Work Text:
Psychopomp. Conveyers of the soul. Guides really for the dead.
For Peter, for in his speed, time stood still. A second stretched on for minute. A minute an hour. An Hour for was in a day. A day a week. A week a month. A month a year. He did not belong in boundaries in which mortals lay in. The only beings that saw him were the hummingbirds, ravens, crows, and vultures; all tenders to the dead or their calls to wake them for another has come to join in final rest.
If he granted himself that he would ‘theoretically’, but his existence was elsewhere. How could he exist in a world that did not wish to see him.
His only solace he found was in his father: Magneto. When he did phase in, his father would merely pat his cheek and simply ask: ‘Did he do what needed to be done?’ If Magneto was feeling more amble, he would mention how he was the best weapon he could possible dream about, unknown by their enemies, couldn’t be traced by to him, nor by any mutant detecting instrument and so much more reliable than Mystique; before commanding him to phase out. Mumbling to himself about how Charles would corrupt him if he was ever found out.
Some even feared the brush of the winds against that he was indeed near. Just rumors of how Magneto, could beacon death and go after those who were after mutantkind. An avenging ghost who sought retribution for those lost, murdered by those who hated and despised them.
Magneto wrote down on papyrus leaf paper the names of those who needed to die. He would bring them before judgement of G-d.
Phased through them and with slash of his shotel, scythe-like, blades shaped like the crescent moon, bring them back to salt of the earth in which they came, cutting them down like golden wheat. Their bodies would drop like stones in a pond.
Magneto always said that he would handle the pawns, while he handled the rooks, the bishops, and even traitorous mutants who worked for their enemy. He was his most powerful piece on the board. His beloved dearest sohn.
All things need to end.
All his father wanted him to do was create enough instability that the whole game would collapse under its own weight.
His father commanded of him: to go to the dark side, to hide in the shadows, where no light lays.
Asked of his rage, asked of his anger.
To do one more thing and then he would be so proud of his destroyer, his death.
For what was life and light without shadows in the darkest of nights? He would bring them hope. Not of the sentimental, but of actual change. No more waiting or hiding or comprising of who and what they were.
These shadows in which he touched; he would bring meaning to their pathetic lives in service to their cause.
So would end this meaningless war between humankind and mutants, in its place a better world. His father promised and promised.
And then they would be together? Peter asked of his father.
In eyes of bluest steel was the word of: ‘no’ and he added, covering for himself, Erik knew he made a tactical error ‘if the world ever found out than everything I’ve built would crumble; you’re my weakness that my enemies must never know about nor my allies. The mutantkind must never know of your sacrifice.’
All he did was sacrifice…why did his father not tell him that he loved him?
For in death, there is no life, it gives meaning to life without it, life would be empty, hollow.
How could the world be made so hollow?
Erik was the only being who touched him?
He found the whole thing to be absurd.
Death was which he sung and in it, found life.