Ok peoples, this is my first fic in a LONG time. I think the last time I wrote was September 2000. My muse pulled a Sleeping Beauty. ^-^ Anyway this is my 2nd fic ever (wow, crowd in total silence/bordem) OK OK. I'll be quick. Please r/r c&c etc. If ya don't wanna that's fine too! BTW I stole the name from Final Fantasy 9, so don't sue me for that either. FF9 is addictive!
Characters are © Marvel. I don't own them, I'm poor. Poor college student. If I owned them there would be some serious changes (i.e. Iceman would actually come out of that damned closet!). No rating, tame fic. Written for Alex, because she got me back into writing and she has this wonderful picture of Kurt, it just made me want to write him. Danke Alex! *GLOMPS*
Memoria
I scream at him as I walk out. Gods that man had a temper. Seriously, one dirty fingernail and you'd be blasted from here to Genosha, not that I ever had dirty fingernails. Walking down the distant corridor, surrounded by cold heartless metal, I feel more alone than ever.
I'm Nightcrawler by the way, but you can call me Kurt. It's hard living in this place, with all these American beauties. Honestly, mutants must multiply within the "beautiful" gene pool. The man I was yelling at was our "fearless leader" Cyclops, generally known as Scott. He must be the most anally retentive man to walk the earth, and he's got it in for me. Ok, so that is just a sub-plot running in my mind, but he literally seems to have a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas. Unfortunately, Scott is another one of these beauties, with me playing the proverbial beast.
I continue my walk, away from the happiness and perfection. Can you have a cesspool of happiness? The walk from the underground training centre usually takes minutes, but today in my state of self-loathing it took hours. Endless sheets of steel and too bright fluorescent lights invad the privacy of my mind and choke my thoughts.
"Turn the damn things off!" Screaming once again, although at nobody in particular this time. I sigh realising my stupidity and brush the stray strands of blue hair off my face. Yeah that's right, I've got blue hair. And skin. And fur. I'm also gifted with three fingers on each hand, two toes on each foot, wonderfully yellow eyes and, for the coup d'Etat, a pointed devil's tail. So, I guess that explains why I'm the beast. If only I had been around before Henry. I continued walking, stewing sourly in my thoughts. Why did he have to choose today to yell?
I reach the door, and grasping the chilled metal handle I twist and walk out into the perfect summer's day. Ironic that Scott's last name is Summers. Watching a pair of butterflies flirt in the soothing breeze, I walk. What I wouldn't give to be a butterfly, a symbol of beauty and grace. Just like he used to think. My bare feet leave the slightest foot falls on the pillowy grass, and as I continue on my walk I raise my head, the first time since leaving the Danger Room that I have done so. The sky is clear and blue, but a crystal clear blue unlike the dark and evil tone of my skin. The sky is always there, it never leaves and it never dies. So why didn't I fall in love with the sky?
The shadow, dark and cold, of the lone tree marks the end of my journey. A single bird sits in the old oak and sings its song. A simple song that echoes in my head, it is both beautiful and saddening. I sit under the tree, next to the mound of earth and cry. You would need the patience of Job to wait for the mound to move. It is deathly still, as is the stone lying at the north end of the grave. Yes, the grave. A simple burial took place one year ago today, when they placed the body of my lover under the earth. He must lie there, still, forever alone, yet the pain is worse for me, because I am the one who will live with the sorrow. The dead are spared this burden.
The bird flies off, and I do not move. Nor do I end my tears. It has been one whole year, yet I am still not over him. Losing your best friend and lover in one is a horrible experience. They run down my cheek and I simply let the salty tears continue. I reach around behind my to grasp at the wildflowers growing under the grand oak tree. Clutching a handful I twist and pull out a bouquet, simple and elegant. I stand, keeping the silence in respect, respect of the warrior I loved, and still love. The only noise is the soft sobs escaping my heart.
Two simple steps and I stand over his body, the skeleton that will never rot and the memories that will live forever. I kneel in his honour, and place the flowers on his bed, the bed of death. I look upon the stone, engraved with his name and death date, because nobody knows when he was born, and stare. The words were my idea because no matter how gruff he was, he always respected poetry.
You lived for yourself,
Yet you helped so many others.
I had the privilege of knowing you,
As well as that of loving you.
Your memories will live with us forever,
But we will miss you.
Logan.
(in loving memory, Kurt)
Characters are © Marvel. I don't own them, I'm poor. Poor college student. If I owned them there would be some serious changes (i.e. Iceman would actually come out of that damned closet!). No rating, tame fic. Written for Alex, because she got me back into writing and she has this wonderful picture of Kurt, it just made me want to write him. Danke Alex! *GLOMPS*
Memoria
I scream at him as I walk out. Gods that man had a temper. Seriously, one dirty fingernail and you'd be blasted from here to Genosha, not that I ever had dirty fingernails. Walking down the distant corridor, surrounded by cold heartless metal, I feel more alone than ever.
I'm Nightcrawler by the way, but you can call me Kurt. It's hard living in this place, with all these American beauties. Honestly, mutants must multiply within the "beautiful" gene pool. The man I was yelling at was our "fearless leader" Cyclops, generally known as Scott. He must be the most anally retentive man to walk the earth, and he's got it in for me. Ok, so that is just a sub-plot running in my mind, but he literally seems to have a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas. Unfortunately, Scott is another one of these beauties, with me playing the proverbial beast.
I continue my walk, away from the happiness and perfection. Can you have a cesspool of happiness? The walk from the underground training centre usually takes minutes, but today in my state of self-loathing it took hours. Endless sheets of steel and too bright fluorescent lights invad the privacy of my mind and choke my thoughts.
"Turn the damn things off!" Screaming once again, although at nobody in particular this time. I sigh realising my stupidity and brush the stray strands of blue hair off my face. Yeah that's right, I've got blue hair. And skin. And fur. I'm also gifted with three fingers on each hand, two toes on each foot, wonderfully yellow eyes and, for the coup d'Etat, a pointed devil's tail. So, I guess that explains why I'm the beast. If only I had been around before Henry. I continued walking, stewing sourly in my thoughts. Why did he have to choose today to yell?
I reach the door, and grasping the chilled metal handle I twist and walk out into the perfect summer's day. Ironic that Scott's last name is Summers. Watching a pair of butterflies flirt in the soothing breeze, I walk. What I wouldn't give to be a butterfly, a symbol of beauty and grace. Just like he used to think. My bare feet leave the slightest foot falls on the pillowy grass, and as I continue on my walk I raise my head, the first time since leaving the Danger Room that I have done so. The sky is clear and blue, but a crystal clear blue unlike the dark and evil tone of my skin. The sky is always there, it never leaves and it never dies. So why didn't I fall in love with the sky?
The shadow, dark and cold, of the lone tree marks the end of my journey. A single bird sits in the old oak and sings its song. A simple song that echoes in my head, it is both beautiful and saddening. I sit under the tree, next to the mound of earth and cry. You would need the patience of Job to wait for the mound to move. It is deathly still, as is the stone lying at the north end of the grave. Yes, the grave. A simple burial took place one year ago today, when they placed the body of my lover under the earth. He must lie there, still, forever alone, yet the pain is worse for me, because I am the one who will live with the sorrow. The dead are spared this burden.
The bird flies off, and I do not move. Nor do I end my tears. It has been one whole year, yet I am still not over him. Losing your best friend and lover in one is a horrible experience. They run down my cheek and I simply let the salty tears continue. I reach around behind my to grasp at the wildflowers growing under the grand oak tree. Clutching a handful I twist and pull out a bouquet, simple and elegant. I stand, keeping the silence in respect, respect of the warrior I loved, and still love. The only noise is the soft sobs escaping my heart.
Two simple steps and I stand over his body, the skeleton that will never rot and the memories that will live forever. I kneel in his honour, and place the flowers on his bed, the bed of death. I look upon the stone, engraved with his name and death date, because nobody knows when he was born, and stare. The words were my idea because no matter how gruff he was, he always respected poetry.
You lived for yourself,
Yet you helped so many others.
I had the privilege of knowing you,
As well as that of loving you.
Your memories will live with us forever,
But we will miss you.
Logan.
(in loving memory, Kurt)