The Deadwoods. An ancient forest at the edge of the world. It is a burial site for the fallen members of the X-Trees, a team of Variants led by Professor Charles Xavier. What had once been a vast landscape of a handful of graves now teems with hundreds of them.
Nature has reclaimed most of the wood; creeping vines crawl across the needle-strewn forest floor, weeds grow relentlessly. Moss clings to the plaques that mark each grave.
But there is a spot not yet reclaimed, a plot of raised earth, deep brown and freshly turned over. Fingers of sunshine slip through the forest's dense canopy, raining upon a hooded figure who stands at the base of this grave. Huge, gloved fingers strain to meet at the base of his back while a murder of crows paw the ground beside the grave in unrest, watching this new arrival with cautious intrigue.
Whoever the guest is, the forest can sense he is not well-intentioned. The wind doesn't whistle through the hollowed boughs of withered trees; it doesn't dare to sound, for it fears the visitor's retribution.
The figure sways, as if enchanted by a song only he can hear, the hood encompassing his enormous head and crown of branches of which thick black leaves dangle from their edges like suspended oil slicks, threatens to fall. But he remains incognito, for even if the crows are all that watch him, someone, somewhere, might be alerted to his presence.
As if to prove this point, a shadow dips in front of the sun. It looks like a winged serpent, but the harsh outlines of skeletal branches and the glint of patchwork metal belie its true nature. The flying beast plummets from the sky, his metallic wings reflecting rainbows as he descends. The wind whistles as branches and twigs are cut down amidst this creature's fall.
Within seconds, he stands beside the hooded figure, his wings bent forward as if protecting the rest of him. The hooded figure's eyes slide over him. Not disinterested, but not invested; his gaze is purely scientific. When he glimpses the creature's scars dug deep into his trunk, and large swaths of bark swapped for hard metallic plates, a bolt of excitement skitters up his trunk and spiderwebs out along his branches.
Warren Worthington III used to be an angel before he had a hand in designing his fall.
"Have a nice flight?" he asks in response to his companion's abrupt arrival. Not waiting for an answer, not even sure he will get one, he begins to stroll through the graves, marveling at the sheer volume. When last he was here, there were barely a dozen, now, thanks to him and his genetically engineered Petrify Fungus, there were so many more. There are names the figure recognizes more than others, some of which are Variants he laments having lost. Jean Redwood comes to mind as clear as if the large she-tree were towering before him, eclipsing him in brazen defiance. She fought until her last breath, until the last red leaf of her canopy turned grey and stone-like. The fungus forever preserving the fire in her gaze.
The figure moves onto another row, his gaze adrift in the sea of plaques like a ship without a beacon to guide it home. These names bring him glee, for he had a more direct hand in ushering forth their destruction. Bobby Drake, the Freezetree. Emma Frost. Henry McCoy.
"I didn't come here to watch you bask in past successes." Of course, Archangel, a large maple, with his bruised purplish bark and narrow gaze wouldn't understand the significance of being here; his successes have been few and far between. The figure hopes Archangel won't disappoint him.
"You never could let yourself go, Warren. Have a little fun." The corners of his lips, stained black as night, twist up into a smirk.
Archangel tenses, his large branches stiff and unrelenting, his wings poised and razor-sharp, ready if need be to attack. If he tried, he would only end up failing, again.
He turns to face Archangel, his eyes glowing from deep within his hood. "If you were to try and kill me here and now, Warren, how many failures would that make? A dozen?" He takes a lumbering step forward, the forest bowing to his weight. "Two dozen? More than that small brain of yours can keep track of?"
As quick as lightning, Archangel's arm snaps outward, his fingers digging into the figure's neck. The figure is not alarmed. He can sense Archangel's desire, his thirst for vengeance obvious. Warren always bent so easily to the whim of his emotions.
The figure shows no fear; he has long since moved beyond such inconvenient musings. Reaching into his robes he procures a shovel and casts it into the dirt between them. Archangel breathes heavily, the few remaining organic leaves atop his head shake. He is caught between right and wrong, revenge and mercy. Such stupid, contrived make-believe.
"You didn't come here to chat," Archangel's companion says, though the fingers around his trunk continue to constrict his airway, he shows no discomfort. "And I didn't come here to fight." With one of his branch-arms he motions to the shovel, then the grave. "I summoned you to dig."
Archangel sneers, his nails digging into the figure's bark. Dark black sap oozes from the wounds, but he does not flinch. Instead, he remains rooted, poised. He wears a smile that chills Archangel to his core. Finally, Archangel relents and throws his arm back along his side. With a grunt, he boughs forward, plucks the shovel from the ground, and begins spearing the earth over the grave, heap after heap of soil thrown through the air.
The figure straightens his robes, adjusts his hood. He leaves the sap where it has stained his pale, white bark. "How good of you to finally do the work you were called upon to do."
Archangel tenses but swallows the words he wishes to say before they can fall from his mouth. He continues to dig. The casket lies eight feet beneath the ground and isn't uncovered until the sun has begun to set. He looms over it, a giant shadow falling across the modest coffin. It is a light gray satin finish, with a large x engraved on the top. Beneath it, the former X-Tree leader is named. Scott Sapp. Cyclops. Beloved friend. Family. Husband. Hero.
Behind Archangel, his hooded companion steps out from the shadows. His robe long gone; he is how he has always been. Milk-white bark. Black, soulless eyes. Dark leaves. A sinister smile. He cackles before clapping Archangel on the back and leaning forward to address the coffin. "It's been a while, Scott."