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Firebird Rising	By : Jenskott Category: X-men Comics > Het - Male/Female > Scott/Jean Views: 3255 -:- 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? 'Phoenix Endsong' how I believe it should have happened.
Notes: This story emerged months ago during a conversation in a forum
about the �then- incoming 'Phoenix Endsong' series. After
listening many -mostly negative- opinions and many �very accurate- predictions,
I came up with a possible plot. Several members liked the draft and encouraged
me to develop it in a fic.
I 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 One. Remembrances and Premonitions-

Scott

He blushed. She stood in front of him, dressed with a handsome dark
dress and wearing a beret restrained her rich red hair. He couldn't stop ogling
to that hair. She was the prettiest girl he had known ever. And
spunky too. He chuckled inwardly seeing Hank performing an unscheduled
aerial spin after his clumsy attempt of hinting on her.

Nevertheless he groaned. That gorgeous girl had just arrived to the
mansion and the only thought crossed his schoolmates' minds -those untamed
beasts he got for best friends- was getting in her pants.

Their duty was making her feel welcome. He grabbed a chair and motioned it
forward, offering her. Then she shocked him out of his wits when the seat slid
towards her automatically.

He gawked, utterly stunned. She smirked and fluttered her eyelashes
innocently. He smiled back. He had been very fidgety but she had eased his nerves
with a simple gesture.

The landscape blurred. They were now outdoors. She was more mature, her
beauty more refined. A long white dress embraced her ravishing figure. The
steady drum of wedding bells surrounded them.

"I do." She said with a perky smile. The sunrays weren't
brighter than the infinite happiness dawned on her face. If he wasn't already
head over hells in love with her, he had fallen right then. Unable of
repressing himself longer, he kissed her deeply as the priest proclaimed their marriage
and the X-Men cheered.

The world shifted again. The mansion was crumbled, demolished in
blackened and smoking ruins. The X-men were badly wounded, injured by someone
who they believed a friend and turned out to be their worst and oldest foe. And
she was dying on her arms. Her face smeared with dark blood. Her body limp.

"Scott... My best friend..." She wheezed out. "All I've
ever done is die on you."

She coughed, spitting a spray of blood. And then her body burst in
blazes. Burning, hot-melting fire blossomed around him, charring her flesh to
ashes as he screamed. He cried and sobbed as his arms held clumsily the
remnants of her corpse in denial. Heartache impaled his chest, shredding it in
bleeding chunks and spread its tendrils through his body, tearing him apart. While
he collapsed over the singed land, he wished the ravenous and high flames
circling him claimed also his soul.

But it didn't happen. The circular wall of tall flames remained around
him as a glowing orange ring. The cracking tongues of fire coiled in front of
him, drawing a face. He gulped.

"Scott... Help me..." She whispered.

With an appalling scream, Scott Summers lurched onwards on his bed, tossing backwards the quilt wrapped his body. For
several heartbeats he remained bent over the covers, calming his frantic
breathing. Cold sweat drenched his forehead, and he wiped it with one hand. His
skin felt clammy and sticky.

Slowly he regarded his surroundings. Pitch, deep shadows shrouded him,
but he recognized their- his room. Jean didn't sleep in it since months ago.

The ebony blackness was comforting and welcome after his dream. A dream
devolved in an awful nightmare and haunted him night after night. And it ended
always with the same scene. Last Jean's death.

He shivered and lay down again, basking in the pillow's softness. Deafening
silence was everywhere, including in his head. The rapport tied his mind with
Jean's had wilted long ago. He let it go and now he felt hollow and crippled. He
missed her terribly, not matter what his friends believed.

Though, a faint voice resounded in the rear of his skull, as a
persistent thread. Help me.

<><><><>

Rachel

Rachel gasped in amazement. Soldiers weren't bombing the mansion. Acab wasn't experimenting with her to cloud and submit her
will to his wishes. She wasn't locked in a camp, with her hair cropped, her
face branded with the Hound tattoo and her body dressed in filthy, green
overalls. Sentinels weren't murdering Logan, Ororo,
Peter and finally Kate.

She had been suffering nightmares from her past since his friends
rescued her. She had been slaved and used to hurt people like a mindless
puppet. Again. It was nearly more than her sanity
could bear.

But now she was strolling along a tall plateau. The sun was dying westwards
and dyeing the skies with its blood. An unfamiliar peacefulness stroked her and
soothed her heart.

Then she saw them. Her pare- Scott and Jean. They were sitting on a
blanket, beside a picnic basket. Scott was clad in his dark blue costume, but
Jean dressed a very skimpy yellow bikini. Both of them smiled nervously.
Unwillingly she listened to their conversation.

"You're brooding."

"It's what I do best. I've got a lot on my mind."

"Didn't you hear me? It's time for a break! Stop being Cyclops,
leader of the X-men, for a while. Try being Scott Summers, lover of Jean Grey.
Who knows... You might even enjoy yourself."

Her last words were a husky purr. Playfully she reached for his visor
and began to take it off, drawing backwards his skullcap and releasing his
short chocolate locks.

"Jean, no! What are you doing? Put my
visor down! If I open my eyes even fractionally without the visor's ruby quartz
shield to contain my optic blasts..." He stammered, stricken by a frantic panic.

"Open you eyes, Scott. Nothing will happen. I'm telekinetically
keeping your optic blasts in check. I...wanted to see your face, that's
all."

She gazed longingly at his roughened features. Scott kept mute,
speechless, wondering...

"Hush, no questions now my love. No words, this is our moment,
let's not waste it." She whispered.

Jean brought Scott down upon the blanket for a kiss and he kissed back,
drawing her in a crushing embrace. Both rolled over the sheet.

Rachel chose that moment to turn around briskly. An intense blush was
spread over her fair skin and dotted her cheeks with a cherry red. As she
ignored the gasps and moans and the muffled noise of bodies grinding at each
other, she wondered why she was witnessing this scene.

A flash of realization came to her mind. She was witnessing her
conception. But the first question stood. Why was she dreaming of this?

Of sudden the day turned night and the hills of brownish and jagged rock
vanished. The landscape of an ancient and lonely city
unfolded around her, as far as her sight reached. The air was still and
light, laden with dirt, and a black canvas draped the sky, spotted with
billions of dots of milky light. The stars were unfamiliar, but the blue planet
hanging on the space wasn't. She was in the Blue Area of the Moon.

Abrupt screams pierced the still air, shattering the solemn silence. She
saw Jean running in a crazy sprint, chased by Scott. She noticed her green
outfit was darkening in red, and listened to despaired Cyclops' shouts. A
powerful shiver assaulted her. Rachel knew what scene was unfolding right now. And
she wondered again why she was attending it.

<><><><>

Ororo

Tendrils of wind coiled and curled around her, licking her mocha skin in
greeting. The air inflated her black cloak and ruffled her ivory strands. The
brush of the wind around her body felt as the touch of an old lover. She
invoked the elements and they obeyed their mistress' bid, lifting her up and
high on the air.

She wasn't called the windrider for nothing.

Though she couldn't enjoy the stroke of the wind
and the freedom of the flight. The Earth had been polluted; the air fouled.
Above her, black clouds swirled, warning of a brewing tempest, and the air
quaked like if an unknown force was pounding on the sky, trying shatter it. Below
her, a bewitched city spread. New York had been invaded
by demons, and they were warping it in something obscene.

Inferno. The woman known like Storm
would never forget that terrible time.

Suddenly Ororo halted her reconnaissance
flight, startled of the figure standing in front of her, floating on the
atmosphere sullied and saturated with evil.

"I believed you were dead." Ororo
stammered in bewildered disbelief.

A smiled quirked Jean's lips. "I DID believe
you were dead."

Ororo stifled a laugh. Her
expression mimicked Marvel Girl's. "I suppose it's a stalemate then."

Her best friend nodded. "I missed you, Ororo."
And then they hugged at each other.

Ororo clutched tightly her
friend's body with her arms, fearful of she vanished in smoke and cinders if
she released her. However the frame she was holding changed of sudden. Storm
stiffened and leaned back, taking another good look at Jean. Her X-Factor
costume -bright red crossed diagonally for two golden stripes- had turned into
a black leather outfit. And her cheerful expression had mutated in a glum,
somber countenance.

"Ororo, I-" Jean mumbled
sorrowfully, before bursting abruptly in wild flares. Storm screamed in terror
and dove at her, but her fingers only grasped strands of fleeting smoke.

<><><><>

Bobby

Ice-Man looked down, checking himself. His body was no longer made of
bluish ice. Gone the hard shell of frozen water coating his body, he looked now
like any regular bo- No. He'd stopped being a kid
long ago, although he had just recently acknowledged that fact.

He looked around. Long rows of wooden shelves surrounded him. His memory
acknowledged the setting. He had been in that bookstore years ago, looking for
Jean. He had helped her to pick a gift to her nephew and niece and she had
encouraged him to overcome his depression. Later the X-Babies had shown up and
trashed the helpless shop but it was another story.

Then he saw her. Kneeled on the carpet, with her back leaned on the
shelf behind her, as her eyes leafed through a book. She wore a loose flowery
sundress and her face was pensive but happy and reassured, with no traces of
the excruciating suffering had marred her features during the last months.

He came closer and observed the assorted books gathered in disarray
order around her legs. He expected titles like The Sleeping Beauty or The
Little Red Riding Hood, but what he read stunned him.

Robert Drake. Henry McCoy. Warren Worthington. Ororo
Munroe. Nathan Summers. Jubilation
Lee. Remy LeBeau.
Allison Blaire.

Started with the revelation, his eyes darted towards the varnished
shelves. On the spines of every book figured the name of everyone had ever worn
an 'X'. Some of them he knew; others no -who the hell were James Howlett or Marie Raven?-. There even were alternate X-Men.

That place was like a huge library summarizing X-Men's history. Maybe
more, since he saw names of members of the Avengers, the Fantastic Four or the
Defenders.

Hesitantly, warily, he bent over and his hand drifted towards his
biography. Though another title grasped his attention.
Jean Grey. He took it out of curiosity and skimmed through it. It was a
narration -written like a fairy tale- of Jean's life, since her birth on Annandale-on-Hudson, until...until...

He looked at the drawing of the knight with tarnished armor holding the
fire princess in his arms as she perished, and read the caption. It described
what had happened when Magneto put in gear his plan. That was obvious. But he was
disturbed since it should be the last page. And it wasn't.

"The tale doesn't finish here." He muttered weakly, clearly
unsettled.

For first time Jean glanced at him with her bright emerald eyes. "The
stories never end, Bobby. They simply go on other places, with other people. The
walker can rest, but the road ever goes on."

She shut with finality the book she had been reading. Bobby had time to
read 'Scott Summers' before a flame sprouted from her fingers and burnt the
volume. Jean, the books, the store lit up with a blinding brightness, and the
place was consumed in a massive fireball.

A brusque whirlwind snuffed out the fire hastily, and Bobby was again
sunk in complete darkness.

<><><><>

Warren

He had lain in the blackness, broken and maimed. Someone who had
believed his friend took away his wings. People who had believed his friends
let him do it. He had lost his parents, his friends, his love, body pieces,
everything. He felt filthy, tattered and helpless. And so he lay, dazed and
motionless like a doll too shattered to be of some use.

Then he came, offering him a place, a purpose, a goal. Just like
Professor Xavier long ago. And he, stupid and unbelievable fool, had stricken a
bargain without knowing the real prize.

He carried out his promise of making him strong. Oh, yes. He gave him
power like he hadn't dreamed of. To unleash it against his
erstwhile friends.

Warren stared, rueful
and ashamed, like Hank dodged his swoops, like Bobby deflected his feather-like
darts with an ice shield, like Scott resigned to use drastic measures to take
him down, and like Jean refused to believe his old friend hated them now.

Angel lowered his head. He wasn't worthy of her faith on him. He had
sold his soul to a devil. Being comatose and drugged at the time didn't excuse
the fact. He had allowed Apocalypse turned him into a puppet subject to his
orders and whims. An angel in chains. And he had
nearly killed his best friends.

The picture rippled like a lake's surface, and the waves formed another
scene. Jean and Betsy were fighting at each other, equipped with psychic armors
and armed with swords. As he contemplated the dance of steel clashing, Warren pondered the
irony of having fallen for the woman had fallen for his first love's boyfriend.
He sighed regretfully. Betsy. God, the ache still gnawed his guts.

However much he valued Paige, she wasn't Betsy. She would never be. And
sincerely he wasn't sure of they had some future together. Their ages,
personalities, backgrounds... were too different.

And maybe it would be better of that way. Jean, Candy, Betsy... He had
loved many women, and nearly all were dead. He shook his head.

Both women ceased their spar and looked at him sorrowfully. Betsy seemed
about of saying something when the redhead faced him. Her usually sparkling
eyes were dulled with sadness and compassion.

"Don't spout nonsense, Warren. How can you
believe that?" She stated. Her voice sounded low, dangerous.

Tongues of flames welled up from the soil, enfolding her in a pyre. And
she faded.

<><><><>

Hank

Henry P. McCoy was living one of those rare moments where his puzzlement
rendered him speechless. He had been wading through an indigestion-induced
dream when a bright golden flare had erased the surrealistic, nightmarish
vision.

When the brightness winked off, he was sat in a table in the mansion's
kitchen. His four schoolmates were ensconced around the furniture, and the
board was strewn with books and notebooks, pens and erasers, snacks and drinks.
He could almost believe it was a glimpse of their study seasons -which used to
end in open warfare across the table-. But it couldn't be a remembrance, since
he resembled a bipedal blue lion.

Jean was the only who wasn't currently snoring onto the table. His
redhead friend was leaned over her own textbook, underlining carefully a
paragraph. As she dropped her pen and caught her eraser, she talked without
tearing her eyes away from the text.

"I've been thinking of something, Hank. I don't remember have ever
apologized with you..." She mumbled.

"What... do you mean?" He voiced cautiously.

Jean blew the eraser's scraps with a gust of breath and lifted her
pretty head. Her eyes connected, and Hank realized she was serious about
whatever was bothering her. "You remember what happened when we defeated
Factor Three and began wearing new costumes, don't you?"

He nodded. The Professor turned grimmer, sterner, more withdrawn. He
displayed a harshness they had never known or expected from him. They figured
some trouble was upsetting him, but he'd only share his secret with Jean. And
she followed his strict orders, even though it forced her to behave with
callous coldness or bicker against her own teammates.

They couldn't know a sickness was killing the Professor slowly, and he
was unlocking Jean's telepathy and training the team to survive after his
death. Or so he told them after he sacrificed himself to stop Grotesk, last survivor of a subterranean race.

They forgave him, mourned his passing, went on
their lives. And months later he resurfaced, alive and unscathed. It had been a
lie. The Professor explained it had been necessary. No, it had been cruel.

During his reminiscence, Jean had been perusing the shift of his
features as her hand stroked Scott's hair. She gave him a loving gaze as her
fingers threaded -softly to not wake up him- his wavy locks. "Back then I
was seriously worried about the Professor, and my re-emerging telepathy got on
my nerves. That was the reason of my rude and cranky behavior. And I've never
apologized for it or for keeping secrets from you. I felt very guilty but I
played along only because the Professor explained me his reasons and I trusted
him. I'm so sorry, Hank."

His eyes drifted downwards. He wished she hadn't brought up that
memento. It was water under the bridge now, and its recollection brought more
pain than elation. Though he couldn't deny what he felt slightly more comforted
now.

Verdant Jean's eyes bored in him with a piercing, keen gaze, and she
took gingerly his flurry claws. He was grateful of her kind, reassuring touch,
but her serious stare troubled him. "However I'm very angry with you,
Hank. You've always lived with your mutation better than anyone that I've
known, including me. Now you mope the whole time like if your mind and your
skill don't count to define you like person. Why the hell are you making this
to yourself, Hank?"

He broke the visual contact. "Trish left me..." He stammered. Downcast.

Jean sputtered and threw up her arms. "Is that a bad thing? Do you
remember our We Hate Opal Tanaka Club? Or the We Hate Candy Southern Society?
Or the We Hate Ted Roberts Alliance I wasn't supposed to know about? Bobby was
president of the We Hate Trish Tilby Club. We planned
throwing a party when you wised up and left her!"

Hank blinked. The news didn't surprise him. Still...

Jean let go his hands abruptly. "I have another matter to talk you
about." She snapped her fingers and embers flew from her hand. A figure
flashed on the flame. Tall, bulky, raven-haired, his eyes covered with dark
shades. Hank recognized him immediately.

"Simon Willians, Wonder
Man." He mumbled
wistfully. He had been his best friend in the Avengers. "Why are you
showing him to me?"

"I think" She retorted "that he was supposedly dead for a
while. Buried alive by his partners. They believed the
ionic energy had bathed his cells had killed him, but in reality his body was
changing. Metamorphosing."

He nodded. "So?"

"Think about it." Jean replied. Without further words she sat
up and left the kitchen quietly.

Slowly the dream world dissolved in darkness.

<><><><>

Logan

Glittering moonlight shone on the nocturnal sky, illuminating the
woodland with a dim silvery light. Throughout the forest
sounded the noises of the nocturnal wildlife stirring. A strong odor of
humidity, mildew and rotten wood pervaded the air and ascended upwards. A soft
wind hissed and howled while it rustled trees' branches.

Logan was aware of
everything and each thing at once as he trekked quietly along the thick and old
jungle surrounding the mansion, slipping between huge trunks of beeches and
stepping among the shrubs, lichens and pools of oozing slime. He beloved that
place.

Then he met an unexpected presence, huddled in a gap between two oaks. A
thin beam of ivory light stroked her silhouette, playing with her red hair and
her jet-black clothes. Yet he didn't need the pale brightness to see her body
rocked by shuddering, wrecking sobs either to hear her hushed whimpers.

Quietly to not disrupt her private grieving, he came closer, treading
gingerly to mask his footsteps. When he was so near that he could count the
lanky strands of her head, he coughed.

Her weeping ceased abruptly.

"Hi, darling." He blurted
conversationally. Silence answered him. "I was around -a pretty night for
a walk, don't you think?- when I listened to you. Dumb
chance, I wasn't spying on you." He added hastily. More silence. He
started doubting she was even listening. "Look, Jeannie, I know your life
is none of my business. But if you feel really so bad maybe you should talk
with someone."

Another silence began. But right when he thought she wouldn't speak to
him, her voice -hoarse, cracked, eerie- startled him. "Do
you really want finding out about what is unsettling me?"

Logan cursed inwardly.
She could read him as an open book, like always. When he said 'someone' he was
really thinking about himself. "Only if it helps you,
darling. Why are you crying?"

Her voice had sounded brittle but now it was tough as steel. And her
next words sliced him as a knife. "You."

His eyes widened. His mouth opened, but he was barely capable of
stammering. "Me? What have or haven't I done, Red?"

She stood up with a leap and whirled around. "Look at yourself!"
She roared with a glare.

Logan stood transfixed
by that ferociousness. Slowly, almost painfully, he lowered his eyes and took
notice of his clothes. His heart forgot thumping for several heartbeats. He was
draped with the robes of Death, Horseman of Apocalypse.

An unseen force snatched him and he was suddenly airborne. He was no
longer in the midst of the forest, but in a barren wasteland. She was clad in
her green-and-golden Phoenix costume, and one
of her hands was raised to eye level. A wind flapped her long mane, and if the
moonshine highlighted the red-blood hue of her strands, the daylight enhanced
her bright copper color.

"You" She accused, absolutely furious "accepted willingly
being a Horseman, knowing where you were getting into, what he'd do to you. You
sold your soul to that devil -out of naivet�; still you did it- and aided him
to gather the Twelve, even protecting him from Nathan. You collaborated in the
shit took my husband away me!"

He hadn't taken that from anyone else. But coming from her, each word
was a stab.

"You helped him, and Scott sacrificed himself to stop him." She
spat hoarsely. "And he and I have been suffering since then. I've been so
badly hurt thanks to you, Logan." Jean muttered. Her glaring eyes narrowed
with a sudden suspect and she came several steps closer him. Her hand grabbed
roughly his scarf and pulled him in her. Inches separated their noses, but it
wasn't erotic.

Her scent exuded fury and resentment. She was barely restraining her
temper, and he knew one wrong word would set off the volcano.

"One thought has just occurred to me." She hissed, grinding
together her jaws. "Were you glad when I became a grieving widow?"

He blinked, aghast. "What? Of course not,
Jeannie. I-"

"Sure you did! Maybe not in a conscious level, but one part of you was delighted I was available again!" She shouted. Though it was a raspy cry instead of a choleric yell. Bottomless
sorrow was overwhelming her again. "For that you kissed me!"

She paused to let out a strangled, choked sob, and dried the tears
trickling from her eyes. "How could you?" She sniffed. "You knew
I was going through troubles and it'd only exacerbate them further. You knew I
was married and I'd feel awfully guilty. And still you kissed me! You took
advantage from me when I was weak and vulnerable. My God.
Never had I thought you could sink so low. Y-you were my friend and you
betrayed me. You betrayed my trust."

"Please, Jeannie, listen to me. It wasn't like that-" He
started talking, deeply hurt, but she cut him off.

"And it isn't only that! You've tried killing Nathan -I don't know
how many times-, you tried killing Rachel -You stabbed her heart and lungs with
your claws!-, you menaced Nate Grey at least once... The
offspring of Scott and mine's loins is so revolting to you?" She cried.
Her right hand clung to her chest amidst strong shudders, and her bosom heaved
with an unsteady sob, but she caught it and shut it down.

"Jeannie, I'm so-" He whispered. He didn't want letting her
like this.

"It's too late to regrets, Logan." She
rebuked darkly. Of sudden she was dressing again leather jacket and pants. Behind
her smoked the smoldered ruins of the mansion, reduced to boulders and rubble. "I'm
dead."

Barely she had pronounced those terrible words
when her eyes glazed over and her skin acquired a hue of sickening, unhealthy
yellow. It turned dry and brittle, and a network of spidery cracks fractured
it. Her body blackened and dissolved in a pile of ashes in front of a slab. A
melancholic breeze dragged them.

Body's Logan jerked on his bed
and he bolted onwards before realizing what had happened. His obsidian pupils
darted wildly around, regarding the familiar room. He focused and breathed
deeply. His pants became gradually shallower and steadier and his maddened
heart slowed down its race.

His rough hand rubbed his face and he groaned. Shit, what nightmare. He
felt sick, filthy. His head pounded and his stomach churned. That was one of
his worst nightmares, right between the Weapon-X tank and Saber-tooth spilling
Mariko and Silver Fox's innards over the floor.

He knew the reason of it. Bad dreams were an outlet to the wrenching,
maddening guilt dwelling in his chest. He pretended his Horseman stage didn't
affect him, but it was a pitiful lie. He hadn't recovered from that ordeal. And
he considered himself partially responsible of what had happened to Cyke and Jeannie. He had let them down.

And instead of making up for it, he had wasted his time in exploiting
the situation and resuming his pursuit of Jean. He had only made the things
harder to them, like that Frost bitch. He had often wanted apologizing to Jean.
But he hadn't done it, and she had passed away without knowing it.

The regret was eating him alive. Swallowing him whole.
But it was his burden and he ought to carry it alone.

<><><><>

Emma

Emma Frost listened to the noises of the battle raging outside, utterly
furious. The X-Men had botched her flawless plan to catch the Pryde kid and now they were approaching. Sebastian would be
very disappointed. Damn it. But maybe something could be saved from this
accursed day.

Spinning around, she glanced at her captive. A disturbing, mocking grin
brightened her face. The weather witch had doubtlessly lived through better
days. Even in the darkness of the warehouse she could see her head hanging
limply, her face bruised and ravaged, and her uniform torn in black tatters. She
had endured a strong punishment since her soldiers had shackled her with ropes
to the roof and she had pummeled her mind.

Emma lifted her hands to face level and focused her powers. Ivory
psychic light boiled and poured from the cup her palms made and a sinister
light glowed on her eyes. Although she had already smashed Storm's mind shields
she had no time to read her mind. But she could destroy it. When the X-Men
arrived, that proud woman would be a hollow, barely-breathing shell.

"Are you sure?"

Emma whirled around, facing the owner of that mocking, crispy voice. Phoenix.

"The only and one." She sneered. A
bizarre amber glow gleamed wildly on her eyes. "And you're Emma Frost,
White Queen from Hellfire Club's Inner Circle. I've heard you
call yourself telepath. Well, Your Highness, let's see
how good you really are."

Phoenix smirked gleefully,
like the hawk that ate the canary, and Emma got the vague sensation of she was
slightly disturbed. All reflection was postponed, though, when the redhead
woman soared upwards and struck. Liquid, ethereal blazes bloomed behind her,
shaping a raptor, and her arm blasted a wide beam. Emma held back the bolt and
retaliated with her own mental blasts, but very soon she understood Phoenix was playing with
her. She was a gnat trying perforating a rhino's armor with its sting.

Jean's grin widened savagely, like if her despair was a delightful
morsel she tasted, and her attack increased. A flaming claw closed around her
thin frame while a tide of unstoppable power bashed her shields down, crushing
them and trampling them with insulting easiness. Emma screeched, feeling a
hurricane of fire sweeping her mind and obliterating all it found. Flames
flowed in her head and doused her burning body until it was a scorched corpse. The
claw squeezed it disdainfully, dissolving it to ashes.

Emma's windpipe released a bloodcurdling scream of excruciating,
horrific pain. Then she blinked.

Everything had vanished. Instead of the warehouse she was in her
bedroom, lying on her mattress. She wasn't a charcoal-like cadaver but her body
was perfectly unscathed. And Jean wasn't in anywhere.

Her eyelids fluttered weakly as she adjusted her vision to her bearings.
As the nocturnal cold permeated her nightgown and her skin, she felt really
silly for having let that absurd dream disturbed her rest. She had got used to
nightmares since she was a child. Why should that dream unsettle her?

Fortunately nobody had heard her scream. Scott wasn't in anywhere. Which
was very fortunate, indeed, since she didn't intend explaining her awakening to
him.

She didn't intend talking him about that nightmare. Or
about the others. It was laughable he though his family was so
dysfunctional.

Her eyes observed her lonely, silent, dark room and she felt a sudden
suffocation. She admitted grudgingly the last pangs of the nightmare hadn't
vanished, and leapt out of the bed.

With an expression of resignation, she opened the bathroom's door and
headed for the washbasin. Her hand twisted the tap, letting a stream of water
rushed out of the pipe. Emma started to splash her face with abundant water,
feeling the wet liquid washing away not only the dirtiness and the bed marks
but also her lingering fears.

As she basked in the freshness of the water drops moistening her creamy
skin, Emma reflected on her fool and ridiculous dream. Why was she dreaming
with Jean? Why precisely with their first meeting and battle? She didn't
understand it.

An evil grin split her face. Heh. The mindwitch had to be turning
in her grave now Scott was in her bed.

With a satisfied smile she turned around. Her joy faded and she stood
frozen.

The room wasn't now an expensive and ample bathroom, well illuminated. It
was a massive dome, plunged in midnight shadows. And in front of her stood three figures. Glaring.
Accusing. Demanding. They
reminded her of the Greek Fates. Or even of Macbeth's three witches.

A teenager Jean Grey, dressed with a green vest
and a yellow pointed mask. Infinite disdain glowed on her eyes. An adult Jean
Grey-Summers clad in her blue spandex outfit. Fury shimmered on her glare. And an older Jean wearing her leather clothes. And on the
gloom shadows bordering her eyes, Emma saw an emotion fully absent of her
younger incarnations.

"Guilty." The first one stated with cold contempt.

"Guilty." The second grated with seething rage.

"Guilty." The third one growled with burning hatred.

The trio blurred and merged in one single figure. Dark
Phoenix. She approached
with a slow, silent stride. Her fists were tightly clenched, and a brutal,
ferocious hate marred her gorgeous features and darkened her face with shadows.

Emma willed herself to conceal her dread and apprehension with more
contempt and rage and hate, and hardened her body with a crust of diamond. Instantly
she dove onwards, arching back a fist with the full intention of ramming it
through Jean's skull.

Jean grabbed her fist with a grimace of infinite disdain and stopped her
attack with one thought. She tightened her grasp, and her nails scratched the
diamond's layer and cut her skin. Emma felt blood leaking out of the wounds but
she repressed a yell.

"The fire of the Phoenix burns through
lies, you understand? The gaze of the Phoenix is like an x-ray
tearing through every self-deception." Jean stated ominously, without the
tiniest flicker of emotion. "So... Burn, Emma."

Blistering blazes welled from her hand, enfolding Emma in a bonfire, and
she howled in pain. Jean released her arm, letting her kneel on the 'ground',
and looked at Emma as she burnt in an unholy pyre.

As the White Queen felt the fire swallowing her and devouring her flesh
and bones, she prayed for it was only a dream. And she woke up before her mind,
drowned in pain, lost the sanity.

<><><><>

-Notes: Scenes are taken from -or based on-: UXM 1, XM 30 and NXM 150;
UXM 132 (albeit the theory of Rachel being conceived in that scene comes from
What-If Vol.II, issue 33) and UXM 137; UXM 242; XM
46; X-Factor 25 and XM 38; UXM 42, 43 and 65; Astonishing XM 3; and UXM 131 and
NXM 139.

- The quote Jean uses in Bobby's dream ('the road ever goes on') belongs,
of course, to Lord of Rings.

-Marie Raven is the name I�ve made up to Rogue, using the name given in
the movie.

To be continued...
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Firebird Rising