"This was the beginning of compassion, and one cannot have both compassion and innocence."
--Marigolds, by Eugenia Collier


Side One: Half Empty

They weren't really sure when it had happened. They'd only known her for a short while but most already felt close. They each had specific roles in her life.

The Professor helped her understand her "gift." He also occasionally taught physics and threw in little tidbits of advice that she supposed she would use one day. Maybe. If she ever got out in the real world again, and not in this environment of superheroes and the world's crisis played out before her like a soap opera. She'd never thought being a mutant could be so "normal" and so intense at the same time.

Jean and Storm taught her science and history. They were also there for her when she needed a mother again, or when the children's immaturity and obvious carefree attitude got to her. Because she'd never be like that, at least not completely. She guessed not being able to touch had something to do with that, but then the three people in her head would usually argue. Two out of three didn't exactly think of themselves as children so naturally she couldn't be a child. At least not all the time.

Scott showed her to love the wind through her hair when he let her ride his motorcycle and take the convertibles out on the open roads around the mansion. He also taught her the qualities of a leader and warrior. He treated her like a sister or sometimes a niece, but there were times when that's what she needed.

Bobby showed her young love unrequited, and how to stay friends after hard times. He showed her kindness amongst strangers, and accepted her without question.

Her assorted friends had shown her true friendship and understanding. They knew what it was like to be seen as a freak. To be alone on the road and shoved into a place where family ruled and being a freak was the best thing in the world.

But Logan taught her the most. Maybe it was because a part of him still resided in her head. Maybe it was because he liked to make his presence known when she least expected it. But Logan taught her to be strong and gentle all at once. He taught her the value of a promise. He gave her pain and ecstasy. Burned her and soothed her. Clawed her once and nearly gave his life twice. He gave her devotion and held his promise with honor. He showed her how it was to be an animal and a man. He showed her what it was like to not know who you are and how rough the open road could be when you had no where to go and no one to make the journey more bearable. By then, she understood men pretty well. After all, three completely different men gave her a pretty decent perspective on the opposite gender.

But in the end, they all thought they knew her pretty well. And yet... They still didn't know exactly when it had happened. When a little girl named Marie had become and the beautiful woman they called Rogue. As it was, few remembered her name from before. Few remembered a lilting southern accent that sweetened her words. Few remembered the big doe eyes, so dark and full of terror. Few could know what her touch would feel like, or what her favorite color had been like before. Now she had four and she still wasn't sure which was hers.

Three separate entities in her head had changed her. Now the edges that set them a part had begun to blur. While everyone else thought they were fading, only Rogue knew she was finally ending the absorbing process by taking the pieces she'd stolen and immortalizing them in her own.

But there were times when they fought against the fog and reared up, letting everyone see how different they really were. David was the weakest, only appearing when the familiar setting of teenagers and cheap thrills showed up. When the opportunity for cheeseburgers and movies came, he fit in with her own personality easily. But sometimes she didn't want to be a kid. And then there were times when she wished he'd fight harder. Logan liked cigars, and beer, and Jean Grey's red clad body. He also liked to growl and make her voice gruff and harsh, and Eric always told her she had a "wicked tongue" when Logan was around. Eric was almost always worse, at least Logan was welcome and wanted. Eric was feared. He liked to show up when Charles was around. She never called him, "Professor" when Eric surfaced. She would suddenly know of a time when the lines on his face had lightened and faded when he saw him, instead of tightened as they did now.

They always fought though. Fought against her, against each other, all trying to be in control of the eighteen year old girl who'd once been Marie.

Maybe she had cracked. Maybe fighting off the pressure had finally made her roaring mad. Maybe she was a broken soul with their hands still clawing at the pieces, savaging everything they could find. Maybe she hid it behind her easy smiles and the concealing clothing.

But every time she saw Logan in person, she knew she hadn't fallen into madness yet. The affectionate look in his eyes. The small smirks that no one else really noticed. The little things always told her that he'd always be there to pull her back, if she ever fell.

But lately she'd been feeling worse...

Logan still left every once and awhile. He never really says goodbye but always told her when he was going. Any hint or hidden trail to answers of his past and he would already be on the thundering bike down the country roads, despite Scott's attempts at keeping him away from it. But he always went to her first. And she always asked him not to go. And then, like every other time, from the first time he'd left, he placed the dog tag in her hand, and promised he'd be back. And she always let him go because she knew what it was like to not know who you were. His memories and her own chaotic psyche was enough evidence for that. She always gave him the dog tag back, because even if his search was fruitless, he'd always have that. He'd always have her.

They didn't really notice the changes. They could see that she was a woman, but they don't notice the lack of attention during class or at the dinner table when she pushed her food around and would stare at things they couldn't see. They didn't notice the deep breaths she would take at times, or the way her eyes would dilate when they spoke to her. They didn't notice until it was almost too late. Because no one would check her temperature. It was Rogue after all. Anyway, she could take care of herself. Not being able to touch anyone had done that to her despite their attempts at keeping her life normal.

But she didn't worry. A part of her still thought she could heal every wound, fix every sickness, and destroy virus. Another part proudly told her she was invincible, the most powerful of them all. Then there's that little part who's still David who wondered when someone would guide her to bed and hand her soup to make her feel better. But David still wondered why she couldn't hear the tinkering of the piano or the sizzling of bacon in the morning.

They were always opposite, always opposing and she was made to watch and fight their squabbles. She stopped listening after awhile. It was too frustrating to try and settle it, to try and deal with the three other souls demanding attention. So she forced the noise to become background noise and tried to be Marie again. She stopped hearing the screams of her own body, telling her something was wrong.

Her temperature rose. Naturally, Ice Cold Bobby notices first.

"Aren't you hot?" He asked her, and took note of the sweater and gloves she wore even though it was at least 95 degrees. She shrugged and distracted his worry when she suggested a foose-ball game.

Ororo noticed next. She could see the rise of blood to her skin, making its pale color turn shades of pink and crimson. When she approached her about it, she saw the slick, glimmering sheen of sweat the covered every inch of available flesh.

"Are you alright?" Ororo asked in her quiet, but firm way. But she could only watch as the woman-child walked away with a few flippant comments. Ororo tried to chalk it up to the heat wave and the fact that Rogue still clothed herself in layers. But she still wondered.

Her eyes started to redden from the lack of sleep, from the late night reading and Jean began to see.

"Have you been sleeping okay?" Jean would ask, but Rogue would only mutter something about nightmares and avert her darkening gaze. The young woman had been through so much on her own, Jean would think with the sharp emotion of pity, and she wondered how many nightmares had been her own.

Her distinct way of walking started to become muddled, to the point where she shuffled down the hallways, her head down and her feet dragging. She started to use the railways on the stairs and the paneled wood walls in the halls. Scott wondered why someone so young and strong would need support for walking.

"Is everything alright?" He asked her once. He had heard of the nightmares from Jean, but almost everyone close enough heard the moans at night. Her roommates watched her toss and turn, unable to help. Rumors spread quickly enough. She just gave him a strained smile and told him she was a natural klutz.

Her friends saw her strip the clothing she hid behind and could count the ribs of her back. They saw her study her body, and saw the jutting hips and ragged breaths she took. They had demanded to know why she'd lost so much weight. "You were fine before!" They told her, worried about eating disorders and self esteem; issues they'd only heard about in magazines. "You look frail, like a walking stick." But Rogue could only hear "weak" underneath their tones. By then, she couldn't come up with an excuse and left the room before they could ask more questions she didn't want to answer.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept, or the last time she'd eaten. She couldn't remember the last moment of peace she'd felt, or when the heat of her skin hadn't made her shower at least three times a day.

The Professor... Charles... could hear the fuss in her mind, despite her caution to go near him. The blur of constant notice had become an overwhelming chaos, but Rogue had wanted to deal with it on her own.

He didn't ask her directly, only asked her to talk to him with pleading eyes she'd seen too many times through a different view point. She didn't know what to say. She could remember other long silences and hated the thought of another one. But she was glad he wouldn't pry, at least not verbally. She knew him too well, even though Marie had only known him for one short year. She knew he would poke around in her mind a little and listen to the storm raging inside.

But she always knew that no one could help her.

Logan came home a few days later, but by then she was death walking. She hardly noticed anything outside the war in her mind, much less his entrance in her life again. The intrusion wasn't enough to catch her attention.

"What's wrong kid." He didn't ask, that wasn't him. He demanded. But she just laughed at the word "kid," knowing she'd never be a kid again. She almost cried when she realized how much she wanted to be. She didn't see the ever-present scowl deepen. She didn't see the worried exchange between him and Jean. Didn't see them watching her as she fled.

She collapsed the next day. In the hallway, by the library, with her shadow there to catch her. Logan had been following her for hours, but she hadn't been paying attention until strong arms wrapped themselves around her. She only had time to notice that his arms were cool and gentle against her hot skin, a feeling not unwelcome. And then bleak oblivion swept over her.

She woke up in the infirmary, with almost everyone she knew by her side. Logan held her hand, his jaw tight and she watched as his eyes lit up when he saw her eyes snap open. He didn't notice the deliria in her eyes, or maybe he didn't want to. Her friends whooped and cheered as her eyes raked around the room. But Jean's face was set in a grim mask as she took readings and drew blood. Charles was equally grim, staring at her with an expression she couldn't recall seeing there before. Scott stood next to him, his face the only one without any trace of emotion. He had to be strong. He was the leader. His glasses hid anything his eyes could say.

They spoke to her, nudged her gently with gloved hands. Logan even attempted to shake her, as gently as he could with panic beginning to take over. But the words tumbling from his perfect, smirking mouth made no sense to her. She looked away in frustration and fear, whining pitifully at the barrage of confusing light and sound.

Only Charles seemed to understand the words that would bubble from her, a whisper in the rivers of emotion and thought.

He'd been seventeen when he'd met Eric, and even then the language of his home would come unbidden, reminding the bitter man of times of death and hatred. The sounds this girl was making now were beginning to remind him of the awful sounds his friend would make when he awoke from nightmares. The sound was garbled, made pathetic with Marie's crying and Logan's animalistic whining.

Only Scott noticed his movement. The slow progress towards the crowded table where Rogue thrashed around. They had backed up, afraid of the exposed skin that could kill them with only a few seconds contact. Only Logan was brave enough, or maybe foolish enough to attempt to restrain the feverish girl. She twisted her body, desperate to escape the terrifying sound that came from outside her head. She'd been numbed to what was inside, her mind taking a vacation, swimming in the warm waves of insanity.

She screwed her eyes shut as he wheeled to the head of the table and attempted to calm her with a mental reassurance and the odd cooing sound he'd always made for Eric. He ignored the stares from the others, he only concentrated on the girl in front of him.

She was wishing for sleep again. For the peace that came with it.

Soon. He whispered to her, hoping she heard. The body calmed slightly, but then the hot tears started pouring down her cheeks and only Logan reached out to wipe them away with his gloved fingers.

What's wrong with her?

It was the dominant thought of everyone in the room, so loud with the combined voices that he closed his eyes against the sound.

Jean must have noticed because she spoke up almost immediately. "There are too many people in here." She herded everyone out, but they waited outside the door, a collection of worried faces.

She came back to see her mentor wheel closer to the quivering girl and place his hands over her head, wavering in the air. She wondered what he could see, but at the startled gasp he emitted when he looked up, she decided she probably didn't want to know.

"What?" Logan growled out, clenching Rogue's tiny hand in his own.

Charles could only stare at the girl who had finally stilled. Her eyes were blank, her body stiff, and he almost wished she would struggle again, just so he could see that she was alive. The steady beat of the heart monitor had stopped being enough a long time ago. What had happened to this girl? He was starting to wonder why he hadn't noticed before. This wasn't just a rising fever, it had been going on for two years. So gradually, he hadn't even noticed until it was too late.

This little girl had lost something very valuable. Where there had once only been fear and innocence to true darkness, now lay a woman who knew far more than she should. She'd been normal once, once her mutation presented itself to form, a small part of her innocence had been lost. But the lessons of sacrifice and deliverance had ruined that innocence forever. The sadness that filled him made his bones ache, and he suddenly felt his age for the first time in years.

"Professor?" He wheeled back. Her eyes slipped closed. And he still did not answer.

---

Side Two: Some Assembly Required

It was dark.

Darker than she remembered night to be. There was a fog that caressed her skin like fingers gliding down her flesh. The feeling of her hand being squeezed was barely noticeable with the light mist of rain that fell upon her open face. She laughed into the silence and spun around in circles with strength she hadn't had before.

And then there was a hand on her shoulder and she nearly screamed. Being startled was one thing, but he had interrupted the peace and quiet she'd begun to think she'd never feel again.

She glared pointedly at the man that walked like he belonged in the shadows that cradled him. She was starting to feel a creepy sensation crawl up her spine but she ignored in favor of not showing her she was vulnerable. Logan's instincts had become her own.

"Don't worry." He called out to her, his voice deep and smooth, with a thick, flowing accent that she recognized as Irish. She didn't know this man, didn't recognize his voice and his reassurance didn't help any. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"I'm not going to hurt you kid." Logan's words. Coming from him they didn't bring the same emotions as they had before.

"Go away." She told her, wishing her voice wouldn't wobble when she spoke, wishing her own accent wasn't so blatantly obvious.

"Where else have you got to be?" There was amusement in his voice and she took as step back as he advanced.

"Home." She told him, glaring even though he probably couldn't see her.

"Where is home?"

His voice sounded curious enough to be genuine without sounding too suspicious. Had she been in any other situation she would have gaped at the forwardness of the question. But since it was a question she'd often asked herself, she could only blink, trying to restrain the tears. Too many had fallen already, she wouldn't let this stranger cause more.

"You know," He said casually, stepping forward so she could see him now. "I'm not really here." He was pale as death, with thick brown hair and crystal blue eyes that spoke words he'd never say out loud. "I'm just a figment of your imagination." He made it sound like it happened everyday. Nothing special. Nothing new. But for her it was unbelievable.

She only stared, wondering why her imagination would come up with this.

"You can talk to me. It'll just be like talking to yourself." He sat on a bench that hadn't been there before and patted the seat next to him.

She reluctantly sat, making sure no part of her body was touching his. "Like I don't do enough of that already." She muttered under her breath, too low for him to hear.

Or so she thought.

"You don't talk to yourself. You talk to three other people who've made themselves at home up here." He poked her head a little bit and pulled a lopsided smile that would have look weird on anyone else but him. She didn't know what it was about him, although she guessed it was his eyes, but she trusted him. Maybe not all the way, but enough to turn to him and quirk an eyebrow.

Before she had time to ask him something, he continued. "You have stuff you need to get through," He told her, blunt and straight to the point, Otherwise you'll fall apart at the seams." His eyes were so sad.

"Who are you?" She asked suddenly, her face taking so many expressions that she wasn't sure what she was feeling.

He smiled at her. "A friend."

"A friend." She repeated, her voice a little disbelieving. "Great, now I have imaginary friends."

It was lame but he actually laughed, something she could tell didn't happen often for him. She wondered what made him so sad.

He scooted next to her, reaching for her hand but she flinched away.

"I'm not going to hurt you kid."

"Don't. Touch. Me."

"Why not?"

She only glared.

He was barely suppressing a smile. "This is a dream, doll. A dream. And even if it wasn't, your touch isn't going to kill me." He did smile them. "I'm already dead."

Her expression just made him laugh again.

"It's no big deal." At her look he clarified, "I went out a hero. Saved the girl and my sidekick." An odd look passed over his face, "Okay so I was the sidekick, but hey, I saved the day right?"

She just stared, wondering if she'd really gone nuts and now she was really still in Mississippi, just in a straight jacket and getting shock treatment.

"Well. You're not crazy." He said, obviously reading her mind again, something she hadn't really noticed he did until that moment. There were so many voices in and around her head that she could hardly tell the difference between spoken word and a thought. "You're just really sick."

She looked up at him, partially confused because she didn't feel sick. But then she remembered the worried questions and shaken glances as people passed her. She'd been so weak then... But now?

"You've got a fever of about 104."

She blinked. And almost reached up to feel her forehead. She frowned at him, "That's bad isn't it?"

He didn't reply. "You're delirious and you've nearly killed two of your friends with your thrashing."

Guilt sank in and made a foul bile rise up her throat from the pit of her stomach.

"You can't see the world around you because of the war."

"War?"

He just pointed across from them. Suddenly she could see. Could see how much they effected her, could see how much they worried about her. She could see the changes in her. The statue was so high. She had so far to fall. And he'd still caught her, saved her from the pain just before she'd slipped into the darkness of depth. His touch had called her back and she'd nearly killed him by taking his own light and love.

"How do I fix it?"

"Fix it?"

She looked at him, glaring again, demanding an answer with her eyes. An odd mix of Logan's unspoken words and Magneto's born authority.

"You can only control it." He told her. His eyes were narrowed with something she couldn't understand. Maybe worry, maybe pity.

"Not pity. Compassion."

"What?"

"Compassion."

She frowned, her thoughts straying to other things.

"I can control it?"

"If you want to."

"What do you mean?"

He snorted, "To do anything impossible, you have to have three things." He held up a finger. "Need. You have to need it, truly need it. It's not the same thing as want but for this two go hand in hand. Two." Another finger joined the first. "A Plan. What are you going to do to get this?" He didn't elaborate, something she regretted, although some where in the back of her mind, a plan was formulating. Because four pieces of souls couldn't sustain themselves when they were being deprived of the sense of touch. Human touch. "Three." He continued, and she watched a third long finger join the others. She hadn't noticed how bony they were. Hadn't noticed the pale skin that stretched over tendons.

He ignored her staring. "Faith. You need to believe in yourself and not give it up. Look around you! There is so much here that you could use." He gestured to the playing field that had portrayed the war in her head. Three teams, all heading straight for each other with little ol' Marie in the middle, waiting for the world to swallow her up because at least it'll be quiet then. But the world doesn't and they keep coming and all Rogue can do is flinch and look away.

"You don't see it."

"Of course not! Why would I want to see them bash me to pieces?" She was incredulous. Who the hell did he think he was? Didn't she have enough people running in her head?

"Open your eyes."

She hesitated, but for some reason she did. And when she did, she couldn't believe what she saw. Rogue stood in the middle. It was her, and yet it wasn't. The shocks of pained white hair stood out in her dark hair, distinguishing her forever, from the world, and from who she'd been. There were numbers on her arm, purple and faded with age. A constant reminder that man could be more savage than even the fiercest of beasts. But she was not twisted with rage, she was beautiful with wisdom and understanding. She was hand in hand with Logan, their skin touching in the gentlest of kisses, David's gift to her. Logan's was simpler and so much more profound. A smile graced her face. One he'd caused. One that reached her eyes.

"Don't you see what you can be?"

But she was afraid. Afraid this was all a dream and she'd awaken to the same disheartening dawn she awoke to every morning. Afraid that Logan would still be on the open road and that her skin could still kill the people she loved. Afraid that Eric would change her, that his bitterness would scar her like it did him. She didn't want to be Magneto. She didn't want her goals and good intentions to be twisted like that. She didn't want Logan's animalist urges lurking just beneath her skin and she didn't want David's kindness and fear of mutants and danger in her heart.

There were voices echoing far off. All male. A boy. A man. An elder. Her own was so quiet. She turned away from them, afraid of the voices that had accompanied her for almost a year.

His gaze deepened with pity and she wanted to scream. Why was it that everyone pitied her? She could remember the touches of three men, could remember what it was like to feel her mother's tickling and her father's hugs. She could remember David's gentle kiss, Eric's forced grip on her face, and Logan's rough skin under hers. She didn't need their pity!

"I don't pity you."

The voices were getting louder.

"I want to help you."

Rotting corpses, day old urine, rotting wood, the stench of human misery

"Where is your home?" The question was like a skipping record, jarred by the thin needle, fragments of sound over and over again until she wanted to pull her hair out.

Four years old and she already knew her address... "Mississippi... Where's yours?"

"Home is where the heart is."

"No. It's family. Home is where your family's at."

"Welcome to Mutant High."

"Where is your home?"

"Come on, I'll take care of you. I promise."

"Because there is no land of tolerance."

The first sparks of excitement and nervousness as his eyes darkened and he leaned closer to her. She was a woman now, she'd been kissed. Then he started to tremble underneath her touch--

"Home?" It was her voice now. Empty of anything that distinguished it as her own. No soft accent that made her cringe because it was her mother's, and anything that reminded her of the home she'd left made her cringe. Her voice was layered, a million voices in one voice. Eric screamed for attention. Logan roared for it. David whimpered in submission, still a child, her inner child. Marie just cried.

"You are home."

Something new. Something different. It cut through the chaos and made her ache with longing for that clarity.

"Wake up Marie!"

No one else called her Marie. She wasn't Marie anymore. Marie only existed in his memory. In the broken chards of her soul.

They were converging on her, threatening to consume her.

One last comment from her guardian angel. "Compassion. Remember that one."

Her eyes snapped open.

"103. It's going down."

Quiet voices. Bland. Scared.

"Her eyes are open."

"I know."

"Marie?"

Silence.

"Marie, please, answer me. Come on, kid, I can see your eyes moving. I know you're not asleep, now." Gentle teasing in words, fear in his voice.

The silence stretched as she struggled to comprehend.

"Maybe if she touched me, just absorbed a little--"

"That's not going to help her."

"What do you mean? It did before."

"This is insanity. She has to find her own way out."

"Bullshit."

"Logan."

He'd saved her so many times.

How would she ever repay him?

The voices were quiet now, and she could feel their eyes on her. Her throat hurt. Sore and scratchy and dry. She needed water but couldn't find the strength to ask for it.

Her eyes followed his gloved hand still grasping her own. Up to a muscular arm. Up to a chest that expanded and curled in with every breath he took. She followed the motions of his breathing, followed the chain that should have been under his shirt. But it wasn't. She hadn't given it to him yet.

"At least she's quiet this time."

"Is she even here this time?"

A pained pause. "At least she's not screaming."

Screaming? Who were they talking about? Why were they doing this? Why couldn't they just go away.

She saw movement above her line of vision and followed the bob of his Adams apple as he swallowed hard. Her gaze traveled up again, taking in the five o'clock shadow beneath his already hairy face. The side burns were so out of style and yet on him it looked as natural as the flecks of black and gold in his hair.

"Marie?"

She watched as the lips moved, forming words she could finally understand.

She looked up again, and finally caught the eyes of the only man she'd ever love. It sounded so clichéd, even to her own ears, but it was truth and made her insides burn with an unfamiliar passion. Not even the others had seen this type of emotion. Even Eric's twisted rage was no where near this, and his love for Charles had been buried deep.

His eyes were intense. They were always intense.

"Is she looking at you?"

Was that Jean? Was that Jean's soft, commanding voice that used to comfort her when she needed it, that used to tease her until she laughed, that used to--

"I think she is."

Charles?

"Marie?"

"Logan." The word was more of a croak and it took more energy than it should to get the word out of her mouth. She coughed, making the irritated flesh of her throat burn. But the word was out and she could see his smile, the one that changed the sexy scowl into something beautiful.

"Marie." He was saying her name over and over again. It wasn't hers. Not anymore.

"Rogue." She replied. Her voice came easier and the water Jean had retrieved helped some. She could see Scott now, smiling beneath the red sunglasses. Ororo waited in the corner, also smiling, her black eyes smiling at her. Her white hair threw the lights around a little and she could almost feel the warmth of sunlight that the Goddess sent her way. "My name is Rogue." The name was said without the loathing she'd begun to reference it with. Now the name brought rebirth to a broken soul. The phoenix rising from the ashes of four pieces of soul. Hers was strongest, and her name only reinforced that. "Rogue."

She smiled at him and watched the confusion play out on his face. She reached a hand up before anyone could stop her and ran her fingers through the thick brown hair and traced his jaw line, ending at him chin. She laughed at their expressions. Pure shock greeted her as she looked into the hallway where all of her friends had been waiting to see how she was.

She felt a sudden stirring of emotion as she ran her mind's eyes over the people who lived inside of her. Caring for the man who'd tried to kill her. Understanding for the boy who'd feared her. Compassion for the man who had been lost so long and reluctantly welcomed a girl on his journey.

Compassion.

She'd remember that one.

She looked to Charles and suddenly understood why his eyes were so pained. She needed to tell him. Tell him what Eric never would.

She looked to Jean and suddenly saw how she had been torn by desire and a deep sated love. She had no reason to be jealous, Scott would always be by her side. She felt the need to apologize, to wipe away the guilt. She felt responsible for too much.

She looked to Ororo and knew she would only understand her if she really got to know her. If she made herself a true member of the team.

She looked to her friends and new there would be no barriers any longer. She would stop making them feel at arms length.

She finally looked to Logan and knew she would memorize every touch she could give him and that he could give in return.

She ran her fingers down taunt skin, over the slight welling of tears in his eyes. He wouldn't cry. Maybe later, but not now.

Compassion.

Emotion for people who feared and hated her instead of trying to understand her. Pain for people who had been hated and killed for being different. Never pity. She would relive that pain if she could, if not she'd try to understand. Never pity. She knew what that was like.

Compassion.

She'd grown. She'd learned. She'd broken free from the little girl named Marie. She'd lost her innocence and gained a compassion that would change the world.

She felt him grip her hand again, this time without the glove. She wasn't sure how she was doing this but she could feel the familiar pull in the back of her mind. She shoved it farther back, remembering the control that Magneto had used to try and fix a wrong. Remembering David's soft kiss prompted her to lean forward and kiss the palm of Logan's calloused hand, the one that wasn't entwined with her own. She lay back down, ignoring all their words of advice and knowledge. Now all she needed was sleep. And dreams of a future she hadn't dared to dream before. She cherished the small kiss he placed on her forehead, thanked the heavens for the smile that made her battle worn soul burn with a light that didn't hurt. Because she had known innocence and ignorance, pity and compassion, war and bloodshed, peace and understanding. And she'd come out stronger for it.