"…and all that you've held sacred falls down and does not mend...
"…when you're standing at the crossroads that you cannot comprehend…
"…and all your dreams have vanished and you don't know what's up the bend, just remember…."

The full moon shone brightly over New York. Even so, there were plenty of shadows the light could not penetrate. Kurt sat atop St. Michael's rooftop after a few acrimonious words from Father Whitney. A boy he had tried to help just died from his inability to control his mutation. Back in Salem Center, the new girl Stacy had made some very obvious advances toward him that he rebuffed, not because of his vow of celibacy, and not because he did not desire a woman's companionship, but because, much to his surprise, a woman did indeed occupy his thoughts. A particular woman. The nightmares and unexplained flashes of memories he wasn't sure were his had been only getting worse since she showed up. And obviously, there was some kind of war brewing, if the X-Men would work with such artillery as her.

All this served to deepen the misgivings he'd already been entertaining, about his vocation, and even his faith. He unfastened his Roman collar. That he even thought he had the right to wear it in the first place seemed completely unreal. In fact, so much of his time at St. Michael's seemed that way. And when he revealed to Father Whitney that his troubles could not be addressed by simple daily reading of the Breviary, what response did he get? No offer to pray with and for him. No direction to appropriate Scripture passages. No referral for counseling or a recommendation for going on retreat. None of what Kurt knew a priest or deacon with doubts could expect. Just a terse "you know the way out."

Only one thing was clear now. Merely wearing a collar and working at that church would not give him the lasting peace he so badly needed. He had gathered up the few things he could, including a letter addressed to him. He had long forgotten what it said, but had a feeling it was important, otherwise, he would not have kept it. Then he left the rectory. Leaving the collar behind him. Somehow, Kurt suspected that leaving the priesthood really shouldn't have been so simple.

"Hello, Warren? Bobby? Anybody? Any X-Man out there with a communicator on?"

"Nightcrawler, it's Northstar. How far can you teleport?"

At any rate, rejoining the X-Men would not be so simple. But once back in Salem Center, he reread the letter.

Mein Lieber Kurt,

Getting a hold of you has been rather difficult lately. I couldn't email you or call, but I have Warren to thank for your address. First off, I wanted to say tolle arbeit, busting that slave ring. You'll make a good agent, yet. And you've just proven that while it is possible to remove a good mutant from full-time heroics, removing the heroism from the mutant just won't happen. At least not in your case.

Nonetheless, I wish I could tell you to completely disappear for the next several weeks, or that I could do anything to keep you out of the mess that's brewing. I may have to create the biggest flap ever to expose this anti-mutant cult and put a stop to their plans once and for all, and I really do not want you in the middle of it. Far too many people will suffer as it is, and many, many more will if we both aren't terribly careful. But I know you will throw yourself into any maelstrom to protect someone. And so all I can do is pray. And remind you of what you once said about me, that I am not yours to surrender. Remember that you are God's own by adoption and by His Sacrifice, and not your own to surrender. Remember that, no matter what you see or hear, particularly over the next several weeks.

I am also beginning to see that your future and mine are somehow connected in all this. For the sake of your safety, you will not hear from me again until I see you. But keep your eye on L'Osservatore Romano Or really any newspaper, for that matter. And, this Father Whitney- trau Ihm nicht!

Dein' immer,

Kassi

Strange way to sign a letter. Kurt wondered if that was a habit of hers.

Thousands of miles away, the snow, which lightly powdered the ground at Yellowstone National Park only intensified the light of the full moon and the stars blazing across the sky. Kassandra had retired early that evening hoping to get plenty of rest for the events she anticipated. She awoke with a start, threw on her clothes, grabbed her weapons, and left the lodge as quickly and as quietly as she could manage. Instantly. Before she plowed ahead into a future that frightened even her, she had to experience this moment in utter solitude, without any tourists looking on.

Logan was only partially correct. Sure, she was frightened of what she could become. But that was a familiar cross to bear, this constant wondering if she fought for just causes or a bloodthirsty desire for vengeance. She doubted Kurt remembered how he once called her an angel of mercy. Just as well. At this point, she felt he couldn't be more wrong. This was beyond a crisis of conscience. And while she never liked the idea of going into any real battles, this was not the relatively prosaic fear in anticipation of war. No one went into war without enough intelligence on the enemy. She couldn't even read their leader's timeline to confirm if all she'd heard was true.

Of course, it helped that what she'd heard was so far-fetched that another run of Angelique Sauvegarde's articles had seriously hurt the cult's credibility in the area. And some journalistic research brought more critical information to the surface. The illegal involvement of state governments and even some of her fellow federal agents with this cult, as troublesome as it was, would only help her case in the long run, if she made it that far. She couldn't go public with that knowledge, yet, but at least she made sure the information was now in Xavier's hands. So far, so good. Nonetheless, the imminence of directly taking on an unknown enemy by herself played a pounding, discordant Stravinsky ballet upon her nerves. That riotous Rite of Spring, no less.

And now she sat on the foremost bench, a black-coated silhouette. In one hand, she held a CIA standard issue Smith and Wesson, never fired outside of target practice. Across her knees, lay a glittering sword, which did not share her gun's relatively pacific history. She could, theoretically, just leave. Leave her weapons and disappear. She briefly contemplated hurling them to where even volcanologists feared to tread. She might as well. As far as she was concerned, her career, and perhaps her life, would soon be over. The gun would be destroyed in the superheated waters. The adamantium sword would not be, but it would soon be completely embedded in the travertine deposits that constantly formed here, to never again be wielded by anyone. No, that was a criminally stupid idea. Still, the idea of retiring her weapons permanently had some appeal. She sure felt like a criminal anyway.

She scanned the surrounding area, then suddenly stiffened. No one else was awake, but there were eyes on her. Oh, stupid, stupid Kassandra. Just barely thirty-five yards away, and slightly to the right of the geyser mound, some large creature or creatures stirred in the shadows. Bison. She looked over to get a better look, and caught with her eye the warning sign. "Dangerous Ground," the bold letters screamed, even in that dim light.

Some people, mostly locals from Montana or Wyoming, tended to refer to this part of the Rocky Mountains as "God's Country." A bold claim, and perhaps not very accurate, its sublime power and beauty notwithstanding. The whole place testified to the precarious balance and outright danger of its existence, even on a gorgeous night like this. The magnificent beasts who were, for now, content to sleepily observe her from a distance could be stirred to deadly stampeding rage with the least provocation. In rushing springs, still and vibrantly colored pools, and not far below the seeming tranquility of the forests, rivers, and the earth's thin, snow-dusted surface stirred waters hot and acidic enough to burn the flesh clean off anyone unfortunate enough to fall in. And not far below that, the world's largest magma chamber awaited a day when it might, or might not, finally blow. She wept quietly.

It became clear. Any feeling of peace even this most beautiful of places could give her was ephemeral at most. She opened her eyes, and they fell to the engraving on the sabre's flat. "Hebräer 4:12."

"'Denn lebendig ist das Wort Gottes, kraftvoll und schärfer als jedes zweischneidige Schwert;" she murmured to herself this favorite of verses, "est dringt durch bis zur Scheidung von Seele und Geist, von Gelenk und Mark, es richtet über die Regungen und Gedanken des Herzens.'"

She recalled the rest of what Logan had said, about her not really being alone. "Lieber Gott," she whispered, "I know my options. But I need to understand. Which is the path You want me to take through this fallen world?"

"Just remember that death is not the end." 1

The tension became palpable. The bison, somehow knowing that their warm campsite would soon be flooded with scalding water, got up and moved further away. Steam began pouring more furiously from the vent. And with a gurgle, a whoosh, and then a hissing roar, with only one moonlit silhouette to witness it at that hour, Old Faithful erupted.

And though the steam blanketed all around in a glittering white mist (that smelled a bit like a teleportation signature), Kassandra saw what she had to do. She sheathed her sword, wondering what possessed her to consider getting rid of such a gift. Then she holstered her gun, stepped out of the fog, and returned to the lodge. There would be a time for beating swords into plowshares. When the fabric of time and space would be torn up, and everything that ever was good in every universe would be rewoven into perfection. She looked forward to that. But until then, as long as there was a need to stake everything against any unjust war, she'd keep her sword just as is.

And though she finally understood exactly how Nightcrawler felt about attempting a blind teleport, she felt a little, very little bit better. Not any braver, but at least more resolute.

1 Bob Dylan, "Death is not the End"

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