VII: Ember IV
The Xavier Institute breathes around me—a soft, steady rhythm that underpins everything. The walls hold echoes of laughter, of voices raised in joy and in anger, a mosaic of lives lived beneath this roof. The air is cool, touched with the scent of old books and fresh flowers, a subtle hum of electricity from hidden corridors and concealed technology.
Jean leads me through the hallways, her hand still in mine, an anchor in the current. The Avengers follow at a respectful distance, their presence a quiet shadow that does not press. I feel their minds brushing against mine—Iron Man's cautious calculations, Thor's quiet curiosity, Captain Marvel's gentle warmth, Doctor Strange's measured calm.
But the mansion holds other minds, too.
I catch glimpses of them as we walk. Children peer around doorframes, their eyes wide and curious, whispers trailing after us like echoes. Teenagers huddle in clusters, their thoughts a tangle of excitement and trepidation.
I feel the hum of their powers, each one a note in the symphony of this place—a boy whose thoughts dance with static, a girl whose emotions ripple through the air like heat waves, another whose mind is a kaleidoscope, colors and shapes twisting in ways that normal minds do not.
This place is a haven, a pocket of safety in a world that often feels too sharp, too harsh. I feel the weight of that, the care woven into every stone, every painted wall, and it sinks into me, warms the cold edges of my soul.
Jean's voice pulls me back to the present. "We'll meet with Charles first. He'll want to speak with you, understand what brought you here. Then, if you're comfortable, we can introduce you to the others. There's no rush. Take things at your own pace."
Her words are a gentle nudge, an offer rather than an instruction. I nod, my fingers tightening around hers. "Thank you. I… I don't want to be a burden."
She stops, turns to face me fully. Her green eyes are soft, a forest at twilight, full of shadows but also light. "You're not a burden, Taylor. You're a person who needs help. And that's what we do here. We help each other."
Her sincerity is a weight, pressing against the walls I've built around my heart. I feel something shift, a crack in the stone, and warmth seeps through.
We reach a set of double doors, their wood polished and warm to the touch. The doors open with a quiet sigh, the wood moving as if it understands the weight of the moment. The room beyond is a sanctuary of soft light and old wood, a space where history and hope have been woven into every surface.
Large windows frame a view of the gardens, where students wander among blooming flowers, their laughter drifting through the open panes. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, casting long shadows that pool at the edges of a Persian rug, its intricate patterns softened by time.
Shelves line the walls, filled with books that smell of leather and old paper, their spines a tapestry of knowledge. The desk is simple but well-crafted, its surface neat, save for a few open files and a steaming cup of tea, the tendrils of steam curling in the still air.
At the center of the room sits a man in a wheelchair. His posture is upright, his hands folded neatly in his lap. He wears a tailored suit, simple but elegant, his features sharp but kind. His head is smooth and bare, his eyes a piercing blue, bright with intelligence and understanding.
Charles Xavier.
He is both a presence and a calm. His wheelchair is sleek, modern, the metal reflecting the light in soft arcs. He wears a charcoal suit, tailored and precise, his shirt a crisp white that highlights the smooth curve of his bald head. His features are sharp, his expression serene, but his eyes—his blue eyes—hold a depth that feels like standing at the edge of an ocean.
His mind is a fortress, but not in the way of walls and battlements. It is a garden, cultivated and open, a place where thoughts flow like rivers, where emotions bloom in quiet corners. I feel his presence before he speaks—a gentle ripple against the edge of my mind, not an intrusion but a welcome.
Charles's presence fills the room, not in a physical way but in the subtle brush of his mind against mine. It is like standing at the edge of a deep lake, the water cool and still, the depths unknown but not threatening.
"Taylor," he says, his voice soft yet resonant. "It is a pleasure to meet you. Please, come in. Make yourself comfortable."
Jean releases my hand, her fingers brushing against mine in a gentle reassurance, and steps back. I feel her light linger, a warm thread connecting us even as she moves to stand near the window, her silhouette framed by the golden light.
I move into the room, each step measured, my body both heavy and weightless. I sink into the chair opposite Charles, the leather cool against my skin, and for a moment, I simply breathe, letting the air fill my lungs, letting the space settle around me.
Charles's mind brushes against mine again, a soft touch, seeking permission.
"May I?" he asks, and the question is not just for show. His respect is palpable, a steady note beneath the surface of his thoughts.
I nod, my voice catching in my throat. "Yes. It's… okay."
The connection blooms between us, not a bridge but a path, winding and gentle. I feel his mind merge with mine, not pushing but exploring, a presence that moves through my memories with the care of a gardener tending to delicate flowers.
He sees Brockton Bay, the city wrapped in flames, the shadows that stretched over its streets. He feels the weight of the ashes, the cold bite of my guilt, the heat of my power as it surged, as it burned everything it touched.
But he also sees before. He sees the locker, the darkness that held me, the fear that pressed against my skin. He sees the bullies, their laughter sharp as glass, their faces blurred but their voices clear. He sees my father, his hands rough but his touch gentle, his love a steady flame that never dimmed.
Through it all, Charles's mind is a balm, a cool stream that washes over the raw edges of my soul. He does not judge, does not flinch, but instead holds each memory with a quiet reverence, a respect for the wounds as much as for the scars.
"You have endured much," he says, his voice a thread woven through my thoughts. "And yet, you remain. That, Taylor, is a strength few possess."
"It doesn't feel like strength," I whisper. "It feels like… like I'm a storm that hasn't burned itself out yet."
Charles's expression softens, and I feel his understanding, the way he has known storms of his own. "You are more than the storm. You are the eye of it—the calm amidst the chaos. The Phoenix is a force of change, of destruction, but also of rebirth. You are not just its vessel. You are its choice."
His words sink into me, filling the hollow places, wrapping around the cold core of my fear.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," I say, my voice a thin line stretched tight. "Not again. I just… I want to be normal. I want to be safe."
Charles's mind enfolds mine, a warmth that cradles, that nurtures. "You are safe here. You are among people who understand—not just your power, but the weight of it. We will help you find balance, find control. You are not alone."
The room feels brighter, the light filtering through the windows shifting, softening. I look into Charles's eyes, and I see not just the teacher, not just the mutant, but the man—a person who has walked through shadows, who has borne burdens and still chooses to believe.
He opens his mind to me, and I see glimpses of his past—the wars fought in quiet rooms, the lives changed through a word, a touch, a thought. I see the X-Men, not as heroes but as people, each with their own scars, their own flames to manage.
"You will meet them soon," he says. "They will welcome you as one of their own. Here, you can learn—not just about your power but about yourself. You have the Phoenix Force within you, but it is not all that you are. You are Taylor Hebert. And that is enough."
The truth of it settles into me, fills the cracks, smooths the edges. I am not a monster, not a god, but something else, something more.
Jean steps forward, her presence a soft glow, and I feel the thread between us tighten, the connection not just of minds but of purpose.
"Come," she says, her voice a promise. "There are others who wish to meet you. You are part of our family now."
Charles releases my mind with a gentle nudge, a final thought that hums with warmth.
"You are not defined by your past. You are defined by what you choose to become."
His words are a promise, and I want to believe them. I want to believe in myself, in the idea that I am not just a flame, but a light. I rise from the chair, my legs steadier, the ground beneath me solid. The room feels alive, the air filled with the quiet promise of healing, of growth.
And as I follow Jean through the door, stepping into the next chapter of my story, I hold Charles's words close, a candle in the dark.
I am Taylor Hebert. And I am enough.
The halls of the Xavier Institute feel different now.
Before, they were just spaces—corridors lined with framed pictures, bookshelves brimming with knowledge, doors leading to classrooms, dormitories, offices. But now, after speaking with Charles Xavier, after letting him into my mind, after seeing the depth of his belief in me, everything feels… warmer.
I am walking toward something, not just away from my past.
Jean walks beside me, her steps quiet but sure. The tension in my shoulders hasn't left completely, but it has eased, the tight coil of anxiety loosening as I move deeper into the mansion.
"They're all eager to meet you," Jean says as we turn a corner. "But don't feel pressured. Take your time. No one is expecting you to be comfortable immediately."
"I appreciate that," I admit. "I'm still… processing everything."
Jean glances at me, her smile soft but knowing. "You're not alone in that. Everyone here has been through something, Taylor. Everyone's still learning who they are."
Her words settle into me like a gentle weight—not a burden, but a grounding force. Then, we step into the heart of the X-Men.
The room is alive.
I've spent so long around silence—empty streets, abandoned buildings, ruins where life once thrived—that the sheer energy of the space overwhelms me for a second. It's not just the noise—voices, laughter, the hum of power lingering in the air—but the life in it, the humanity.
The X-Men are here.
The people I've heard of, read about in passing from other minds, legends wrapped in flesh and bone.
Scott Summers—Cyclops—stands near the window, his signature ruby-red visor a sharp contrast against his otherwise normal-looking outfit. He's disciplined, his posture rigid but not unfriendly, like a soldier who's learned how to soften his edges. His mind is a tightly-wound coil, structured, focused, always scanning, always planning.
Ororo Munroe—Storm—radiates a quiet power, her silver-white hair cascading down her back like flowing silk. Her eyes, even without their glow, hold a depth that feels like looking into a sky before a storm. Her thoughts move like shifting clouds, fluid yet commanding, full of wisdom and untamed freedom.
Kurt Wagner—Nightcrawler—leans casually against the couch, his indigo skin and golden eyes making him look more myth than man. His tail flicks lazily behind him, his mind a collection of warmth and playful curiosity, a stark contrast to his sometimes-intimidating appearance.
Hank McCoy—Beast—sits nearby, flipping through a massive leather-bound book, his blue fur illuminated by the soft glow of the lights. His mind is a fountain of thought, a symphony of intellect, science, and quiet amusement.
Remy LeBeau—Gambit—is lounging in one of the chairs, casually flicking a playing card between his fingers, his red-on-black eyes gleaming with mischief. His thoughts are slick, smooth, like music played in a smoky room, always hiding something, but never maliciously.
Logan—Wolverine—leans against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His presence is a growl, a low, thrumming hum of danger and control, something primal held back by sheer willpower. His mind is locked down tight, but his eyes flick toward me, watching, assessing, as if he already knows more about me than I do.
Others are scattered around—Rogue, Kitty Pryde, Bobby Drake—but it's a lot to take in, and I force myself to breathe, to keep from retreating back into myself.
Jean steps forward and gestures toward me, her voice warm but strong.
"Everyone, this is Taylor Hebert."
For a moment, the energy in the room shifts—not tense, but attentive. Their eyes are on me, but there's no judgment, no hostility. Just curiosity.
Scott is the first to step forward, his movements measured, as if he's already considering how best to make this comfortable. He extends a hand, his voice even but welcoming.
"Good to meet you, Taylor. Jean's told us a bit about you. You've been through a lot."
I take his hand hesitantly, shaking it. "That's putting it lightly."
There's a quiet huff from Logan in the background. "Yeah, kid, understatement's an art form, but that one might take the cake."
A chuckle ripples through the room, not mocking, just easing.
Storm steps forward next, her presence commanding yet comforting. "You're among friends here, Taylor. We understand what it means to be burdened by power. You will not have to navigate this path alone."
Her words have weight, the kind of assurance that only comes from someone who means it. I nod, swallowing past the tightness in my throat.
Nightcrawler vanishes in a puff of deep purple smoke and reappears beside me in an instant, his golden eyes gleaming with interest. "Welcome, fraulein! It is not often we meet someone with such a presence. You seem… conflicted, but do not worry. We are a family here, and we take good care of family."
His sincerity disarms me, his voice carrying that musical lilt that makes everything sound like an invitation rather than a statement.
Gambit flips a card into the air, catching it between his fingers with a smirk. "Hope you don't mind a little chaos, chérie. This place runs on it. But we got good folks, real good folks. You gonna fit right in."
I don't know what to say.
This is… new. This is not what I expected.
I expected wariness. Fear. The kind of restrained hostility I'd faced from the Protectorate back in my world. Instead, there is acceptance, not forced but genuine, a slow and steady warmth rather than a blazing spotlight.
These people don't see me as a threat. They see me as someone who needs a home.
Jean nudges me lightly, her voice a whisper against my thoughts.Breathe, Taylor. This is your chance to start fresh.
I exhale. The room is still buzzing with conversation, introductions blending into easy banter. There is no interrogation, no weight of expectation, only a slow, steady rhythm of inclusion.
I meet Jean's gaze, and for the first time since I arrived here, I allow myself to hope.
"So, what now?" I ask.
Scott crosses his arms, nodding toward the hallway. "Now? We show you the ropes. And after that? We see where you want to go from here."
Storm smiles. "You are not alone, Taylor. Not anymore."
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I believe it.
Jean and I are strolling through the mansion later that day when it happens. The world folds, and reality slips away.
One moment I am walking through the quiet halls of the Xavier Institute, Jean's hand warm in mine, the air tinged with the soft scent of old wood and fresh linen. The next, the floor drops away, and I am falling, though not through space as I know it.
The transition is not physical—it is a shift, a wrenching pull that leaves my body behind and pulls my mind through the seams of existence. It feels as if my skin is paper, peeled away layer by layer, until only the raw essence of me remains, a soul adrift on the currents of the unknown.
The mansion's warmth dissolves, the quiet hum of the Xavier Institute fading into silence. Jean's hand slips from mine, but not in a physical sense—more like a tether being gently severed. I feel the world unravel, the threads of reality unspooling, and I am pulled through the gaps in between.
I do not fall. I do not rise. I shift, moving through a liminal space, a threshold where the rules of physics and time are nothing more than suggestions. Colors bleed together, sounds warp and twist, and my body—my self—feels stretched, expanded, reduced, until the concept of a body becomes irrelevant.
I pass through light, through shadow, through moments of nonexistence, and emerge into a place that is not a place.
I know this room. Its name is imprinted indelibly in my thoughts. I find myself in the White-Hot Room, but to call it a room is to misunderstand its nature.
The White-Hot Room sits at the edge of existence, a chamber beyond reality's fabric, where the threads of the multiverse fray and drift into the void. It is the heart of creation, a forge where stars are born and where they come to die, where the cycle of life and death is not a process but a presence, a living force that beats in time with the cosmos.
There are no walls, no floor, no ceiling. There is no up, no down, only a soft, ambient glow that emanates from everywhere and nowhere.
The room is infinite and intimate, a space that stretches as far as the mind can conceive yet feels as close as a whisper. The light here is not just light—it is raw energy, the first breath of a universe, a white so pure it holds every color within it, every possibility, every dream.
I take a step, and the concept of distance shatters. My foot touches nothing, but I move forward—though the idea of forward is tenuous at best. I am not so much walking as I am shifting, my will pushing me through this place in ways that defy the rules I thought governed movement.
Time folds in on itself. I feel as if I have always been here, as if this moment stretches backward and forward, touching the beginning and the end. Moments stretch and compress, seconds spilling over into minutes, then snapping back into the blink of an eye.
I feel myself aging, my hair growing long and silver, only to unwind, the strands retreating back into my scalp as youth blooms fresh beneath my skin. I exist as myself, but also as a fragment of something larger, a note in the symphony of eternity.
I lift my hand, and the light seeps through me. My skin is translucent, my bones glimmering beneath, not quite solid. I am an idea given shape, a whisper on the edge of form.
And I am not alone.
Figures surround me, but they are not people—not in the way I understand. They are silhouettes, cut from the fabric of light itself, their edges blurred, their forms shifting between human and something more. Each of them is a flame, a candle in the vast white void, but where I am a flicker, they are bonfires, their light not just bright but alive, moving with the rhythm of stars and the pulse of ancient fires.
They emerge from the light, their forms shimmering, not quite solid. They are echoes, but also present, a paradox that makes perfect sense in this place where logic is fluid.
I recognize them—not by their faces, but by their essence, the way their light vibrates, the flavor of their energy. Their voices come not through sound but through feeling, a chorus that hums through my bones, vibrating at a frequency that bypasses my ears and speaks directly to my soul.
"You are the newest spark."
"A flame amidst the ashes."
"The Phoenix has chosen again."
I reach out—not with my hands but with my thoughts, a thread unspooling from my mind to touch theirs. I feel the weight of their experiences, the echoes of their lives playing against my own.
Jean stands before me, but not as I saw her in the mansion. Here, she is unbound, her form surrounded by the soft aura of the Phoenix Force. Her hair is a cascade of flames, her eyes twin stars, molten and ancient. She is both the woman who guided me and the host who burned with cosmic fire, a being of balance, of light and ash.
She stands amidst the ruins of a world, her silhouette sharp against the inferno. The Phoenix Force burns within her, but she holds it tight, a hand over the flame, controlling it even as it tries to consume her.
Her presence is warm, a hearth in the cold expanse of existence, a reminder that fire can be nurturing as well as destructive. She does not speak, but her mind brushes against mine, and I feel her offer of guidance, a hand extended over the chasm. I feel her understanding, her acceptance of the fire and the burden that comes with it.
Beside her stands Rachel Summers, another bearer of the Phoenix, her light a shade of red, tinged with hope and rebellion. She is a warrior, her essence wrapped in the threads of fate and defiance. I see flashes of her world, a place of war and loss, where the Phoenix was not just a power but a weapon, a flame wielded against the darkness.
Her thoughts are sharp, a blade honed on survival. "You don't have to let it control you," she says. "The Phoenix is fire, but fire can be harnessed. You shape it—you decide how it burns."
A step away, Quentin Quire hovers, his form flickering, his essence tinged with a rebellious pink. His mind is a maze, a construct of thoughts and possibilities, constantly shifting. I sense his cynicism, his wit, but also the undercurrent of fear, the knowledge that the Phoenix is a double-edged sword, a gift and a curse.
"It's not all fire and enlightenment," he warns. "The Phoenix doesn't just burn away the bad. It can consume the good, too. You need to know yourself—really know yourself—before you dance with that kind of power."
Another form steps forward, her light a deep, serene gold. Fongji Wu, a host from an age of legends, a bearer of the Phoenix before the world knew its own name. Her mind is a garden, a place of stillness, her thoughts wrapped in the wisdom of ancient philosophies.
"Balance is the key," she says, her voice a ripple through the light. "The Phoenix is neither good nor evil. It is change, the breath of the universe. To wield it, you must find harmony within yourself. Be the center of the storm, not swept away by it."
Another figure steps forward, their form less human, a shape that shifts between species, between realities. They are an alien mind, their thoughts a cascade of colors and sounds that have no name. They, too, bore the Phoenix, their world a tapestry of light and energy, until it burned too bright, and only embers remained.
I see visions—not memories, but possibilities, timelines branching off into infinity. Worlds where the Phoenix was a savior, and worlds where it was a scourge. Universes born from its flames, others left hollow and gray in its wake.
More hosts appear, a procession of souls who held the Phoenix Force, each one a story written in fire. Some are human, their faces marked by history and struggle. Others are not—creatures of crystal and flame, beings woven from starlight, their shapes more suggestion than form.
They circle me, their light mingling with mine. I feel them testing me, their thoughts brushing against the edges of my mind, tasting my resolve, my fear, my hope.
"Do you know what you are?"
The question is not from a voice but from the White-Hot Room itself, the light tightening around me, the air thickening. I feel scrutinized, as if this place itself is a living thing, a consciousness stretching through the fabric of the multiverse.
"I'm not sure," I reply, my own voice a ripple in the stillness. "I thought I was a monster. A god. A girl with too much power and not enough control. I don't know what I am."
The figures move closer, their light brushing against mine, and I feel their knowledge sink into me. They show me the truth of the Phoenix—the cycle of rebirth, the eternal flame that burns away the old to make room for the new. It is not evil, not inherently. It is change, and change is neither good nor bad—it simply is.
"You are a choice."
"A flame can warm or burn."
"You must decide what you will be."
And then, the light gathers, and the room seems to breathe. The past hosts step back, their forms blending into the glow, and from the heart of the White-Hot Room, a presence emerges.
It is not a person, not a form, but a force, a flame that is not fire but concept. The Phoenix Force reveals itself as a bird, a creature of wings and light, its feathers strands of molten gold, its eyes swirling with the birth of galaxies, the death of stars.
It is beautiful and terrifying, a being of endless hunger, of creation and destruction. Its voice is not a sound but a feeling, a tremor through the core of my being.
"You are the latest in a long line," it says. "A flame passed from hand to hand. You seek control, but control is an illusion. You seek peace, but peace is a state of becoming."
I tremble, not from fear but from the magnitude of its presence. "What do you want from me?"
"I want nothing. I am a force, a constant. I am the cycle—the burning and the rebirth. You are the vessel, but you are also the spark. What do you want, Taylor Hebert?"
The question sinks into me, finds the core of who I am. I feel the weight of my past—the ashes of Brockton Bay, the screams, the shadows burned into the walls. But I also feel the warmth of this place, the hands that reached for me, the voices that offered not judgment but understanding.
"I want to be more than my mistakes," I say. "I want to be the light, not just the fire. I want to heal. To help. To create, not destroy."
The Phoenix Force pulses, a wave of light washing over me. I feel the fire within me stir, not as a predator but as a companion, a warmth that fills the cold spaces, that lights the shadows.
"Then become it. Be the flame that warms, not the fire that consumes. You are the choice, Taylor Hebert. And the choice is yours."
I close my eyes, and I feel the fire within me, the molten core that pulses beneath my skin. It is a part of me, but it is not all of me. I am Taylor Hebert. I am the girl who survived Brockton Bay, who walked through ashes and emerged scarred but whole.
I am not just a vessel.
I am not just another host of the Phoenix.
I am alive.
I am the light, and I choose what to illuminate.
The White-Hot Room shudders, the light pulsing, and I feel a shift, a settling of the air. The figures around me begin to dissolve, their light folding back into the glow of the space, their voices fading into a chorus that hums through the fabric of reality.
But they leave behind a thread, a connection that ties me to them, to the legacy of the Phoenix. I am not the first, and I will not be the last. I am a link in the chain, a flame in the eternal cycle, but I am also myself, and that is enough.
The White-Hot Room fades, and I feel the pull of reality, the gravity of the world pulling me back through the seams of existence. I breathe in, and the air is cool, filled with the scent of flowers and sunlight, and I open my eyes to find Jean's hand still in mine, her smile a light that cuts through the shadows.
"You're back," she says.
"I think I'm finally here," I reply.
And the world feels new, as if the flames that burned through me have left behind not just ashes but seeds, waiting to grow.