The snow was quickly melting beneath Marie's feet by the time they reached the encampment. The sun burned brightly and her father's pocket watch told her it was past ten in the morning. The melting snow signaled that the train would be free soon (if it wasn't already) and on its way to its next stop.
Logan walked two paces ahead of her at all times, and for the few hours they'd been walking had said little. She'd recovered her footing some minutes after they'd left their shelter, and had refused his assistance since. If he was going to be silent and obstinate, she had no choice but to counter with a similar response. She was grateful that he was there to help, but she hated being reminded of her foolishness in kissing him the night before.
The forest was clearing when Logan stopped her by putting his hand up. He put a finger to his lips and pointed to the ground, where the clear outline of footprints could be made out; further out, there were also tire tracks heading west. It took another twenty minutes for them to carefully make their way to the edge of the encampment, which wasn't an encampment at all, but a tiny village set firmly in the middle of that Austrian forest. From their vantage point, they could see a good twenty houses, which all conformed to the same basic architecture and were facing a town center. The houses looked ramshackle and forgotten. There were a few people walking around, but they all looked like they had a purpose, and they were all men.
"Well?" she whispered.
He didn't look at her when he responded; he had his gaze firmly set on the men below. "Looks like we found what we were looking for."
"What do we do now?"
Logan's eyes finally settled on hers. They were the color of honey, but the edges were steely hard; she had the idea that no amount of forgetting his past could remove whatever horrors he'd experienced. They remained there, etched in his eyes. "I'm going to look around."
It was clear by the way he'd said it that he meant to go alone, but she had to ask. "What about me?"
"You're staying here until I say otherwise."
"But-"
"Stay," he said firmly, and she didn't like tone in his voice. It told her what she hadn't stopped to think about during their short time together: Logan was dangerous.
Still, she worried, and this stranger, this man without a past, had been kinder to her than anyone in a long time. "Be careful," she said, and thought she saw him smile slightly as he ducked out behind their hiding place, taking some unseen journey through the forest and into the mouth of danger.
Charles Xavier heard a knock at his door and, thinking perhaps that it was Scott or Jean who had come with news, answered, "Come in."
The compartment door slid open to reveal neither Scott nor Jean. Charles Xavier was rarely surprised, but the appearance of the man before him was certainly a surprise. "Eric."
The man tipped his hat and smiled. "Charles." Eric Lensherr did not ask for permission before he entered the cabin and slid the door shut behind him. He brushed snow off his woolen coat, removed his hat, and sat on the bench opposite Charles, still smiling almost broadly. "I'm glad to see you, old friend." He looked briefly around the small compartment. "And you're alone."
Charles Xavier did not wish to pretend for nicety's sake. There was no reason to interpret Eric's visit as anything other than hostile. "Of course you knew that, Eric," he replied, placidly. "Why have you come?"
"Why, Charles, that tone. I've come because I'd heard you were here, and why not stop and chat with a friend. It has been so very long."
"There's no need for pretense. Tell me about Mr. Darkholme."
Eric feigned confusion. "Darkholme? Now, why does that name sound so incredibly familiar?"
"Eric…"
"Tut, tut, Charles. Is that any tone to take with me, your oldest and dearest friend?" Eric straightened in his seat and shook his head. "Perhaps I am being rather difficult. Mr. Darkholme is alive, I presume."
"You presume."
"Well, it has been some time since I last saw him. One can never tell what cold, and hunger, and fear, can do to a man."
Charles expression remained neutral. "You know all too well, Eric."
Eric shrugged. "Past is prologue, as they say."
"What do you want for him?"
"Nothing you can give, Charles. Perhaps there was, at on time, something I would have had from you. But no longer."
"Why are you doing this?"
Sighing, Eric replied, "I ask myself that question often, Charles, and my most frequent response to myself is that I am a selfish man at heart – oh, don't protest, I think you'll know it to be true. I am a selfish man, Charles, and have infinitely too many resources at hand, much as you do. Of course, while you are a man of wisdom, a man of justice, I am but a criminal and a braggart and a bully, and if things do not go my way, why Charles, I'm likely to strike back with vengeance. And now ask yourself, friend, do you really want to know why I do what I do?"
Before Xavier could think to respond, the compartment door opened to reveal Scott. He did not look surprised by Eric's presence. "I'd like to know," he said tersely.
"Now, young man," Eric said, slyly producing a gun from beneath his coat, "I will not shoot unless forced. The commotion, you see." He motioned Scott to sit down. "This was a private conversation, and it was incredibly rude of you to walk in the way you did." The revolver was kept pointed in Scott's direction as Eric addressed Charles once more. "Now, Herr Xavier, as we've clearly established there is nothing you can do for me, perhaps I should explain the reason behind my visit?"
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