Chapter Text
Let me not dwell in this bare island by your spell;
but release me from my bands with the help of your good hands.
- the tempest: epilogue
On the day Peter told him he was his son, Erik dreamt of a moment he could never have.
Before him stood a table, modestly dressed in a starched white tablecloth and the wistful relics of a worm-eaten life; his parent's wedding silver, no longer preserved in the fillings of a murderer's rotten tooth, and his grandmother’s blue onion china laid out for a group of four for the first time in thirty years. Before each place setting was the warmth of a pillar candle that illuminated the face of his guests. To his right was Peter, his eyes sparkling with mirth and his hair burnished a silver-gold. To his left cast the rosy glow of young Nina’s sweet face, reaching forwards to place a warm hand into the palm of his own. Erik felt the muscles in his cheeks stretch painfully and the corners of his lips quiver in disuse. The scene was a culmination of years of longing and heartache and he wished only that the others he had lost could share in the joy he now felt. Seemingly in response to this very thought, a red spark ignited from the candle on the far end of the table, which he now noticed was drenched so steep in shadow that what lay beyond its place setting could hardly be distinguished. Or so was the case– until the little red spark began to grow, and from it, a steadily growing orb of red light began to illuminate the far end of the table. In response to the strange, threatening light, Erik raised his right hand and the silver began to vibrate against the table.
“Dad!” Peter cried, his voice echoed at the base of Erik’s skull, reverberating like a mallet inside a singing bowl. Erik ignored his cry— the orb had grown brighter and from its illumination a shadowy figure had emerged, seated at the other end of the table.
“Dad, please,” Peter tried again, “Please don’t hurt her.”
Erik’s teeth clenched, his jaw clamped so tight it felt as though it would crack. Peter’s insistent cries were unnecessary. His attempts at subduing the shadow figure had failed before Peter’s request. Whatever it- the phantom like creature that only sat there beyond the now dazzling blaze of light pouring over their table- was, it was unbelievably strong. His temples burned and his forehead grew slaked with sweat at his pitiful attempt to lift even a single spoon off the table. He was forced to remember the days before he had any control over his powers- any control other than rage and grief- and felt the pain of that time stronger than he had in a very long time. Devastation, breathtaking and paralyzing.
Somewhere, as though beyond them and all around them, a long, plaintive scream pierced the aura, as though the creature that made it could commiserate with him.
Suddenly, everything shook. The silver and plates and candles moved beyond his command and the glowing red orb before them pulsated wildly, faster and faster– though the shadow beyond it still did not move.
“Ni…na!” Erik choked. “P…P…Pe…ter!” The furious, raging force of the energy the orb omitted forced those beloved names to tear through his throat.
“Papa…”
Erik’s bloodshot eyes searched for Nina’s face but the light was too bright and he could not even turn his head. All he could see was the shadow figure. It’s image grew sharper as the light grew brighter. It was a creature with horns and a billow of robes that shuddered behind it.
“She’s scared papa,” Nina’s voice, barely above a whisper, somehow coursed so clearly to him.
Erik could not fathom what could scare this creature, which seemed to seek to devour them whole.
“Help her.”
Another harsh, guttural yell- one that sounded heart wrenchingly like Peter- trailed past his ear. Erik could no longer see the figure before him with any clarity, the light was too bright and his eyes stung with tears.
How could he help this creature?
Why would he help this creature?
“She’s scared.”
The repeated words fell and with them the light that blazed and licked at his eyelids like fire, that spewed heat and fear and endless, unfathomable rage sputtered sharply into darkness. Erik could feel nothing in that darkness. He could sense no one. He was all alone.
When he blinked, Erik saw the darkness begin to recede– and with it the return to the room he had been in all along– his guest quarters in Charles’ school.
It took several deep, shuttering breaths until Erik’s mind receded from the mania he still felt leftover from his dream and the pace of his heart returned to a steadier rhythm. Then, in one swift movement, he tore himself desperately from his sheets and nearly ripped his door off its hinges in his haste to get to Peter’s room.
Had Erik been in the state of mind to hope for anything, he would have hoped to see the door safely pulled shut and to hear the faint rumble of snoring had he pressed his ear to the door.
Instead, he found Peter’s door conspicuously ajar and the rumpled bed beyond it empty.
It did not stop Erik as he stumbled forward past the open door, his frantic gaze sweeping from one end of the room to the other. The room was so small that it didn’t warrant the second look, but Erik had to. He had to look just once more. Even if it confirmed what he already knew.
Peter was gone.
Charles Xavier woke as though he had been violently ripped from his bed. His head inexplicably seared and throbbed with the onslaught of a monumental migraine. Outside his bedroom door he could hear the sound of feet shuffling down the hallways and the excited cacophony of voices, internal and external, all risen in alarm
Beyond it was the ghastly sound of the most heart wrenching sobs Charles had ever heard.
He sat up slowly as his chest sunk with horror.
The door to his bedroom opened suddenly and haloed in the light of the hall Hank stood with a face that was so grimly white that even the shadow of the room beyond it couldn’t dim it.
“It’s-“ Hank stuttered tiredly, his voice thick with distress, “It’s um, it’s Erik.”
A flash of an image seared itself behind Charles’ eye-lids. A shadowy figure of strange, humanoid shape set against a wall of electric red light.
Charles blinked furiously and hunched forward as the force of the vision robbed him of vision and breath.
“Charles… Charles are you alright?” he heard Hank call worriedly.
The professor waved his hand dismissively, though he struggled to regain his faculties. The wretched voice he had heard just moments ago no longer sounded in his ear but in his mind, where in between could be heard mutterings of vile threats and fierce vows.
…will regret… soak with blood… I WILL find you… I HEAR you… my son…
Charles felt his blood run cold. It couldn’t be- not under his roof, under his care. His heart shuddered.
“What happened to Peter?” he asked quickly, his voice thick with a grief he felt certain was coming.
“We think… at least, it seems like…” Hank rambled.
“Someone took Peter,” a voice behind Hank intoned.
Charles locked eyes with Raven and saw the same emotion teeming behind already sunken, shadowy eyes. Dread.
Charles jaw tightened and his voice was tight as he spoke.
“Gather the X-Men.”