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Firebird Rising	By : Jenskott Category: X-men Comics > Het - Male/Female > Scott/Jean Views: 3256 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men comics, or any of the characters from it. I make no money from from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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<><><><>

Firebird Rising

Author: Jenskott
Summary: Jean Grey is dead. Will Phoenix be able to rise
from the ashes again? What will happen if she does it? My own
version of the new 'Phoenix Endsong' series.
Notes: Thanks to my beta, Pinkchick, for
reviewing this chapter. Enjoy it and review, please!
I'd like to recommend the Scott/Jean forum (jott.forumer.com) to all
Scott/Jean fans that read this story.
Disclaimer: Marvel owns the books. Stan Lee and Jack Kirby are their
true parents.
Feedback: To jorgisimox@hotmail.com. Please, I need reviews! English
isn't my primary language, so I need much advice.

<><><><>

Part Two. Advent-

She didn't know if any of this was real.

That realization didn't ease her terrific fear at all.

Tall and thick walls of ebony bricks rose everywhere, extending and
twisting in a vast maze that spread endlessly. There wasn't a floor or a roof,
ground or sky in that place. Only an unfathomable darkness.

She sprinted crazily, looking desperately for an exit. Her heart
thundered in her chest and her lungs were burning, but
she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. She didn't dare to stop.

Inwardly her mind was comparing the place with the Labyrinth of Crete. Though
she wasn't Theseus; and her hunter was more dangerous
than a Minotaur. And she wouldn't sprout Dedalus'
wings to fly away. Her only option was going on running until she found the
exit or her chaser got fed up with that game.

She turned one corner hurriedly.

Suddenly she was in somewhere else.

Embers. Flames.
Blazes. A vision.

Egypt. Merciless Sun
pounded with light and heat of the burning dunes and the eroded ruins. Scott
Summers and Jean Grey were kneeled on the saffron sand, their son Nathan
standing behind them. Jean Grey placed the visor on her husband's face and
embraced him, thanking God over and over. The monster was dead and her love was
alive. Her world was whole again.

"Jean... Jean..."

"Hush. It's over, Scott. It's over. I have you."

Emma stalked off disgustedly and headed for another corridor.

Embers. Flames.
Blazes. A vision.

Alaska. Bright snow of
the purest ivory carpeted the world. Scott Summers was leaned on the door of a
log cottage as his wife played with the snow. A tiny artificial blizzard shrouded
Jean Grey as she spun around joyfully. Suddenly her foot slipped on a rock and
she tripped. Before touching the ground, though, her husband was holding her
with both arms. An odd, intense emotion shone on his face.

She breathed roughly. Warmth thumped inside her chest. "We may lose
this life if we go back."

"You'll never lose me," he promised. A delicate kiss sealed
his oath.

Emma moved a few steps backwards and turned around warily.

Embers. Flames.
Blazes. A vision.

The mansion. Scott Summers and Jean Grey
huddled together on a bed of dry leaves. She lay sideways, clinging tightly to
her dear husband. Her hand caressed gingerly the bandages dressing the scar on
his chest. Bastion had looted the mansion, captured the X-Men and placed a bomb
in Scott's heart. But when all was said and done they had won against all the
odds and they had survived. Together.

She pecked his forehead. "Don't you ever scare me like that again, Summers. I don't plan on becoming a widow."

"I don't plan on making you one, either." He smiled.

Embers. Flames.
Blazes. A vision.

The Danger Room. Scott Summers and Jean Grey
shielded into a cocoon of telekinetic power. She had collapsed over her spouse.
Her face was panicked, her dress in tatters. Still she breathed with relief.
After her meeting with Onslaught she was frightened, but she found comfort and
safety in his arms.

Emma fled of that scene, but wherever she looked, more images flashed. Wherever
she ran, remembrances shimmered around her. There wasn't shelter; there wasn't
exit. She was trapped in the labyrinth of Jean Grey's memories. She shouted.

"Damn you, if you want to kill me, go ahead and try it. But quit
these preposterous games!"

Her yell spread through the maze. No answer came back.

A harsh and mocking laughter chuckled in the distance of the slippery
shadows.

<><><><>

"Jean... you used your powers... to shield me. It could have cost
you your life."

"It wouldn't be much of a life if I stood by and let you die."

Scott took his shades off and sighed as the memory floated into his
mind. His digits massaged warily at his eyelids. "No. It isn't."

"What, mein freund?"

Nightcrawler. He grimaced and
shoved hastily his glasses onto the bridge of his nose before glancing up. Kurt
was hunched over him. Intense concern shone on his bluish face. His
three-fingered hand offered a mug.

He was daydreaming in the teachers' lounge again. Great.
He had to stop it before they started making awkward, oppressive questions.

Scott accepted the hot cocoa and forced out a smile.

"Nothing, Kurt. I've... been having trouble sleeping as of
late." He muttered, bringing the cup to his lips.

"Hah. I'll bet." Hearing that voice, Scott frowned and glared
across the breakfast table, around which the X-Men were gathered. Robert Drake
was ensconced on a chair exhibiting a sarcastic sneer.

Scott clenched tightly a fist, squashing inward his anger. "What's
your trouble, Iceman?"

Bobby ignored the implicit menace in Scott's soft voice. "What's MY
trouble? If you weren't sleeping with that witch in the first place you
wouldn't be complaining about it now," he hissed. Noticing the helpless,
troubled stares he was drawing from the other X-Men, he shrugged. "What?
I've only said what everyone's thinking. Now that Jean's gone-"

Scott slammed his cup on the table, spilling the warm beverage on the
surface. "Don't even think of turning this into something about Jean,
Drake. I know where you're coming from, and it has nothing to do with her. You
aren't angry because you think I've betrayed Jean, but because you want
Emma."

Silence. Bobby frowned and narrowed
his eyes dangerously. The air's temperature dropped rapidly.

Scott could feel his temper simmering and boiling, pleading for a
release. He wanted to bridle his fury, to retain his self-control; but he was
too furious and too restless. "You've always enjoyed being the class
clown, Bobby. But being a prankster doesn't attain you now that you want
something. And you're pissed off about it. I'm sorry, but I won't be your
scapegoat."

Alex leaned over Warren and whispered. "Someone
was bound to tell it to him eventually, but I didn't believe it'd be
Scott."

Angel elbowed his ribcage. "Alex, shut up."

Oblivious to that exchange, Robert Drake sat up, clenching his fists. His
frozen body pulsated with blue coldness. Scott stood and folded sternly his
arms. A red flare burnt behind his glasses.

They had met many years ago when they became the two first X-Men. Scott
had rescued Bobby from a lynching mob, and Bobby became the little brother
Scott had lost. They had studied together, fought together, and laughed
together.

But the world had changed. They had changed. They were different.

Logan spared them a
passing glance and focused back on his coffee. He wasn't getting in another
pointless argument with Scott.

A loud thunderclap cracked, reverberating through the air and shaking
the walls. Stares converged to Ororo. Her fist was
raised and sparks danced along the knuckles. Her soft features were distorted
with quiet, smoldering rage.

"You'll cease this foolishness, NOW," she stated in a very low
hissing voice.

Not many people would question her command. Even fewer would dare when
she displayed such wrath. Cyclops and Iceman returned to their seats
reluctantly.

Ororo sat down briskly and spat a
sour commentary about males being more thickheaded than mules. It was too low
to someone other than Logan, who sat on her right side, and heard it. He gulped
hastily his coffee to drown his laughter.

Scott contemplated the bubbles from his steaming cocoa in utter silence.
As his hand rolled thoughtfully over his mug, he wondered what had gotten into
him lately. He shouldn't have lost his control, his coolness with Bobby. But he
felt too worn and irritable, and when he had used Jean to attack him, his
iron-grip restraint slipped and he fought back.

Bobby had tried hurting him so he hurt his old friend in turn. Great, Summers, you're making progress. Jean would be proud of you.
He shouldn't have been so callous, but he wouldn't permit Bobby to use his
wife's memory as a convenient excuse to vent his jealousy.

His first question stood anyway. What the hell had gotten into him
nowadays? Why did he behave like this? Sleeping with Emma, allowing any
loud-mouthed asshole to goad him into a fight, bickering with his old
friends... Stuff he wouldn't dream of doing years ago.

But that was the core of the matter, wasn't that? He wasn't the Scott
Summers who led the first X-Men against Magneto one lifetime ago. He... wasn't
the same person.

Hank regarded Scott quietly. He had erected again his mask of aloof
detachment and stillness like a protective barrier, but he knew his friend
well. And he was concerned. He could read the misery and the pain written on
his haggard features and the fatigue and anxiety stiffening his fidgety
motions.

He laid one hand on his shoulder, staring him slightly. "You look
really exhausted, Scott," He uttered. "Are you having trouble
sleeping? Surely I can prescribe you some sedative to mitigate the
insomnia."

Scott glanced at him dizzily. Slowly his lips drew a rueful smile. A rare sight on him nowadays. "No offense, Hank, but
you also look like shit. You can't sleep either?"

He shook his furry head in denial. "Not exactly.
I've been having strange dreams lately."

The smile faded. "Strange... dreams?"

"Yes." Hank hesitated, baffled for that sudden and alarmed
caution. A brusque urge for fleeing invaded him, and he was torn between it and
his need for easing the worry burdening his chest. "About
Jean."

Several heads rose abruptly and gaped horrifically at Beast. Beast
glanced longingly at the door.

Logan blinked, pained
but slightly puzzled, as his senses scanned the group. Obeying an impulse, he lifted
his right hand. "Raise your hands if anyone here has been dreaming of Jean
lately."

The atmosphere in the room became very tense. Several X-Men reluctantly
raised their hands. Scott joined them after some long pondering.

Before anybody could say anything, the door creaked open and Kitty Pryde stepped into the room. Her dark eyes observed the
scene in amusement, and she arched a slim eyebrow. "What is this? A show of hands?"

Without waiting for an answer, Shadowcat
picked one chair and slipped comfortably between Logan and Ororo,
her surrogate parents.

Rachel Summers trudged into the room after her friend, yawning
powerfully. Pale horror froze her drowsy state when she noticed the only
available spot was next to Scott. The redhead telepath gnawed her lower lip and
claimed her seat awkwardly, avoiding looking at her father. With a glance she
spotted the coffeepot on the counter and levitated it.

Kitty glanced at her friend with extreme concern before turning to
Storm. "What was it that you were voting on earlier, Ororo?"

The windrider shook her head. "We weren't
voting on anything, Kitten. We were investigating a new development. Some of us
have been having dreams of Jean-"

A burst of glass breaking interrupted her explanation. She glanced
sideways to see Rachel had lost her grip on the coffeepot when it was halfway
from the breakfast table, and it had shattered on the floor. A puddle of hot
black liquid was spilling over the tiles, and tiny glass shards floated on it.

"I'm sorry," the girl muttered apologetically, and
telekinetically swept the rubbish and threw it into a dustbin. Next, she
recollected the coffee molecules and poured them in her cup, ignoring the sick
looks her action produced. Like everyone in her family knew, coffee was coffee.

Remy observed the girl carefully. His empathy wasn't required to imagine
the cause of her shaky anxiety. "You have been having dreams about Jeannie
as well, haven't you?

The young woman blanched and looked away. "Sort
of."

"That means Scott, Robert, Warren, Henry, Rachel, Logan and
me," Ororo mused. They were the closest people
to Jean. She weighed the possible implications. They didn't bode her well.

"Perhaps there's someone else," Scott mumbled quietly.

Storm swiveled an intense, serious look at him. "What do you mean,
Scott?"

He kept quiet, albeit his eyes darted briefly at the young redhead. With
a defeated sigh, he sipped his drink and began talking cautiously. "Emma
isn't sleeping well lately, either. She suffers nightmares of which she wakes
up screaming. And she never wants to talk about them. Besides, her mood is
worse than usual."

Warren leaned over Alex.
"How can he tell the difference?"

Havok elbowed his ribcage. "Warren, shut up."

Scott drilled them with a glare, but he overlooked their conversation. All
of them were having dreams or nightmares of Jean? Night after
night for several weeks? What was the meaning of it? And why was he
frightened of the answer?

No. Fright was a very simplistic definition to his feelings. Fear and
longing, despair and hope, guilt and joy threaded and entwined in his spirit,
weaving a cobweb where he struggled helplessly.

The hushed, insistent voice in his mind went on its ceaseless, droning
whisper. Help me.

<><><><>

Emma stared at everything with a mix of helplessness and disgust on her
face.

Flare-shaped visions had closed in on her, swirling in a golden vortex. Countless
embers rotated around her, coalescing in a whirlwind of blazing light whose
size and power grew with each flame it absorbed. In a matter of seconds the
twister had expanded in a massive and howling typhoon that plunged its cone in
the upper pitch-black shadows. Shards, fragments and bits from Jean's life swam
in its coils, blending in a chaotic maelstrom of shapes, colors and noise.

And she was encircled by it. Jean's memories surrounded her, no matter
where she gazed.

Scenes of Scott cuddling Jean tenderly. Scott staring at her with adoration. Scott
kissing her fervently. Scott vowing his undying love.
Scott making passionate love to her. Scott fighting for her. Scott protecting
her. And he wore constantly that gaze of a man deeply in love. And she
always displayed that expression of a woman who trusts fully in her man, a man
whose smile stirred fluttering butterflies in her belly.

Sickening. Emma felt overwhelming urges
of kneeling down and puking.

What was Jean playing at? She DIDN'T regret what she had done. She
didn't feel guilty about it. Why should she?

Emma coated herself in her diamond armor and folded her legs. Then she
leapt forward, diving in the firewall. A rush of blazes flayed violently around
her body, but she managed to jump through the twister. A victorious smirk split
her face, but she repressed her temptation of gloating in triumph, and broke in
a run.

A ghastly vision hovered on the corridor, blocking her path. A translucent, smiling redhead woman. Emma glowered at it
and sped up her pace, intending on running through the mirage.

The tough fist that struck her face unexpectedly was quite solid.

Emma fell backwards, landing roughly on her back. Raw, intense pain throbbed her face. Keeping her eyes tightly shut, the White
Queen palpated her features. Her nose was a mess of broken, bloody cartilage.
Her jaw quivered with a dull ache, and Emma feared that blow had cracked it.

Nursing her sore mouth with one hand, the White Queen stared upwards.

Dark Phoenix stood in front of
her. A sickening grin twisted her obscured face. Blood dribbled from her right
fist. Not Phoenix's blood.

Emma rose hastily, trying to disguise her frantic agitation with loath. Her
hand wiped with deliberate slowness the red droplets that smeared her lips, and
her aqua eyes squinted balefully at Dark Phoenix.

"Have you decided to finally show your face?" She sniffed
contemptuously - cold, forceful arrogance to mask her inner dread - and
crouched in readiness. "I was wondering what you were so frightened
of."

Jean's crooked smirk widened, but she didn't utter any retort.

Her placid silence unsettled Emma. Through the years, during all their
battles, Jean had always attacked with mindless fury whereas she goaded her,
shielding her emotions behind a frosty disdain. That serene, smug attitude was
unnatural in Jean Grey. It meant she didn't know her adversary any more.

The thought wasn't reassuring.

An eerie, lewd glint sparkled in her green eyes. The gleeful leer of a
predator aroused for the musk of her prey's fear. Jean moved her palm in front
of her face. Her fingers clicked.

Her figure vanished, leaving Emma alone in the darkness. Her
surroundings shifted and melted away in an inky, limitless blackness. An immeasurable nothingness that dulled the senses.

Sudden several spots flashed with orange phosphorescence on the flat
earth, encircling Emma. Thin beams started from them, drawing straight and
curved lines on the land. The streaks prolonged and crossed with each other
until tracing a twenty-foot wide circle circumscribing an inverted equilateral
triangle.

Emma arched her eyebrows, acknowledging the symbol depicted. A Phoenix's
mark. Sudden panic struck her and she stepped forward.

Flames erupted abruptly from the stripes on the ground and she stepped
back swiftly. Two firewalls encircled her now; the inner ring shaped by
blood-red fire and the exterior one forged with golden blazes.

Her heart was racing in her chest. Emma was scrutinizing the fire,
listening in a silence pierced only for her mad heartbeats and her ragged
breath, when she sensed the voice in her head. It was like a low whisper, a
distant murmur of water welling up in the depths of her skull and spreading
like a wave.

"Kill you, did you say? As usual, you don't understand a damned
thing," the ripple muttered. Sarcastic, acid, and still
amused. "Do you know what all that crap means of 'celestial
avatar', 'fire made flesh', 'personification of the life', 'and embodiment of
the love'?"

Flames swayed and crackled, gaining height. Emma watched their
mesmerizing leaps and curls, and she felt an unwilling but most powerful
fascination for that shimmering dance. It reminded her of a song.

Sweat glistened on her temples and she noticed the air was getting
gradually hotter. Intense, sticky warmth settled around her as a blanket and
slid between her skin and clothes.

"Absolute good and evil don't exist. Life isn't white or black. And
my name is Jean Grey. I can be intelligent, courageous, funny, loving,
vivacious, loyal, independent and strong; but I can also be impetuous,
stubborn, selfish, childish, temperamental, resentful, secretive and
irrational. They are my good and bad traits."

Emma panted roughly and heavily. The heat increased, becoming almost a
physical presence. Dense, palpable, and incredibly heavy.
Suffocating. It was suffocating her.

"I'm personified passion; my love can save the universe and my hate
can destroy it. I was full of love but you tried to take it away from me. You
tried stealing the man I love and cherish more than my life. My husband, my
best friend, my lover, my everything. You played with
his head to rob him and destroy me."

Heat. Hellish, simmering, sizzling
heat slammed her. She was pierced by a pain similar to a thousand acid-tipped
needles stabbing her and crawling under her skin. She screeched.

"Do you know the hurt of losing your life's love? Do you know the
hurt of being betrayed by your only true love? Do you know what getting your
heart ripped from your chest and shredded in bleeding chunks feels like?" The
voice whispered. "DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH IT HURTS, WHORE?"

Emma winced. Her head reeled and her body writhed. The abrupt mental
shout had pummeled her skull as a sledgehammer.

And then the real agony came.

A radiation bathed her with the most intense hotness she had ever
imagined. Blood boiled in her arteries like white fire; a flaming stream that
flowed and branched out within her, searing her flesh. Her legs faltered and
she collapsed over the ground.

"Someone else's feelings are something you don't give a damn about.
You care only for yourself," the voice seethed. "Allow me to
introduce you to an emotion called PAIN, Emma. And it's an insignificant,
infinitesimal fraction of my own."

The White Queen wasn't listening. She was being suffocated, squashed by
a heat wave that would make a sun icy in comparison. Inwardly her body was
being torn apart.

Sweat oozed from her pores and evaporated instantly with a sizzle. Tongues
of blistering lava clawed gleefully over their entrails. Dense air clogged her
throat. Her heart was shriveling into her ribcage. She wouldn't be able to bear
any more of this inferno.

Her mind tried numbly coming up with some comeback, some biting insult
or sarcasm to throw at her foe. Tell her that she was never good enough for
Scott. That she wasn't what he needed or wanted. That she couldn't love him
unconditionally. That she couldn't understand him. That she didn't know the
real Scott.

She had barely imagined her retort before an ear-splitting explosion
burst in her head. The whisper had grown into a thunder.

"You know NOTHING! You've never shared your brain with Scott;
you've never gone into his head. You couldn't have known which part was he and
which one Apocalypse. You couldn't recognize the alterations. You didn't try to
understand him, soothe him, heal him; only seduce him! His pain, my pain didn't
matter to you. Only your pleasure did. And revenge is the greatest pleasure of
all, isn't it?"

Emma shut her eyes, shedding tears that shifted instantly into vapor,
and waited for the final blow.

"I loved him. I still do. I love him so much it burns me. He taught
me to love and gave me love; you taught me to hate and brought me heartbreak. There
isn't enough revenge in the universe to placate me." She paused. "I
hate you, viper. I hate you like only the embodiment of the love can hate. I
hate you with an intensity that crumbles planets to dust. Kill you, you said?
Fool. Too easy, too quick, too nice. You deserve
something worse. Pray to God, bitch. Only He can protect you from me."

Suddenly, the heat, the suffocation, the agony... stopped.

An invisible force, like a claw, wrapped around her and hauled her body
upwards. Then she was brutally hurled out of that realm.

The impact of her soul crashing into her body was so jarring that her
physical shell jerked violently on the bed. Eyelashes fluttered sluggishly and
her eyes snapped open. Alarming darkness greeted her, but she recognized her
bedroom. Emma let out an exhalation of euphoria. Free, she was free.

She rolled languidly over her bedspread and stared reluctantly at the
alarm clock glowing on her bedside table. It read that it was eight o'clock.

She should have been working one hour ago. Emma uttered a profanity and
kicked the bedcovers backwards with considerable annoyance. If Jean's ghost was
determined to plague her dreams, couldn't she haunt her without disrupting her
schedule?

Supposing it was a ghost.

Hell hath no fury like a scorned woman. Once she had run into a
conversation where Scott assured Havok that the one
who came up with that sentence was married to a Grey woman. She could vouch for
it.

As she shuffled into the bathroom, her mind replayed constantly over her
nightmare. Trapped in a dream she couldn't escape from. Funny.
She never labeled Jean Grey to be a fan of old horror movies.

Her fingers released the laces tying her nightgown over the shoulders,
and the silky undergarment slid softly to the floor. Her ravishing nakedness
reflected on the bathroom mirror. She contemplated it.

Creamy, spotless skin. Huge, perky breasts. Curvy, sinuous body.
Flat and smooth belly. Gloriously
long and slender legs. She had never been shy or modest about her
beauty. She treasured it and flaunted it openly. Her body was one of her best
weapons, and she was proud of it.

Someone else's feelings are
something you don't give a damn about. You care only for yourself.

She fumed. As much as she hated admitting it, her deceased adversary had
judged that right. Her family taught her she was nothing without power. She
learnt her lesson well, and her adulthood was devoted to achieve power by any
means necessary. Persons were means to reach an end. Her telepathy, her
intellect, her body were useful tools. Her body, specifically, was an
ever-reliable resort to have what she wanted.

Then why didn't it give her what she REALLY wanted this time?

Emma shook her head with dejected sadness, and she slipped in the booth
without further delay.

You didn't try to understand
him, soothe him, heal him; only seduce him! His pain, my pain didn't matter to
you.

That conceited, stuck-up, sanctimonious... What did she know about her? So
what if she wanted revenge? Did Grey believe she was the only one capable of
caring for Scott? Was she so arrogant to think that that was her exclusive
right?

She snatched a sponge and scrubbed her hide fiercely, until it had
acquired a bright hue of red. Emma winced upon the hurt and restrained her
temper. More serenely her hand turned the faucet.

Rain poured from the showerhead, pounding softly her frame. Moist vapor
stroked her body and fresh liquid glided over her skin, washing away the
dirtiness, the distress and the pain. Her lips exhaled a groan of satisfaction.
Water was a refreshing, soothing relief after those hallucinations of fire
hunting her, encircling her, swallowing her.

This is an insignificant,
infinitesimal fraction of my pain.

Those words. Harsh,
merciless, ominous. They disquieted her more than she was willing to
acknowledge.

Had Jean felt like that? Burning ache rending apart her body, withering
her heart, choking her chest... That crushing, lacerating pain... was what Jean
had felt?

She couldn't have cared less for it usually. Emotionalism got in the way
of amassing power. If she cared for someone else's feelings, she'd be again a
weak, vulnerable and pitiful little girl, abused by everyone. Hence she didn't
care for the effects her doings caused upon other people. Unfortunately, one of
her actions might have a repercussion she wasn't prepared to handle. She might
be facing love turned hatred.

I hate you, viper. I hate you
how only the embodiment of the love can hate. I hate you with an intensity that
crumbles planets to dust.

Jean had stated she could be good or evil. And she wielded powers that
allowed her to alter the cosmos' fabric itself. Her passion could save or crack
worlds. And she had fueled her hatred, her anger, and her resentment. She had
released her dark side.

Therefore, if Jean came back into that mind state... if she resurrected
feeling that lethal, smoldering hatred... if she returned not feeling anything
except that loath that gave her power to devour stars...

She wouldn't be the only one in danger. But the X-men,
Earth and the entire universe.

<><><><>

A dead, solemn silence cloaked the graveyard like a stiff shroud. Not
even the chilly wind that used to rustle the cypresses' branches and make the
shrubs' leaves moved. The day wasn't particularly cold or gray, but a frosty
sorrow and a black despair seemed to dwell in that place, impregnating the
visitors with grief.

Footsteps sounded, shattering the seemingly unbreakable silence. A large
figure approached to the slabs, treading on the meandering gravel path.

Piotr Rasputin contemplated the
forlorn cemetery with a sullen expression of resignation. Bishop had asked him
-rather ordered him - to patrol the grounds, but he was sure that the huge
black man wouldn't be disgruntled with him if he stopped by the graveyard.

Besides, he really needed to come down there.

Colossus halted his stride in front of an old headstone, eroded by the
weather. Moss and lichens blossomed on the tough stone, weeds grew around it
and ivy climbed its sides, shaping a green crown.

"I've come," he stated simply, using an idiom that wasn't in
English. His moist eyes read over and over the words chiseled on the marble. The
same inscription was carved twice on the rock: Cyrillic alphabet to the Russian
text; Roman characters to the English sentences.

He sat beside the marker, crossing his legs in lotus position. As he
ensconced onto the lawn a frosty breeze rose, dragging the debris that littered
the backyard. Some grass blades flew together, mirroring long strands of hair. Wheat-golden hair. Colossus shook his head, banishing his
wistful fantasies.

"You must have felt very lonely, Snowflake. I haven't visited in a
long time. However I was, well, deceased, so I think I have a good
excuse." He paused. "No, I don't. I left the mansion after your
funeral, and when Kurt, Katya and I returned from Scotland, I didn't pay
frequent visits either."

Illyana Rasputin. His
dear, beloved, and cherished little sister. When she was born, he swore
to protect her. It was his duty like brother and son. And he failed
spectacularly performing it.

A moist tear rolled silently down his angled cheek.

"Still I remember the words Professor Xavier told me when he met
me: 'Your power belongs to the world, Peter. And it must be used to the
good'," he mused. "Those words moved me. They made me feel part of a
bigger whole. I left for America, ready to
contribute, to make a difference. But our efforts have been fruitless so far.
The world isn't a safe place for innocent children like you."

He remembered painfully the ordeals his sister had suffered since Arcade had kidnapped her
to blackmail the X-Men; an innocent victim in a war she couldn't comprehend. After
defeating him they had intended on taking her back to Russia. Perhaps if he
had done it right away... No. He couldn't second-guess himself. The villains
who hurt her could have reached her in any place and time.

Belasco, Limbo's ruler, had captured
her. They saved her from his clutches, but not before he had transformed her
into a thirteen-year old sorcerer. Demons had sullied her soul to corrupt her
and force her to link Earth and Limbo, but she had rebelled. She used the Soul
Blade to seal the portal, and rejuvenated to the tender child she was once. X-Factor
returned her to their parents afterwards. Happy end?

Wrong. Years later, the Russian army unlocked her latent powers to
destroy a monster. When it happened, they brought her to America to examine her,
but she fell ill during the travel. Legacy virus. She
fought it, they fought it, and God knows they did. But she passed away
ultimately.

He recalled, ashamed, his conduct during the
funeral. He recalled the cold rage that had consumed him. His
outburst. His defection. He was so overflowed
with pain, grief and fury, churning and bursting inside him, that he joined
Magneto. The Professor had let him down, and perhaps it was past time to try
another road.

Fool.

It was wrong. It was wrong, and he knew it since the first moment.

"I wanted to talk to you about one trouble, Snowflake. I know I can
be very exasperating sometimes, but you know to listen," he uttered again.
"It's about Katya. Yes, again. I don't know what
to do, sister. A part of me wants to recover the closeness we shared long ago,
but another is awfully scared."

Piotr recalled when they had begun
dating. They were young and were in love; life was great. But then their
relationship degenerated slowly. He saw her befriending boys like Dough Ramsey,
and he started harboring doubts. Why would she want to date a Russian farm boy
who was older than her? Fear and uncertainty nestled in his chest, tainting the
love and trust.

And then he fell in love with another woman during the Secret Wars. Or
so he thought then. In reality he was frightened and he looked for an excuse to
give up.

He broke up with Kitty instead of trying to work out their troubles. A mistake
he had been regretting every waking moment since then. And while he mourned
their relationship, she moved on and fell in love with another man, only to
commit his same mistake: let her doubts and fears overcome her and ruined her
love.

And now, after a long while, they were reunited on the same team. And he
knew his feelings hadn't changed. Though they weren't the same people they fell
in love with once upon a time. They were different. Too different, he feared.
Still he was sick of allowing his fear to paralyze him and his cowardliness
drove him to commit mistakes. Sooner or later he should stop running.

He pondered that there were many parallelisms between his relationship
with Katya and the recent troubles between Cyclops
and his late wife. Perhaps he should speak with Scott about it.

His sight wandered over the yard as his thoughts drifted away. Right
then, when his mind wasn't utterly focused on Illyana's
tomb, he noticed a detail he should have paid attention to long ago.

There was a massive, deep hole on the land, like a bowl-shaped crater. The
cavity's walls were blackened and carbonized, and mounds of dry mud were piled
up around the borders. It looked as if a bomb had exploded inside the ground
and the blazes had scorched it.

Above the empty grave was tipped a slab with an inscription carved on
the marble: She Will Rise Again.

<><><><>

-Notes: The memories from the first scene happened in: The Search of
Cyclops 4; somewhere after UXM 353; between XM 70 and XM 71; and in UXM 334. The
scene Scott recalls is taken from X-Factor 2.

-And I don't know how Colossus has been brought back to life so I'm
eluding that tiny bit.

-Jean can seem out of character in the dream sequence, but she isn't. My
take of Jean is she may be a good or bad person. She usually is loving,
compassionate, caring and kind; but she's a dark side as well. And Emma has
fueled her negative emotions, which unleash Dark Phoenix. By the way, the list
of her good and bad traits is partially taken from an interview to Claremont about the Phoenix
Saga.

-Emma's scenes were difficult. I DON'T bash characters, whether I like
them or not. Thus I had to portrait my Emma's view without demonizing her -a tough task getting in mind what I think about her-. I hope
having succeeded in it.

To be continued...
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Firebird Rising