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bakerstreet2016-06-05 06:40 pm
repost) wrote in bakerstreet2016-06-05 06:40 pm
Apocalypse had been defeated, but he had not been destroyed. The Eternal One wasn't called that because he died easily, even at the hands of a mutant as powerful as the nascent Phoenix. Instead he had fled, gathering his remaining horsemen and retreating to a place his followers had prepared for this eventuality.
None of them realized how far Apocalypse's mighty hand reached. They found his tomb and the remnants of his last empire and thought that was his beginning and end, that he was no more than some ancient banana republic dictator, ruling a single nation the way humans had to content themselves with. No, Apocalyse's hand stretched much further and touched the world many more times than they knew. When Pompeii grew too proud, Apocalypse had been there. When the Mayans saw too much, Apocalypse had been there. And when a young crusader had ridden into the desert several centuries ago searching for his destiny... Apocalypse had been there.
Now Apocalypse has released him from the living death that was the punishment for his rebellion and given him one last chance. He is to be the new Horseman of War, charged with slaying the traitor that came before him when the time comes. And in the meantime, to prepare and instruct a brother Horseman beside him: Death, a winged mutant whose performance to date has been much less impressive than his title demands. Death rides first among the horsemen for a reason, for he must be the perfectly honed cutting blade that slices through every enemy. But this boy, this Death, he still needs honing. And it is him, Exodus, who has been charged with honing him.]
"Come at me, Angel," he calls, waiting for the boy at the top of a great high perch. Between them dozens, maybe hundreds of metallic spheres hang suspended in the air, a flier's minefield. None of the spheres will kill his brother if he sets them off, but they will knock him to and fro like a rag doll. Only by navigating them successfully can the younger mutant reach him. "You are ready. Show me you can do this."
None of them realized how far Apocalypse's mighty hand reached. They found his tomb and the remnants of his last empire and thought that was his beginning and end, that he was no more than some ancient banana republic dictator, ruling a single nation the way humans had to content themselves with. No, Apocalyse's hand stretched much further and touched the world many more times than they knew. When Pompeii grew too proud, Apocalypse had been there. When the Mayans saw too much, Apocalypse had been there. And when a young crusader had ridden into the desert several centuries ago searching for his destiny... Apocalypse had been there.
Now Apocalypse has released him from the living death that was the punishment for his rebellion and given him one last chance. He is to be the new Horseman of War, charged with slaying the traitor that came before him when the time comes. And in the meantime, to prepare and instruct a brother Horseman beside him: Death, a winged mutant whose performance to date has been much less impressive than his title demands. Death rides first among the horsemen for a reason, for he must be the perfectly honed cutting blade that slices through every enemy. But this boy, this Death, he still needs honing. And it is him, Exodus, who has been charged with honing him.]
"Come at me, Angel," he calls, waiting for the boy at the top of a great high perch. Between them dozens, maybe hundreds of metallic spheres hang suspended in the air, a flier's minefield. None of the spheres will kill his brother if he sets them off, but they will knock him to and fro like a rag doll. Only by navigating them successfully can the younger mutant reach him. "You are ready. Show me you can do this."
Edited (editing to prose, idk why I keep defaulting to brackets) 2016-07-24 22:28 (UTC)
[ Red. Power. Death. Comfort. Warmth. Love. Something moves in the distance, she can see it. No, feel it. She moves in the distance. It's her but it's not. Someone holds her. Someone whispers names she doesn't recognize. Moments that don't make sense. Big buildings. Green ground and blue ceiling. It hurts, this hurts, she hurts--
Wanda shoots up in bed gasping for air. She's sweating, hair plastered to her forehead and heart racing. The memories fade quickly, but the feelings linger. They always linger. It feels like someone is holding her. Not her other, but someone else. Someone she knows. Wanda swings her legs over the edge of the bed, rubs at her face and covers her ears to clear the thoughts that scare her. ]
I had the dream again. [ She says, as if that wasn't obvious. Her voice is loud in their room, too loud but the sound steadies her. ]
Wanda shoots up in bed gasping for air. She's sweating, hair plastered to her forehead and heart racing. The memories fade quickly, but the feelings linger. They always linger. It feels like someone is holding her. Not her other, but someone else. Someone she knows. Wanda swings her legs over the edge of the bed, rubs at her face and covers her ears to clear the thoughts that scare her. ]
I had the dream again. [ She says, as if that wasn't obvious. Her voice is loud in their room, too loud but the sound steadies her. ]
Someone, somewhere along the way, had taught her to suffer her nightmares in silence, she didn't cry out, she didn't jolt awake, even long after the point when anyone else would have.
No, instead she twitched and shuddered and made half-strangled little sounds in her throat, fingers curling and uncurling, grasping for something or clawing at something or maybe a little of both. When asked later, she only rarely remembered details, mostly just that they were terrifying and not something she wanted to live through again.
They were particularly difficult that night, she'd started out with the occasional twitch and murmur, but this bout had been going on for longer than any of the previous ones, a good five or ten minutes at that point, where they usually trailed off after only a minute or two at a time.
No, instead she twitched and shuddered and made half-strangled little sounds in her throat, fingers curling and uncurling, grasping for something or clawing at something or maybe a little of both. When asked later, she only rarely remembered details, mostly just that they were terrifying and not something she wanted to live through again.
They were particularly difficult that night, she'd started out with the occasional twitch and murmur, but this bout had been going on for longer than any of the previous ones, a good five or ten minutes at that point, where they usually trailed off after only a minute or two at a time.
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