"We live in an age of darkness, a world full of fear, hate, and intolerance. But in every age, there are those who fight against it." Storm said solemnly, fighting down the urge to break down and cry. She couldn't. The students and teachers and everyone else were counting on her now, to step up in the Professor's place.
Ororo wasn't sure she'd ever be prepared for that.
Students—current and past, some Storm hadn't seen in decades—filled the rows. Dr MacTaggert was at the end of the front row Storm had met her several times before; the former CIA operative had changed careers after the Cuban Missile Crisis, according to the Professor beside Hank. Scott's older brother Alex was in the back, lingering distantly, looking incredibly worn and aggrieved as he stood near a vaguely familiar redheaded man she thought might be Sean.
Slightly to their left was a small party from some government group that the Professor helped. Ororo only vaguely recognized them. Their boss wore black leather everything and a grim expression that pinched his severe face. An average-looking man and a brunette woman were at his right, looking solemn and saddened, though thoroughly professional. Slightly apart from them was a quintet—a confident-looking man with a neat goatee and an expensive suit, a well-dressed blond man with a military bearing, a guy with a quietly nervous demeanor in a suit that'd seen better days but he had the look of a scientist that made Storm think he, Hank, and the Professor must have gotten along famously, and a couple that stood close together: the woman redhead and subtly vigilant, the man openly watching the others in attendance with a keen eye.
'SHIELD.' Ororo remembered quickly. That was the name. The Professor had mentioned them several times before.
Kurt Wagner sat in the second row, holding a rosary as he listened. Logan watched distantly, though attentively. Kitty, Bobby, and Rogue sat in the front row beside the twins.
The twins...
In the front row, Wanda and Pietro sat. Wanda stared at her mother's grave numbly, not yet completely understanding her mother's passing or not yet wanting to, while Quicksilver glared furiously at the sky, fighting angry tears.
Ororo looked down to the stone marker sadly. She should not be the one to give the Professor her final goodbye, but she seemed to be the only one holding it together and not in shock. Wanda looked shattered and utterly lost; Pietro seemed murderous in his grief. Worse still was the fact that the twins had always been a secret from the world; for their safety, Charlotte had made sure they were little known. 'I have too many enemies, Storm, who would jump at the opportunity of using my biological children against me. This is safer for me, the school, and ultimately them if no one easily recognizes them as my blood. Even more so about their father. They would be larger targets than Erik and I combined if certain people were to learn that.'
Beside the professor's headstone was a smaller one, slightly weathered from age. Anya Xavier, it read simply. There had always been flowers left there, as far back as Ororo could remember. By the professor herself, by various students through the years, and maybe even by Magneto if Storm suspected correctly; the little Xavier child was never forgotten.
Storm's heart ached for the Professor and her children and students.
"Charlotte Xavier was born to a world divided, a world she tried to heal: a mission she never saw accomplished. It seems the destiny of great men and women to see their goals unfulfilled." Storm continues.
"Charlotte was more than a leader, more than a teacher. She was a friend. She was a mother. When we were afraid, she gave us strength. When we did not know what to do, she gave us guidance. When we had nowhere to go, she gave us a home. And when we were alone, she gave us a family." Storm's voice cracked loudly.
"She may be gone but her teachings live on in through us: her students. Wherever we may go, we must carry on her vision and that's a vision of a world united." Storm says.
...
Once the rest of the funeral attendees left the graveside, a lone man—weathered, aggrieved face hidden by his hat—stood before the headstone.
He had waited patiently for the twins to leave. The pair were too wrapped up in their grief to notice their father behind them, waiting to see the grave himself.
'Not even truly a grave.' Erik thought numbly. A memorial, perhaps, but not a grave. There was nothing left to bury. Nothing remained of her but the wheelchair.
Erik Lehnsherr knelt in the dirt before the gravestone.
Charlotte Xavier
Mother. Teacher. Leader.
Above those words was her profile carved into a metal circle, set into the stone of the marker. It was a good profile of Charlotte—her gentle features, the knowing slant of her eyes, the welcoming quirk of her lips.
Mourners and students had left a small pile of various roses at the foot of the stone beside the small flame that flickered on in the breeze.
The marker itself was in one of Charlotte's favorite gardens or so it had been so many years ago, before Cuba. It was the same that their daughter was buried in, now beside her mother's headstone. In fact, not far behind was the very spot where she had found that lost memory of Erik's mother...where he had moved the now-gone satellite...where she had told him. "There is so much more to you than you know"...where she had first kissed him...
Erik was certain that was where he had fallen for Charlotte, if it wasn't when she had dived into the ocean after him.
And somehow, Charlotte had always loved Erik. After all he had done—the killing, the attacks, the anti-human violence and plots—she had loved him still. After all he had done to her, she had forgiven him: after Cuba, after leaving her, after paralyzing her, after fighting on the opposite side of a war from her, after betraying her, after hurting her, after letting her die right in front of him...she had always forgiven and loved him despite it. He had always tried to protect her, but he only seemed to end up hurting her instead.
Charlotte's words, too fresh, too raw, too painful, echoed in Erik's mind from an argument. "All you've ever done—all you ever do—is hurt me! It's like every time you touch me...something breaks." She had said it in anger, but truth rang through her ire.
Erik blinked away the tears.
Reverently, Erik's fingers traced over the letters of her name before he set his sights upon the metal inset in the stone.
When Erik stood, he studied his work for a moment before brushing his fingers atop the stone. "I've lost you twice now. Once on a beach in Cuba when I shot you and left. And now..." He faltered as his voice cracked.
"You weren't supposed to be the one to die first of the two of us." Erik said softly. "I was supposed to be the one who died in the ceaseless war...but it's never been that way, has it? Not in Cuba, certainly not now.
"Verdammt, Charlotte." Erik cursed vehemently, nearly falling to his knees in the grass. "You weren't supposed to die at all. Not before our dreams of mutant success were reality, not before our children were grown and starting families of their own...Not in the least before I could actually tell you I loved you." He finished softly.
With a long last look at the stone, Erik turned and left the garden.
...
With the school in a state of mourning, the students were out of class but were all quiet and withdrawn at the lost of their Professor. They seemed preoccupied with their contemplations or tears and, either way, no one seemed to notice the unfamiliar visitor walked through the halls to her office.
Erik supposed he was less noticeable or recognizable without the damn helmet. He hated the thing now, but knew it was safer to wear it.
Years ago, Erik had asked Charlotte what it was like when she tried to read his mind while he wore it. She'd looked to him sadly, wistfully and replied. "When you wear that helmet...it's like a brilliant star suddenly gone, vanished into a black hole with only nothingness in its place, only a void where there should be light and warmth."
It didn't matter now. The only telepath Erik ever cared to allow into his mind was gone.
The wheelchair had been left in the center of the room, for apparent lack of knowing what else to do with it, or so Erik assumed.
Erik edged around it and went to Charlotte's desk. The papers were all in neat order, the books stacked carefully. It was too neatly cleaned, even by Charlotte's standards. She'd suspected it, then—had anticipated not returning.
A pristine envelope laid in the center of the desk. My Love, it was addressed in her calligraphic hand. Beside it laid the old bullet Erik had once prevented from entering her skull. Carefully, he tucked it away in a pocket, where it clinked against the matching crumpled one that he hadn't stopped.
Erik's heart thudded in his old chest but carefully he opened it.
Erik, my love,
I do not need to be psychic to foresee the conclusion of this war and my place within it. Or rather, my lack of. I am certain of my impending death, but I am not afraid, strangely.
I have lived a full life: loved a good man and been loved in return, carried out my life's dream of starting a school, and have many wonderful, beautiful children, both my own by blood and by bond. I have raised two beautiful, wonderful children of ours. I only wish we'd had more time together, that we had not been so prideful and stubborn and foolish.
Now, if I could go back to that day in Cuba, I know I would not have allowed you to leave. Even if it meant forfeiting our life-long argument about mutants and humans. Looking back, I know I should have and that knowledge burdens me every day. Had we thrown away such petty arguments, I feel we could have had so much more time and happiness together.
Such ponderings are irrelevant. My mutation does not allow me to undo the past and nor do I wish it to.
It has been so very many years since I dived into the ocean after an angry, lonely, bitter man. You are not the same man you were, so centered around your hatred for Sebastian Shaw. There is and has always been good in you, I recall telling you. I'll tell you again, lest you have forgotten. No matter what you have done since, I know there is good in you; I have felt it and I have loved you for it.
For it remains despite all the pain and horror you have known. You are a good man and I shall forever remember you as such, mein liebe.
I recall you first used your nickname for me over chess on our cross-country search for our children. I never told you that I looked it up soon afterward, even though you had not let on to any such romantic notions before.
I stopped you from admitting to it over our last chess game before Cuba. And we never truly said it after, though we both knew. It hurt too much to admit aloud to each other when we would only part ways once more. If I never do tell you, then... Ich liebe dich, Erik. I love you. I have always loved you since that first night when I dived in after you and first felt your mind. I will always love you. No matter what this war brings us.
Always know I have loved you and you have made my life a happy one. I cannot imagine it without you in it. Though I may go to my death very well tomorrow, know that because of you, my life has been made a happy one; there is no tragedy in that, Erik.
I love you. I'm sorry.
All my love,
Charlotte.
...
Erik was found shortly after he finished reading the letter.
"How dare you!" Came the furious yell as soon as the office door slammed shut. "You have no right to come back here, to be at Mum's funeral, to be in here—"
Pietro's tirade halted abruptly as his sister laid a hand on his arm. Wanda glared at the intruder coldly. "Why are you here, Dad?" She asked quietly, guardedly.
Erik looked to them and didn't bother try to hide his red-rimmed eyes and slightly damp cheeks. "I loved her." He said quietly, voice hoarse. "I really did. I always have, always will. It doesn't...it doesn't matter if you believe me or not when I say it now, but it is true. I never wanted her dead, not for a moment. I never intended to see her dead; it was always supposed to be me who died in this infernal war we were both sucked into.
"I have never been the man she deserved to love her or been the father you two deserve. And I regret that. But I won't apologize for doing what I think is best for all mutants. My only regret...my only regret is this." Erik states.
Slowly, the twins approached him. Wanda knelt beside him, while Pietro watched silently. She laid a small hand on his shoulder. "I believe that you loved her." She said gently. "I know she loved you. She always had; you must know this. She always told us to never blame you for what you do for the mutant cause. And we don't."
Confused, Erik looked at his two children. He could see Charlotte's determination in their eyes.
"We only ever blamed you for what you did to Mum." Wanda explained.
Erik's hand went to his breast pocket from which he pulled a small, crumpled bullet. "So have I." He replied softly, sorrowfully.
They didn't need to ask which bullet it was.
Eventually, Pietro spoke. "Go, Dad—before people realize there is an unexpected visitor in the school."
Erik nodded and stood. "You both take after your mother far more than I." He observed. "Good. Keep it that way. Now...stay safe. And away from San Francisco. If you go there, you will be in danger. For me—for your mother—stay out of that fight please."
Erik turned and left the office, with only a letter and a pair of old bullets in his possession. And a heavy, heavy heart that felt paradoxically empty.
...
Charlotte Xavier
Mother. Teacher. Leader.
Mein Liebling.