Title: Scheherazade – Let Me Tell You the Tales of La Mancha

Author: 10other_words

Pairing: Charles/Erik

Rating: PG13

Genre: Angst, Slash, Slight AU

Warning: violence, mentions of mpreg

Summary: Let me tell you a story about a boy who chose blindness. About the fox that was tamed. About the Little Prince who returned to his beloved rose, the rose who may already be long gone.

Notes: The story in unfortunately unbetaed, whatever mistakes made are wholly mine. This story is set in the same universe as the previous work, The Mean Reds on Blue Days. I would recommend that the first story be read. This work is also set in the X3 period, a sort of reimagining of the events of X3.

Apologies as well as this story is experimental. I'm not really sure if it's going to be that coherent, but I do hope it will be a decent read. It also draws heavily on a number of influences, namely The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly, Inception by Christopher Nolan, and Rashomon by Akira Kurosawa.

Reviews, critiques are greatly appreciated and welcomed. Thanks for reading.

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Prologue

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I'll kill you. I swear I'll kill you.

He can taste blood in mouth. The metallic flavor gushes in a sickening fervor. He can barely breathe. His vision was dimming. Scott Summers has long struggled at the crushing force that held him, but it cannot be budged. Spent, he lay in the muddy rocky ground wheezing. His arm, an odd angle.

Sharp fingers catch hold of his chin. A hungry gaze meets his own. Defiantly, Scott stares back before wrenching his gaze back to the rocky out-cropping of Alkali Lake. Whoever Jean has become, whatever she has become, he wants no part in it.

Scott continues to scan his surroundings, intent in finding his mother. Despair, rage wells within him. All he can see was the twisted wreckage of a wheelchair and the bright smear of blood. A shocking crimson color even to his red tinted vision.

"Look at me," she hisses.

He steadily meets her gaze. All he sees is a twisted monstrosity, lusting for power.

"I'll kill you," he rasps out. It was a promise. "If he dies, I'll hunt you down and watch you burn."

A mocking smile greets his threat.

"Really now?" she drawls out before she bends down to whisper at his ear. "How much would you give so that he'll live?"

Scott shudders in revulsion and anger at his own helplessness, but his reply was steady and resolute.

"Everything."

Everything.

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I – The Boy Who Chose Blindness

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Let me tell you a story.

Es was einmal.

Once upon a time.

Let us begin with this, how stories usually begin. Once upon a time, there was a boy. A young boy who lived all alone in a great big house.

He thinks it is a great big house. He's not sure. You see, he has never opened his eyes. He doesn't know how long he has been like this. Doesn't even remember anything, even his own name. The only memory that the boy has is a memory of a woman. A woman who took his hand and bound his eyes.

Mother?

No, no, no. Not mother. Never mother. Mother is happy, safe, warm. The woman is not. She is the hissing cold in the dark. She would whisper to him about monsters lying deep in the shadows. Monsters of flame that hunger and hunger, hiss and coil. They will tear you to pieces if you stare at them in the eye. Turn you to stone and leave you dead.

"Promise me," she says as she wraps his eyes in ribbons of silk. "Promise me that you'll never open your eyes. Never remove this ribbon, it will keep you safe."

It will mark you as mine, forever and ever.

The little boy promises, swears solemnly. She kisses his forehead tenderly. Her nails scrape his cheek. She is never heard of again, but the boy keeps his promise. From then on, his eyes remain closed and bound. His world now begins and ends in darkness.

"Such a shame," the woman whispers as she leaves. The fading tic tic of her footsteps like a herald of doom. "You had such lovely blue eyes."

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Do you know the story of Medusa? The woman punished by the gods for her sins. Or was it because she reminded the gods of their sins? Medusa of the snakes. Medusa of the flaming eyes. Medusa who could turn anyone into stone with the power of her gaze.

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So the little boy keeps his promise. Keeps his eyes wrapped in layers of silk.

Days turn to weeks. Weeks turn to months. Months to years, years to decades...

He doesn't know how much time has passed. Maybe centuries have gone by, maybe only seconds. But he goes on with his life, in the now narrow confines of his dark lonely world. From sunrise to sunset, he follows the path carved out for him. Always, everyday, like clockwork.

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Tic. Toc. Tic tic.

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It is the rhythm of his days. 600 steps from his room. 600 steps back.

In the beginning, the boy would stretch out his hand and let his fingers touch the wall. The monotonous sandpapered surface would act as his guide to his destination. In time, he learned every groove and bump, knew every hole and patch. Slowly, as he grew more confident, his arm dropped to his sides. He began taking those 600 steps without faltering, without any guide except for that path worn smooth by age and the constant thread of his feet.

Time moved forward. Everyday was the same as yesterday, until the fox appeared.

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II – The Fox Who Was Tamed

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The day started like any other. The boy rose and began his 600 steps out. It was only in his last step that his days where irrevocably changed.

The boy hears a morning greeting. It was such a welcomed yet shocking sound. It has been so long since he's been in the presence of anyone. The woman who bound his eyes all those years ago has long since faded into a memory. All that accompanied him were his thoughts and the sound of his own body. His breathing, the brush of skin against cloth, his footsteps.

The whisper of silk. A hiss. Muttered words. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Delighted, the boy returns the greeting. He extends his hand to touch his greeter, but only empty air met his fingers.

"Je suis là sous le pommier," the voice tells him after his futile attempts to reach out from his post.

It should have been gibberish, those words. Having never heard words like that spoken, the little boy was surprised that he could understand. It was as if a door was flung open from his mind. The smell of apples in the late summer. The glimmering golden sun peering from the leafy boughs of his tree.

'Un, deux, trois,' a voice in his mind murmurs. Blue eyes. Large hands. Before everything.

A delighted smile twists his lips. He knows this voice.

"You're the fox," the boy exclaims happily. "Come and play with me," he urges as his body vibrates with joy. Those half-remembered dreams of blue skies, golden fields, and warm huge hands that lift him up in the warm breeze.

"I cannot Kind," the fox replies regretfully in that oh-so-familiar tone. Even when blinded, the boy can almost see the tilt of the well-loved face. It's searching intense gaze.

"Because you've forgotten that you've tamed me," the fox continues in a hushed tone replete with sadness. "You and the Little Prince."

It makes him want to cry, hearing that voice. It was a familiar melody, filled with too many what-if's and I-must's. Words spoken with increasing regularity as time marched forward.

He remembers regretful yellow eyes. Words spilling forth.

"Because there are things worth fighting for."

"What must I do?" the boy implores. "I would very much like to be with you."

"Il faut être très patient," the fox replies kindly. "Go back and come back the next day at the same place. Everyday, come back at the exact same hour; and everyday, take one more step to me. There are just 13 steps." A pause, then, "Il faut des rites."

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The next day, the little boy returns. He takes 600 steps and one more. Everyday, he comes back at the same time and takes one more step from the last.

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There are only 13 steps. 613 steps to tame the fox. 613 commandments of the Torah. 613 seeds of the forbidden fruit of knowledge.

No, no, no! Come back you stupid boy. You are mine…

Eins, zwei, drei.

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III – Eins, Zwei

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On the first day the boy returns, the fox inquires.

"Why do you bind your eyes?"

The boy ponders his response. It's not that he doesn't want to speak. It's more of he doesn't want to remember those night. The creeping darkness. The hissing echoes of hunger and want. Red hair in gray skies, a banner of blood. The choking crushing air. A beloved voice echoing in his mind, 'Keep back child. Keep back. Get away.' The feeling of helplessness as all he loved disappeared into nothingness and silence.

In a faltering voice, he speaks. He speaks of the monster with flaming eyes. The monster who destroyed everything with the power of its gaze.

Tears run down his eyes, soaking his bandages. The ball of grief and regret he long hid from himself burst forth. He curls upon himself. Lays in a ball of misery, but he perseveres in telling his tale. Telling how he could do nothing. How the woman came and bound his eyes. Made him promise never to open his eyes. Made him swear on his mother's life.

The fox says nothing. He simply sat and listened. It was enough for the boy. It was almost like an absolution

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The next day, the fox tells a story instead. His voice rose and fell in a rhythmic cadence that entranced the boy. He tells of Medusa – Medusa with the terrifying beauty, Medusa whose blood can both kill and heal. She who was punished by Athena when Poseidon raped her at the goddess' temple. She who cursed the goddess for not giving her what she wanted and was then punished for her pride and greed, two of the deadliest sins.

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"She'll be a powerful weapon," he murmured, his gaze lingering at the now sleeping child. It had been an awe-inspiring display, the whole suburb frozen in a parody of everyday life. The cars floating as if uncontained by gravity. Water flowing upward like Alice's adventure in the looking glass.

"And you saw what she did without compunction?" his companion demanded. "She has no concept of right and wrong, only the full knowledge of her power and the will to use it. Did she not dismiss you and everyone as nothing?"

He does not reply.

"Would you let such a person run un-checked?"

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Tell me, was Medusa only the victim? Or was she both the victim and the precursor to her doom? The duality of her power and everything that it entails.

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The little boy chews his lip, pondering the question. He asks the fox, "After everything, did she at least hide away and lived in peace?"

"No Kind," the fox replies with a fond smile in its voice. The same smile the boy knows too well. A sharp and predatory curl of a lip that can turn infinitely gentle and aching. "She hides and nurses her hate, her hatred for men. In time she strikes and kills. Even in death, she is a herald of doom."

He does not know what to say. The boy cannot answer. Yet the fox does not urge him. There is after all another time.

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IV – Drei

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From night 'til dawn, the boy thinks. Round and round, the question turns in his head, but he has no answer. When the fox asks the following day, he could only shrug in shame. He wanted so badly to be able to give the right answer, to hear an approval that he never realized until now he wanted. But he had nothing to give, and to give an answer he did not believe in was a lie. He can never lie to the fox. He cannot be a disappointment.

"Perhaps this is a better story," the fox says in a voice filled with warmth and affection, hidden in an odd sort of hesitation. It is a strange tone. Why the hesitation, the boy thinks. After all, he has tamed the fox. He is now certain of it, feeling the ties between them. Knowing, nearly certain that as he has tamed the fox, so have the fox tamed him.

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Let me tell you a story, a story about a girl as white as snow. The girl so beautiful, her stepmother aimed to kill her. Four times, an attempt was made. Three times it failed and it only succeeded in the fourth.

The first attempt was not successful because the huntsman stunned by the girl's beauty spared her life. The next two failed, for the dwarves who pitied the beautiful creature found her in time. The Queen nearly succeeded those two times, appealing to the girl's vanity. First with the bodice laces, and second with a poisoned comb.

The fourth was a success. Greedy foolish girl, watching the disguised queen eating the un-poisoned half of the apple, wanting. Snow White took the apple and bit it's poisoned flesh. Dead she was at first bite. The dwarves mourned her when they found her dead. Poor beautiful creature who never took their advice.

It was her beauty that brought the Prince to her. With a kiss, she awakened, and they lived happily ever after. But before the story ends, the queen learned about Snow White's good fortune. She came to see the girl wed. There, in front of all sundry, Snow White and the Prince had their men place red-hot poker shoes of iron upon her feet. She danced. Danced with burning feet onto her death.

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Tell me, was Snow White the victim or was she a precursor to her own doom? Do you think her a heroic victim or another vengeance-riddled victimizer?

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"It's wrong," the boy speaks with no hesitation. "What happens to you cannot be helped, but it is what you do afterwards that matters. It is what you can decide on – to go beyond those who wronged you, to go beyond vengeance. That is what you aspire for."

As he speaks these words, he feels echoes of déjà vu. He could almost see kind eyes he knows to be colored blue. Kind eyes replete with both laughter and sorrow. A melodic voice that always speaks.

Violence will never give you peace.

Arms that rock him to sleep.

But just as sudden is the memory's appearance, it is gone the next. He dazedly shakes his head, realizing that his voice has trailed off. The air is rife with anticipation.

"You are so like my Little Prince," the fox breaks the silence. His voice reeking with nostalgia.

The boy feels an ache at those words. A warm ache of pride and confusion. Part of him feels it's a lie. In the patina of hazy colored dreams, he hears whispers that call him like the fox. Told countless and countless of times.

He tells this to the fox. It earns him a rumbling laughter.

"Perhaps. You are after all the sum of your parts. But in this, you are like him."

"Tell me," he begs. "What is your Little Prince like."

"Morgen, mein liebes Kind."

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V – The Tomorrow that Is a Lie

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The fox does not speak of the Prince the next day they meet. The boy urges him, but he would not be swayed. Frustrated, the boy reminds him of his promise.

"It is difficult," the fox replies, his tone sharp. "To speak of those you've loved and lost."

Ashamed, the boy falls silent. They do not speak.

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You say he loves us, yet why does he leave?

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Fünf

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Silence.

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Sechs

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The ticking clock.

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Sieben

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"Why do you say I wasn't like you?" the boy asks, breaking the monstrous silence that has suddenly characterized their days.

"Because I agree with how the tale ended," the fox replies candidly. "The stepmother would never stop to end the girl's life. Better to strike first than lose your life one day."

"Is that reason enough?" he cries in disbelief.

"I have a better reason as well. I have to protect those I love."

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Acht

Neun

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Bear with me Kind for it is difficult to speak of things that can never be yours. First hear my tale of Orpheus. Blue-eyed Orpheus, my little dreamer. He with the power to charm anyone with his music. The trees weep when he sings. Stones do not touch him, moved. Even the god of the underworld, Hades, wept at his tune. Yet all his skill was not enough when he met his doom. Blue-eyed Orpheus who drowned in sorrow for loved lost was torn to shreds. In the frenzy of their rage and drunkenness, the followers of Bacchus could not hear the songs he wrought. They fell onto him. Tore his body to pieces with their very own hands.

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Zehn

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VI – Le Petit Prince par le Renard

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"He had the most beautiful blue eyes," the fox speaks first by the eleventh day. At the boy's inquiring noise, he clarifies, "My Little Prince. He had the most beautiful blue eyes just like yours."

The boy was surprised. It is not that he no longer wanted the fox to speak of the prince. In truth, he still desperately wanted to know. But when the silence creeps between them like a pall, the boy knows the fox is lost in his contemplation of his beloved.

Beloved, such an apt term. A word replete with too much longing and guilt. Even the boy feels it. These are the moments as well that he feels the loss of the Prince keenly, too keenly.

I'm so sorry mama. I failed, and…you died.

"I loved him," the fox's hushed voice breaks through the boy's thoughts. "But I had to leave him, and could never return."

The fox laughs bitterly. It was harsh choking sound, a study of pain and regret.

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Let me tell you a story about the brave King Odysseus and his loyal wife Penelope.

The King was called to war. For ten years he fought, and for the other ten years he tried to return home. His wife, Penelope, was besieged by suitors for all those years. But she remained steadfast and stalwart to the last 'til Odysseus returned to reclaim her and wreak vengeance on the upstarts.

But this is not their story.

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It was an inevitable confrontation, he thought. At a certain point, their ideologies would be too disparate for even their groups to meet peaceably. But he did not expect this, to see the other in the battlefield. Not him.

He raged. He shouted. Cut a tumultuous swath of destruction.

"How dare you risk yourself?" he grated out.

Did he have a right to say that?

In truth, no. He could not help what he feels nor thinks. He had made his choice, but it was never easy to let go.

Blue eyes stared back at him, unflinching. The slightly chastened and mostly calm figure was gone. In its place was a man who would uncompromisingly stun him with the truth. A departure from his little dreamer.

"Do you expect me to be an object you can place at the shelf and come back to find unchanged? I cannot stay like that, dusty and un-useable."

He was foolish, wasn't he? To think and to wish that things will always remain the same. That life could easily be turned back to those halcyon days of summer.

"Please, we've made our choices."

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The boy listens to the sad tale. A part understands yet another part cannot accept why life must be so. A steady stream of what-if's and could-have-been's.

He asks the question, wondering why waiting can never be an option. It was a perverse query. He certainly knows the answer. But what is life but a bunch of impossible wishes?

If…if…if

"Because time waits for no one. Because people must change, children must grow up." A pause. "You have to wake up soon, mein kleiner Junge."

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VII – Zwölf

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There is an inevitable feeling of loss. The boy cries. Great big tears soak the bindings of his eyes and rolls down his cheeks.

He accuses the fox.

"We are going to part soon, aren't we?"

It's not really a question, it's more of a statement. The fox does not reply. They both know the answer too well. From the beginning, there has always been an inescapable knowledge that they will part.

No more words are said.

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The red cape. A resolute back, Sunset.

Doesn't summer always end?

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VIII – et je te ferai cadeau d'un secret

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Dreizehn.

613 steps.

The boy takes the last step. Now, he stands underneath the apple tree. The fragrance of apples waft through the air as the sign of the ending summers. The fading sounds of laughter.

The little boy reaches out, feels the soft downy fur, the warm body. He wants to cry, but he does not. Having spent all his tears the day before.

You see, mother says we need to be strong for father.

He smiles instead. Stretches his lips and simply smiles, smiles, smiles. Even if his heart is heavy, even if his cheeks ache by muscles long unused; it is better, he thinks, to leave with happy memories. Memories that he can keep and study with great fondness.

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"Do you trust me?" the fox asks.

The little boy finds the question surprising. Always, he has trusted the fox. No matter how much has happened, no matter what words have been said, he has always carried a childlike faith that can never be extinguished. If he may forget, this is one thing that he will always be certain of.

He knows it in the hazy memory of the demon appearing before him with a hand outstretched and a message from the fox, "He wants to see you."

He took the demon's hand. There was no hesitation, no question then. What more for now?

He feels the fox's satisfaction as he was handed a fruit. He runs his hands on the rounded shape, the seams bursting with a pulpy mass.

"This is my last request. Eat the four seeds of this fruit," the fox instructs him. "You can only move forward after this, but you must."

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613 seeds of a pomegranate. The forbidden fruit of knowledge. It's four seeds prevented Persephone from returning to innocent days. She, no longer Demeter's little girl.

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The boy implores the fox to join him as he takes the first bite. His appeal is met with remorse.

The wind hisses. The air turns cold.

Mine. Mine. Mine!

But he feels safe within the confines of the tree and the fox's presence. There is only the regret that the fox cannot come with him. Instead, he is enveloped by a warm body as he slowly falls to slumber. Contentedly, he feels large hands run through his head in a soothing caress.

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"Listen to me closely Kind for I will give you four immovable truths to take with you…

First, is your name –

Scott.

Second, is the season you were born –

Summer, the season of plenty.

Third, is that you have your mother's blue eyes –

Beloved eyes like summer skies.

Fourth –"

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He doesn't hear the last line. The words blur into an indistinct hush against the shrieking denials brought by the wind. But he does hear the fox's parting words, just before his senses dull to nothing

"Sag hallo zu deiner Mutter für mich."

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Hear me speak of the untold story of the Little Prince. The Prince who wanted to return to his beloved rose and to his planet with the three volcanoes. So he took the pact with the snake and allowed himself to be bitten.

He did return to his planet. But this isn't what is important. Let me first ask you if you remember what the geographer said? How he called the rose, ephemeral. It is the one and only truth that should be too important to be forgotten. So now let me ask you, do you think the rose will be still be there alive, waiting?

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Interlude

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He opens his eyes, wincing. It was an unexpected sight that greeted him. Perhaps he should have expected it, Erik's familiar form cast in that odious helmet.

Hooded eyes meet his. He ignores it. They are after all in a temporary truce, but he is just too tired for any form of pretense. He licks his lips. It's desert dry. Exhaustion seeps through his bones as he lay slumped in his chair.

"You should rest," Erik was the first to break the silence. "We'll need you at full strength in Cerebro when we storm the compound."

Charles gives a slightly hysterical laugh. It's a jarring sound in the sterile room as both their gazes were drawn to his bandaged arms, the stark white skin, and the IV needle piercing his hand.

"I doubt it," he replies with an attempted self-deprecating smile. It falls flat. Lips purse into a tight line greet his effort. "I just want him back," he bursts out.

"And running yourself to the ground to keep on reaching him will help?"

Charles sputters angrily at the acidic response. But he is given no chance to speak as words burst forth from Erik's lips. Years of frustration and differences known yet never spoken spill in an endless stream. He could never understand Charles' desire to be accepted, to be always liked by the very same people who despise and fear him. To place his life and safely in the line all for those ingrates, it is unbearable.

"You tried to hide all your life, to ask everyone to hide all you life," Erik lashes out. "But your biology betrayed you. Mutants age slower than humans. Even when you did not want the world to know, as soon as those insects saw how you were aging thrice as slow as the rest, they knew. One more cause for them to hate us."

"What is it to you what I think?" Charles snaps back. "You never tried to understand. You can't even trust me!"

Silence reigns. It is perhaps the crux of the matter. The unbreakable gulf symbolized by the helmet Erik wore. The very same contraption he wore when he left and never removed in Charles' presence. Even when Charles had promised never to use his abilities on him. Even against the promise that was never broken.

"Can we not fight?" Charles begs. He leans back heavily. The steamroll of his resentment, gone, leaving his adrift. "We've already made such as sorry state of ourselves. My students fighting yours, all for the same cause. I even sent Scott to stop you, to shoot you!"

Erik makes an abortive movement. Perhaps to stop him. But does he care? He is so tired of everything.

"His hands shook afterwards. He sat at his bed and stared at his hands as it shook the whole night. Some mother I am," he speaks bitterly. He knows he is babbling, but the events has taken their toll. The violence, the animosity. The sting of betrayal as he, Scott, everyone was left at Alkali Lake to fend for themselves. Sometimes, in the dark corners of his mind, he thinks that perhaps Erik wanted them dead and gone. One more less distraction, obstruction to his mutant cause.

More often than not he thinks of the deaths it has wrought. Poor Jean who he warped and molded to follow his ideals, dead, and now reborn to wreck destruction. Penance for his sins. But what a poor penance it is, dragging his son along with it.

"Should I have just let her come with you?"

"She would have been magnificent."

Charles bites his lip. He looks down to stare at his hands, his guilty hands. The answer was almost what he expected, an accusation he most certainly deserved. Wrapped in shame, he does not notice the softening of his companion's eyes.

"I did say would have, Charles."

His eyes snapped up at those words. Stunned. Yet all he sees is a retreating figure; once again he is alone in his solitude.

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IX – Le Petit Prince Avec des il Bleu

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Once upon a time, there was a boy named Scott, A blind boy who has forgotten his name. He has forgotten everything until he met the fox. The fox who gave the boy his name and three more truths to take in his journey. The last of which he could not hear.

Once upon a time, the boy named Scott fell into slumber and awoke in another place.

Music. Arpeggios on the piano keys are the first to greet him.

Scott feels a rush of contentment and nostalgia. The notes are like a warm safe haven that harks back to golden hued days. Days he spent curled against a warm body, watching as hands skillfully run through the black and white keys. The long shadows cast on the room.

The music stops. Scott is shaken out of his musings as a cheerful voice greets him. It is a comforting voice. A well-loved voice that murmured fantastical tales of daring-do as he lay snuggled in his bed. Curious, he reaches out. His hands trace a patrician nose, soft lips, a stubborn chin.

A smile breaks through his face. The puzzle pieces clicking in place.

"You're the fox's prince!"

He exclaims happily. He feels the skin underneath his palm soften and curve into an answering smile.

"Hello to you my summer child," the Prince greets back.

In answer, Scott flings himself into the Prince's waiting arms. Joy burbles through him while apologies spill forth his lips again and again. For almost all this time, he thought the man dead. Guilt had clawed his body and gnawed at his bones. He blamed himself, knowing he had not been strong enough.

He finds himself being rocked. Hands stroking his hair. A melodious voice comforting him as he spent all his pent up emotions.

"Do you know why you are here?" the Prince asks.

Scott nods. It is inescapable, the knowledge that had burst forth in his mind.

"I have to wake up, don't I?"

The Prince makes a sound of assent. Scott raises his hands. He tracks the silken bindings covering his eyes. The silk feels no longer crisp. The edges were ragged. The knot, unraveling. Experimentally, he tugs at the knot. A blast of rage and want roars through his mind. He hears the hiss of hunger and poison. He immediately drops his hand. He burrows further into the warm body. It is cold.

"I'm so sorry little one," the Prince murmurs. "This is all my fault."

Indignant, he denies it. He pushes out of the comforting embrace and says what he and fox both believe.

He gets a warm chuckle. Scott feels the fondness emanating from the Prince's voice.

"Both of you have always been too biased on my behalf. It was my decision. It should have been my burden to bear."

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But he told me to take care of you…

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Listen to me little one, for I will tell the tale of how death came into this world. It is a simple story of how the goddess Izanami died in giving birth to the god of fire. Her husband, Izanagi, could not bear losing her, so he went into the land of the dead to take her back. Izanami at first refused. She had eaten the food of the dead and can no longer return to the mortal realms. Izanagi insisted until she agreed, but only on the condition that he allow her to rest her weary body alone. Izanagi did not keep his promise though. Too impatient, he snuck into her bedchamber. There he saw what death had wrought on his beloved wife. Her beauty long gone. Horrified, he fled back into earth. He abandoned Izanami and forever sealed her in the land of the dead. Because of his unfaithfulness, she cursed him. Swore that for every day that has passed, she will take back 1,000 lives.

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Exhaustion blankets his body, but he still speaks as he numbly gazes at the now sleeping girl.

"I've sealed off part of her abilities for now, until she learns."

"She's magnificent," his companion murmurs.

He looks at the man in askance. Noting the nearly reverent expression that was gazing at the child.

He doesn't know what he feels when he sees that look. It is something ugly though. A telepath he may be, but many times he doesn't even know what he's feeling. But this he knows is a horrible and a cruel twist in his gut.

"That was a creature of pure id," he says. He winces at his words. But he cannot help himself, remembering the fear that greeted him at the cavalier show of power. Remembering the ache of his chest at the awed expression in his companion's face. "We need to give her time to develop a superego and a mature ego…"

He knew he was babbling as he continued his explanation. At the back of his mind, he feels all of this is for naught. When had he gotten so jaded that he feels the necessity of tampering with a child to change the whole course of her life. Since when was it so easy to do this with impunity?

He knows the answer though. This was when he started training children for battle against those he loved.

He feels the rough pad of a fingertip at his lips. Dumbstruck, he stares at shadowed eyes.

"Enough Charles. Enough."

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Let me tell you when the first wrong was struck. Foolish Izanagi who could not accept the inevitability of death. Faithless man who forcibly brought his wife back from the dead, only to abandon her in the end.

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X – The Fourth Truth

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Scott does not want to hear the echoes of recriminations in the Prince's voice. It is something he feels should not be part of such a voice. Oh, he now remembers that grief is a part of their lives. Old bitter friends that they are. But he remembers as well the days long past. In that golden patina of nostalgia, the blue summer skies and the joyous peals of laughter.

He just wants to remember these happy memories, he tells the Prince. If he could hide from everything and only have this, he would.

"It is impossible," Scott was told. He stills. He feels it; that they are at a cusp of a moment.

"If the Little Prince did not leave his rose, he would not have met the fox and learned an essential truth. If Odysseus continued his ruse, he would have killed his son and his name would not be long remembered."

Scott asks, "If you understood, then why did you not wait for him?"

He gets his reply with a soft voice, a voice replete with resignation.

"Because that is what he needed. And so I lied," a pause. "In truth, I, we are still here waiting."

At this moment, Scott remembers the last truth the fox told him. He thought he had lost in, drowned in the howling winds. But it seems he had kept it, close. The fox's voice whispers in his mind, 'I will always love you and your mother.'

That is the fourth truth. That is the only thing that matters, he realizes. The other three are simply offshoots of the fourth. In the end, should he forget everything and anything, this is the only thing he will never leave behind.

Reluctantly, he disengages from his mother's arms. He is ready. It's time to go.

He faces his mother, touches the beloved face. He asks for one last thing.

"Promise me, you'll tell father. Tell him the truth. That we are still waiting for him."

He feels that answering bittersweet smile.

"I promise."

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Scott grasps the bindings of his eyes.

He hears the screeching denials.

He ignores it. The knot begins to unravel.

The hisses rise to a crescendo.

Slowly, he starts to open his eyes.

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XI – Wrong and Right

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Let me say to you that you are both wrong and you are both right in your tales of Medusa and Izanami. They are after all just a vein of truth, but it can never be the whole truth. Just as they say when a tree falls and no one can hear it, does the tree truly exist?

Let me tell you what I believe though. Let me tell you the tale of Shahryar, the mad king.

Shahryar lost his mind due to his wife's betrayal. In his madness, he bathed the land with the blood of maidens. For three years, families mourned their daughters and sisters as they well led to be the King's wife for one night and at the next day, beheaded. Until one day, Scheherazade, the Vizier's daughter, sought to end this grief. She succeeded for 1001 nights. On the final night when she had no more stories to give, she prostrated herself before Shahryar and begged for her life. The King had fallen in love with her all those nights. She was spared, and he declared her, his queen.

But this is not their story.

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Sleep eluded him. Mother had been away all day. For days, he had been preoccupied, and he suddenly disappeared. None would say where he had gone. Now he's returned and father with him Scott is certain of it. The familiar hum of father's presence permeated the whole mansion.

He snuck out of his room. Unerringly followed his parent's presence at the opposite wing of the house, now institute.

He doesn't know what to feel as he crept through the darkened halls. Father left them. He never returned. Now like some thief in the night, he is back. And back with mother.

He finds them in one of the unused bedrooms for the students. The light seeped past the ajar door like a blade in the dark hall. He peers at the tiny crack. Notes his parent's familiar figure gazing at a sleeping figure. A pang of jealousy runs through him. It's ugly, he knows. He can't help it. After all, he's never shared his parents, all the adults in his life. And now, to see another child be able to bring his father back after he left them. Scott couldn't even bring his father back.

"She would be a magnificent ally," he hears his father speak. The awe was unmistakable in the man's voice.

Scott bit his lips. Father never talked or saw him that way.

"She's not ready yet," mother interjects in a worried tone. "You saw how she is. Too much power and too much knowledge that she has this power, but with no ability to judge right or wrong. It's too dangerous…"

Mother's voice trails off as father bends down to hush him. Exhaustion had threaded mother's whole form. Even his voice had the bone-deep apathy of the weary.

Scott sees father's worried look. The expression the immediately morphs to the soft glow of affection at the wide-eyed look he receives.

"I said would be," father murmurs gently. "I do trust you, Charles."

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Let me tell you how their story truly ended. Shahryar had already tasted and bathed in blood for three years. No matter what good he had within him before, the heady corruption of his violence could not be erased. When Scheherazade's tales ended, so did her life end.

Our tale does not stop here. When her sister, Dunyazade, heard about Scheherazade's fate, she sought revenge. She took the mantle of the King's next bride. On her wedding night, she went to meet the King with a dagger hidden in her robes.

For this is their story.

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There was so much blood. Bright red soaked the earth.

Scott struggles as he lay sprawled at the rocky ground. He had to get the mother. His horrified gaze cannot help but be drawn to the crimson liquid that mocked him, reminded him of his powerlessness. This cannot be true.

"I wonder what is it with Xavier that makes you so loyal," Jean's voice breaks through his near burbling panic.

He ignores her though. But she wouldn't allow it as she forced him to face her. He felt her tug his visor. Scott feels a vicious pleasure. The chance, the thought he may be able to reduce her to ashes, to return whatever injury she caused his mother. He welcomed that possibility.

No beams come out of his eyes. Jean makes a sound of rebuke, wagging her finger in front of his face in reproach as if he were a naughty boy.

"Do you think I'll let you?" she asks in a voice rife with amusement. Her hands run possessively at his face. "You have such lovely energy though. It reminds me of Magneto."

She gives me a sly knowing look.

"Greedy, greedy Xavier, having you and keeping that link with Magneto. He must enjoy having these two constant sources at his beck and call. Didn't you think I didn't know?"

Scott stays silent. Part of him wants to rage out. Slam her back for all her arrogant misconceptions. That witch.

"Won't you say yes?" she cajoles. "He doesn't need you now."

Something snaps within him. Beyond coherence, he struggles wanting to feel his hands upon her throat.

'If he's dead, I'll kill you!' his mind rages in a litany of violence.

He could taste blood in his mouth.

She watches. Waits for all his rage to spend itself. He slumps back. Rasps out, "I swear Grey, I'll kill you. If he dies, I'll hunt you down like a dog, even if I have to burn the whole world down."

A mocking smile twists her lips.

"How much will you give so that he may live?"

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XII – The Boy Who Awakened

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Scott awakens to chaos. At first confused, he rapidly calms down as the familiar mind touch of his mother becomes evident.

'Get up Child,' he hears his mother's voice. 'Your father and everyone is keeping Jean and the guards busy, but you must move quickly. Careful, they're armed with the cure.'

Scott sends a wordless acquiescence as he pushes himself to move. He winces as long unused muscles protest while healing wounds pull and start to bleed sluggishly. He staggers about, long past the strength for stealth. No one stops him though. For that he is grateful, fully aware of his mother's hovering presence and his blanket of protection.

'How are you, anyhow?' Scott inquires suddenly while he pauses for breath.

He receives a brush of confusion. He clarifies while attempting to control the images that assailed him at the thought. Crimson blood. Shattered remains of a wheelchair. Limp bone-white fingers. Mud.

'I thought you dead.'

'Nearly,' was the apologetic response. 'But your father found me in time.'

Scott feels a myriad of emotions at the news. He thinks it's impossible to parsec on a good day, more so now. Though he wants to try. Before he could even begin, he finds himself stumbling out into the open and into a sight he would never wish to see.

Without thinking, he runs. Runs towards his father. Urges his body to move faster, to block the hurtling syringes filled with the deadly cure. Pain blossoms at his back. He made it. A smile tugs his lips. Father's horrified eyes. Mother's near-hysterical denials. It is cold. Darkness.

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XIII – Dies Irae

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Silence. The whole compound is still. It was an unnatural stillness. Bodies and muscles locked into place like an absurd version of rigor mortis. Every person whether friend or foe was forcibly riveted at the sight of Magneto tenderly setting down upon the ground the still form of Scott Summers.

Magneto looks up. Faces the contemptuous Jean Grey in an expression of icy resolution. It was more chilling, more frightening that any expression of rage or brutal violence. The world seemed to wait with bated breath.

"You've crossed the line little girl," he speaks. His voice whisper soft. "Even Charles will agree with me, we'll never let you get away with this."

He raises his hand.

"Do you know that the human body is composed of trace amounts of metal?"

Slowly, he clenches it in to a fist.

"From the calcium in you bones."

She begins to scream.

"To the iron in your blood."

The sound echoes in the vast silence.

"Copper, tin, nickel, silver, even gold."

Agonizing.

"I can feel all of it…little…girl."

She couldn't even move. Her muscles forcibly locked by the same will that held everyone in place. She tries to speak, to spit out her defiance at them. It was impossible.

He snaps his fingers. A bright arterial spray follows. Her body falls, a merciless thump.

Magneto's gaze sweeps through each and every face. They contained a myriad of expressions, from the horrified to the unyielding.

"Charles is going to let you all go at the count of three. But let me warn you," he bares his teeth in a bloodthirsty smile. "If you intend fight me, you won't win. Better run."

Eins, Zwei, Drei…

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Epilogue

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Déjà vu.

Charles Xavier finds himself once more facing the beloved features of one Erik Lehnsherr as the man prepares to leave.

"You're leaving," he tells the man. Such a self-evident statement, yet Charles could not help but say it. To say it would make it real, would make him accept the inevitability of parting. He's not sure whether to curse or thank the recent disaster that has happened. Yes, they've all lost much, but this illusion of being with Erik is a somewhat balm to his soul.

Erik gives a simple answer. No denials, only the truth. One of the many things he loved, loves the man for. There is no denying the truth, even if time and painful realities have all but buried it in a morass of violence.

"I hope you've said your farewells with Scott," he bravely continues. "Whether or not he has lost his mutation, he still deserves it."

A frown greets his statement. It perhaps may be cruel of him to think that way of the father of his child, but he has realized that things would better be said than unsaid.

Erik kneels down and grasps his hand. It's startling. He stares at the familiar eyes, realizing it was unshadowed. The monstrous helmet Erik usually wore, missing.

Charles' eyes open in wonder.

"I am truly sorry," Erik begins, lips twisting in self-recrimination. "For ever making you think this way. Know this, no matter what, he will always be my little boy."

Rough-hewn fingers brush Charles' hair from his forehead.

"Read my mind Liebling."

Charles gives a watery smile, clutches the hand grasping his tightly.

"I should apologize as well," he says, determinedly forging ahead even when Erik tries to interrupt. "Not just for thinking about this, but because I lied. Scott told me that I should tell you. I should have told you a long time ago."

A pause. He meets the puzzled eyes with resolve.

"When everything is finished, whatever you have done, come back here. I, he, we've always been here waiting."

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Scott gazes at the two remote figures of his parents. He feels lighter. It's not because he's lost the burden of his gifts. It's not because he gazes at the world with unshielded eyes. No, it's because he feels that everything that matters has been said. Whatever the future brings, this moment will never change.

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Fin.

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Translations:

Please note that the 4 French phrases below was directly lifted off from the Little Prince. The scene where the Prince first meets the fox, the one where it explains how it is to tame, and lastly when the Prince was to leave the fox. I thought it appropriate to lift these phrases off.

- Je suis là sous le pommier – I am right here under the apple tree

- Il faut être très patient – You must be very patient

- Il faut des rites – One must observe the proper rights

- et je te ferai cadeau d'un secret – And I will make you a present of a secret

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Remaining phrases:

- Es was einmal - Once upon a time

- Un, deux, trois – One, two, three

- Eins, zwei, drei – One, two, three

- Kind – child

- Morgen, mein liebes Kind – Tomorrow, my dear child

- Fünf, Sechs, Sieben – Five, six, seven

- Acht, Neun, Zehn – Eight, nine, ten

- Le Petite Prince par le Renard – The Little Prince by the Fox

- mein kleiner Junge – my little boy

- Zwölf – twelve

- Dreizehn - thirteen

- Sag hallo zu deiner Mutter für mich – Say hello to your mother for me

- Le Petit Prince Avec des il Bleu – The Little Prince with blue-eyes

- Liebling – darling

*I would like to thank drefan21 for correcting the German phrases.

Further Author's Notes (Just my ramblings on how this story came to be.):

This story was oddly born out of a what if, wherein in the current setting what would be the rest of the xmen's reaction be if they found out Scott was Magneto's son by his act of saving the man. My mind immediately went to the scene in X3 when Magneto got the whole brunt of the syringe filled cure. What if Scott was there as took the brunt of it for him. Unfortunately, this is the only idea that remained in the final story. As I wrote this, I realized what I wanted to write was a catharsis (I suppose that's the best word), a cathartic journey of Scott, Charles & Erik. A more lighter and happier end compared to the first piece. I also wanted to flesh out this reimagined world, how same and different they are, as well as how that moment of abandonment would define their interactions and reactions.

I guess when I realize I was going to write more about their inner world than whatever was happening outside, this format of playing with dreams/the unconscious plus the archetypes told by fairy tales & mythology came to be. I do hope that it was clear that this was mostly set in a dream, layers of dreams that the three interact with in a language that is both oddly frank as well as allegorical.

It was also from this take that I drew inspiration from Rashomon. The idea that an event will always be remembered differently, depending on whose memory it is. I chose to latch on to the scene after Erik and Magneto finds the young Jean Grey and tampers with her abilities. In this story, they bring her back to the manor and talk about her frightening ability. What I did was show this scene in three different memories, first by Erik, 2nd by Charles and last by Scott. I wanted this scene to capture what they felt about themselves and each other, looking back at that moment while the events of x3 play on. So each dialogue and remembered events would be different, depending on the person remembering.

Lastly, I will apologize to whoever loves Jean Grey as a character. It was a deliberate take on my part to make her sound unhinged as well as to make her as a plot device. I guess it was brought about my impression of her in the film as a young girl who Xavier and Magneto visit. She struck me in her blatant and blasé show of power as a sociopath in the making. The conversation further cemented my impression. I ran away with this impression, that a person with so much power that she can literally make anything happen would never be able to develop a ego nor a superego. Such a person would always be stuck in his/her id state. This is the logic I used on why her powers were blocked and why she went even more unhinged when it was suddenly unblocked. The id after all should still be connected to the ego and superego. Having been 'alone' all this time would not be ideal. In here, the release of Jean's id is the release of hunger and want, which manifested in the desire for a power source, in this case Scott.

You'd also see that there is no Scott-Jean love story here. In this universe, I saw that their relationship will never make sense. Here, their relationship will always be rife with jealousy, even with the other xmen. When I think about it, the fact that Scott is Xavier's son (even if no one knows it) will always set this unconscious divide between him and the rest of the orphaned/rejected children. Here we have an only child, a mummy's boy if you think about it plus the only child of a slew of doting uncles and aunts. Coming from the privileged background, he's going to be a brat for all his ideas of maturity as well as an unconscious snob. While the rest of the children will sense it and resent him for it. Hence the nickname "professor's pet" in the story, The Mean Reds on Blue Days. It doesn't help as well that since I had the formation of The Xavier Institute set back, Scott would have studied in some expensive private school before Xavier's, and his further education in Oxford further complicates matters. With Jean there is an added dimension that Xavier will have to focus more on her, so Scott here who is used to having mum's attention all to himself is not going to be happy. Same with him getting jealous when it was Jean's presence that brings Magneto back for a bit.

Lastly I couldn't help but attempt to smooth out inconsistencies with the First Class film and the previous Xmen films. X3, happens I think in 2011 while FC in the 1960s. Scott will be born 9 months after it, so he'll be too old. This is what I love about mutation, I can simple wave my writer's wand and declare slower aging. With this, I'm sorry to say but due to my bias, Charles and Erik will look like their 40+ year old versions of their FC selves. (Charles will have hair, can't help it I'm afraid). I also tried to address what I saw as a power dissonance between the series and the prequel. In my head, I simply thought of it as both of them growing wiser about not being too flashy with their powers. Of course when Scott gets hurt, that's another story altogether. Another thing is connecting Scott's mutation w/ at least one parent, in this case Erik. I guess in my mind there has to be some connection to it or this world won't make sense. I don't know if this makes any sense, actually, but I decided to play with the concept of electromagnetism, which is one of the fundamental and strongest forces in the universe. I played with the idea that both of them draws their power from this (or a variant of it). Magneto by manipulating magnetic fields. Scott by absorbing the energy generated by the electromagnetic field, storing it, and converting it into a form of energy in the aspect of his force beams (which is really the force that repels).

Anyhow, I do hope that this work has been an enjoyable read. I really enjoyed writing this even when I practically kept erasing whatever I wrote. All part of the writing process I guess. Please, I'd appreciate any critiques or comments you'd have. Thank you.