X-Men: The Last Stand (21 page)

He had an infectious love of learning, and a respect for knowledge that inspired the same in those around him.

Losing that, for these people, was like stealing the sun from their sky.

There were two stones, the greater cenotaph as tall as Xavier himself, emblazoned with a bas-relief of his face in profile, along with his name and the words father * mentor * teacher. Beside it was a second pillar, slightly smaller, bearing Scott’s name.

The air was very still—Ororo had seen to that—yet the temperature was quite comfortable. Each breath brought them the rich and varied fragrances of the garden, and their ears were touched from time to time by the buzz of honeybees and the occasional trill of birdsong from the surrounding trees. Farther off in the distance could be heard the keen of a hawk, calling for its mate.

Only two were painfully conspicuous in their absence: Jean Grey and Logan. Neither he nor Ororo had spoken of the events at the Grey household beyond the fact that the professor had been lost during a confrontation with Magneto, and at the moment they were content to let the blame fall entirely on him. But Jean’s manifestation of power had sent ripples through the aether that were felt by every student in the school with even a smidgen of psychic awareness. Ororo had to admit, when talking about it alone with Hank, that Jean’s actions had likely been sensed by damn near every psi on the
planet
! In a school full of active, inquiring minds, encouraged to think outside the box, it wasn’t long before the kids began putting together the pieces and drawing disturbingly accurate conclusions. So, now, they weren’t just shaken by the loss of the man who’d recruited every one of them, who’d been their guiding light as they’d explored this strange new world of their powers; they also had to deal with the inescapable fact that one of their own—perhaps the most powerful of them, as well as the member of the staff who was second only to Xavier himself as a nurturing parental figure—had gone rogue.

Nobody had to ask where Wolverine had gone. The only questions were what he’d do when he found her, and whether or not
he’d
come back.

Ororo strode to a space on the grass just in front of Xavier’s stone, and took a moment to compose herself—and in that moment she inadvertently allowed all present to see and understand why during her youth in Africa she’d been considered a goddess.

“We live in an age of darkness,” she began. “A world of fear and anger, hatred and intolerance.”

Messages of sympathy had come, not only from President Cockrum but from his predecessor, who’d laid the groundwork for all the advances in mutant-sapien relations since. A discreet video feed had been established that allowed these proceedings to be viewed from the Oval Office.

David Cockrum sat at his desk, his wife of many years at his side. He was idly sketching—which is what he did when he was stressed, to center his thoughts and ease his mind—a rough drawing of Xavier as he knew him best, from younger, happier days. No staff were present, as this was a private moment; and presidents never liked anyone outside of closest family to see them cry.

“For most of us,” Ororo said, “this is the way things are and always will be. Some maintain it is hardwired into so-called human nature. But in every age there are those who fight against it.”

The news had been a body blow. None of the students had needed to be told that the professor was gone. They’d felt his passing the moment it happened—in class, in dorm rooms; everywhere on the great, sprawling campus—as shocking and undeniable as a blow to the gut. And yet—though the initial reaction of many was tears—discussion after the fact revealed that the predominant emotion, what they’d actually
felt
from Xavier, wasn’t pain or anger or sadness. Quite the opposite: they’d been aware of a fierce hunger to see what lay over the next horizon, an eagerness to embark on this wonderful new adventure. They felt a sense of grace and peace—and, strangest of all, they felt joy.

“Moses, who led his people out of slavery but never reached the Promised Land himself. Abraham Lincoln, who saved the Union and freed the slaves, but never lived to see his country at peace. Franklin Roosevelt, who led America through the Great Depression and the Second World War, yet died before the final victory. John Kennedy and Robert Kennedy, struck down cruelly before their time, their promise unfulfilled.”

“Martin Luther King Jr. who fought for equal rights but was struck down by an assassin’s bullet.”

Logan stood just inside the treeline, downwind so he couldn’t be scented. He didn’t have a great view, he didn’t really want one, but he heard every word of what Ororo had to say.

“It wasn’t something they asked to do. They were chosen. And he was chosen, too.”

She looked up, and her eyes found his at once, as though she’d known precisely where to look for him. The pain in her eyes mirrored his, only more so—and Logan knew she mourned not only the friends she had lost, but feared as well for those about to follow.

He understood, completely, but turned away regardless.

“Charles Xavier was born into a world divided. A world he tried to heal. It was a mission he never saw accomplished.”

Rogue sat at the end of the front row, Bobby beside her, Kitty beside him. None were shy about their tears. Seeking comfort, Rogue reached for Bobby’s hand, her eyes closing ever so slightly in frustration and greater sadness at the necessity of being able to touch him only through a glove. Some instinct, perhaps a minimal shift in the way he sat on his chair, prompted a sideways glance and she caught her lower lip between her teeth at the realization that he and Kitty were holding hands as well. Only, the other girl’s hands were bare. None of them noticed Peter Rasputin, sitting behind Bobby, with eyes only for Kitty. They’d been an item, once, and after they’d broken up, she’d spent a sabbatical year abroad getting over it. Problem was, he hadn’t.

“But Xavier’s teachings live on with us, his students. Wherever we may go, we must carry on his vision. The vision of a world united.”

That was it. One by one, led by Rogue—whose idea this was—each of them walked to the cenotaph for a moment alone, to say their own farewells, and leave a long-stemmed rose at its base.

That night, some of them still found it impossible to sleep. Bobby Drake tossed and turned and fretted for what seemed like forever—but turned out to be less than an hour on the clock—before deciding to raid the kitchen for some soda and ice cream.

Padding down the silent halls, he was caught by a low cooing from Kitty’s room, a note of such poignant beauty it stopped him in his tracks. He knew at once what it was, being one of the few who’d actually been introduced to Kitty’s dragon. He eased open the door after a warning knock. Bobby had no interest in Lockheed, perched watchfully up in the ceiling shadows, only in the slim, brown-haired, brown-eyed figure slumped cross-legged on the bed.

She waved her hands helplessly when she saw him, her eyes sunken and red from crying. She’d given up on tissues after the second box—they were discared in piles all over the bed and carpet—and now had a bath towel draped across her lap.

Kitty muttered something incredibly rude, indicating her eyes and calling them “waterworks.” Bobby knew that she didn’t like being blindsided by feelings; taking her cue from her favorite teachers, Ororo and Logan, she much preferred control.

She wiped away her tears with her fingers, then the heel of her hand, then the towel. Didn’t do much good—they just kept coming. He’d never seen her look helpless before and briefly considered making a joke, but then thought better of it. Instead, he tried to offer comfort.

“It’s okay, Kitty,” he told her. “It’s okay.”

She muttered something even
more
incredibly rude.

Then, a touch more calmly, she responded, “Xavier came to my house. He was the one who convinced me to come to this school.”

“Me, too.” He sat beside her, gave her a guy-hug across the shoulder. She slumped bonelessly against him and for a frantic instant made him think she’d actually phased into his body. When it had passed, he said, “We’re all feeling the same.”

She turned to him, her voice soft as she shook her head.

“No, Bobby, we’re not. You have Rogue. I have…”

She trailed off into silence. He wanted to see her face but she was looking toward the window.

“I just…I miss home,” she said. She was from a small town outside Chicago, called Deerfield. “First snow, long winters, even the wind off Lake Michigan.”

“Hey,” Bobby said a little defensively, “we get snow around here.”

She gave him a wry look, as though to suggest he made it all himself—which he sometimes did, in fact, when they wanted to go sledding down Suicide Leap.

“It’s not exactly the same,” she noted. He actually thought it was better, but kept the sentiment to himself.

“What’s so different?” he asked, meaning about home.

She shrugged, her voice tired. “Well, for starters, no Mansion, no cool uniforms, no supersonic jet.”

“Yeah, I guess there’s that.”

“Don’t you miss it, sometimes? Normal life?”

“What do you mean by ‘normal,’ Kit-Kat?”

That got him a sour look. She wasn’t thrilled with the nickname, which is why he used it now and then to bust her chops. Usually worked great for knocking her out of a funk.