerfulness in his voice was gone.

She picked up the photograph, a rather recent one, of Warren and the black haired girl. They were arm in arm, the smiles on their faces indicating they had been snapped mid-laughter.

"Who is this?" Cynthia asked casually, desperate to keep the shrillness out of her voice.

Of course she knew the girl in the picture; she had known Elsa her whole life. They had been born on the same day, had lived their entire lives in mutual displeasure of each other and yet, they had been destined to love the same man.

Warren took one quick glance at the photograph, loosening his tie as he did.

"A friend," he mumbled, flinging his tie carelessly onto the floor.

"It's the Muller girl, isn't it?" asked Cynthia quietly, staring intently at her fingers.

"If you knew who she was, why did you bother asking?" Warren asked, his tone icily cold and looking at her full in the face. He was standing over her, arms crossed over his broad chest.

For a moment, Cynthia was silenced. But once she had started, she couldn't stop.

"Do you know where she is?"

He leaned down, his face leveled with hers.

"Do you think I'd be standing here if I did?"

He spoke with such malevolence in his voice, that Cynthia closed her eyes the way a child hides their face from the monsters beneath their beds. His hot breaths warmed her already flushed skin, her heart beating rapidly. Finally, Cynthia looked up and met Warren's eyes, frightened by the fire within them.

But seeing her so, his face softened and his frown turned into an apologetic smile. He sat down in a seat across from her, cradling his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry." He sighed.

"Your father told me before he left that you might take some time to adjust." Cynthia mumbled unintelligently, the words tumbling out her mouth in a jumbled carnage of destruction. " It's alright. I'll wait."

What are you doing? Stop!

Warren rose to his feet. "Wait for what, Cynthia?"

Cynthia had never felt smaller in her life, never less powerful than she did at this moment. She was at the mercy of a man both loving and cold, of both the best and worst person in the world. She loved him, even if it were only the saplings of a budding love, couldn't he see that? Couldn't he feel that?

"For you to love me."

A great silence filled the room, the intensity between wife and husband at an all time climax.

"What?" Warren finally managed to say.

"Well, I just thought…now that you've-"

"Spit it out, Cynthia."

"Well, now that you're married to me-"

"You thought I'd get down on my knees and declare my love for you?"

Cynthia instantly stood up, for reasons that were unbeknownst even to her, tears brimming in her eyes. Warren stood but a metre away, chest heaving, his face red, his jaw clenched. He began to head for the door.

"No, no!" cried Cynthia, her arms stretched out before her. She sunk back into her seat, completely and utterly deflated. "But it's been so long, Warren, surely you're-"

"I didn't marry you for love, Cynthia! I can't declare what doesn't exist! I married you because my father told me to," shrieked Warren, the laughing youth from the photograph completely gone. His booming voice bounced off the walls, crashing unceremoniously into her ears. She had never seen him so angry.

"Surely you knew that?"

Cynthia sobbed, unable to control herself. "Why are you-?"

"Why such high hopes?" asked Warren, half-snarling half-pleading.

In his anger, Warren kicked over a wooden stool and Cynthia could do nothing but jump back in fright. The stool split instantly.

Running his hands wildly through his hands, Warren faced her. But his voice was surprisingly subdued. "The only thing my father was concerned about was continuing his line, keeping the 'blood pure' as it was and like everything else in my life, I've always been the puppet and he the puppeteer."

"Then he'll be sorely disappointed when he returns," Cynthia quipped, her nerve starting to find resolve.

"And why's that?"

"I can't-I can't have children. I never…I never matured." She looked to him. "Are you angry with me?"

"Why should I be angry with you?" Warren asked cruelly, "Propagating the Worthington line was my father's concern, not mine."

"I've always wanted children." Cynthia said firmly through her tears.

"I'll get you one," said Warren casually, the redness of his face slowly dying. "There are plenty of children abandoned every year."

Cynthia could not believe how quickly the situation had been pacified. How quickly the conversation had turned.

"Didn't you ever want-?"

"My own?" asked Warren, eyes glinting with malice. He took a few steps towards her, so close now he was but a few inches from her face. "Yes. But with Elsa. I wanted Elsa from the moment I met her."

Cynthia unraveled at his words, covering her face with her hands as she sobbed uncontrollably. Her shoulders shook violently, her chest tightening, her breath shortening with each inhalation; she feared she would die.

Suddenly, she felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around her, a head leaning against her own. She opened her eyes and found that her face was buried in Warren's shirt, her body moving in synch with each heave of his chest.

He held her tightly, sighing heavily as she did. He pulled them apart, though still clinging to her and tilted her chin up towards him.

Warren looked so incredibly sad, so broken and Cynthia was shocked to see herself in a similar state, her reflection glinting in his bright blue eyes.

"I am so sorry you got dragged into this mess like this," he said, "Despite everything, you've always been my friend and I-I never wanted to do this to anyone, let alone you. I don't-I don't know what my father promised you but please Cynthia, understand what's happened. I can give you anything in the world, anything just you name it. But I…I can't…"

Cynthia chuckled dryly. "You can't give me, you?"

"At least we're friends, yes?" He smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Cynthia felt his lips press against her forehead stroking her hair as he did and she supposed it was his way of pacifying her earlier needs of love and attention. But as he held her, she could feel the ingenuity in his touch, this fraudulent show of affection. She felt empty, and it did not take her long to realize that Warren would never fill the great big hollow hole in her heart.


AN: Thank you so much to Joy-Linn and TARDIS-Follower (I'm glad you did :) )