Oh Daddy, why couldn’t you love me enough? Why did you throw me away?
The professor could hear Rogue’s anguished voice echoing repetitively in the man’s mind. She had somehow reached out to her father last night, and here he was, desperate to see his only child. Charles Xavier told him the most basic information about Rogue; that she was safe, healthy, and living amongst people who cared for her. Anything more than that would be up to her.
Professor Xavier learned of the man’s arrival the moment Rogue realized who it was. Her emotional recoil had been so powerful it sliced painfully through his mind, bringing him to his knees. The professor reached out to her, alarmed, and was shocked by the impenetrable psychic defenses she instantly erected, expelling him violently from her mind. Sensing Logan’s presence near her, Charles prepared to meet the unexpected visitor after Logan assured him of her safety.
Owen D’Ancanto invited the professor into his mind, had begged him to, when he learned that the school’s headmaster was a telepath. And what the professor saw, troubled him deeply. Charles walked over and placed his hand on the silently weeping man’s shoulder in compassion.
But his heart hurt more for the young woman in his care.
Rogue ignored the soft knocks on her door as several of the school’s inhabitants checked up on her throughout the day, concerned when she remained in her room as the hours passed. She still sat in the chair that Logan carried her to, watching the day’s light give way to night. Logan had sat beside her the first hour or so, silently watching her, but when she asked him to leave, quietly but firmly, he did.
She needed to be alone.
Ororo fussed over the centerpiece she created, her lovely features reflecting displeasure with the arrangement of flowers and brightly colored ornaments. Frustrated, she sat back down and rapped her fingers against the table, the only sound in the large formal dining room. Finally, she asked the question that the others seated around the dining room table were thinking.
“Who is that man?”
They looked at each other, then to Logan, but he remained silent. Remy stood up abruptly, his chair clattering backwards to the floor. “Why is de professor allowing ‘dis homme to stay ‘ere? ‘E needs to leave!”
Logan grunted, agreeing with the angry Cajun, but still wanting to deck him. He leaned back into the chair he was sitting in and swilled down his beer, his face inscrutable.
“I am sure that Professor Xavier’s decision to invite this gentleman to stay under this roof was made after careful consideration,” Hank stated neutrally. “Clearly he is of some import to Rogue. We should be focused on helping her come to terms with his arrival instead of fixated on his departure.”
“I disagree.” Everyone turned to Scott, who had arrived back that afternoon. They were surprised by the amount of hostility in his voice. “Rogue is upset, shut off in her room because of him. I don’t care who he is, letting him stay is a mistake.”
They looked up to see Charles Xavier entering the room, alone. He put his hand up, effectively silencing the questions that were about to be hurled his way. Stopping at the head of the table, he stated in a stern voice, “I will not be entertaining any suggestions that our guest leave. He is presently retired in the guest wing, where he shall remain, undisturbed. As to his identity, that is not for me to divulge. Rogue is safe,” he looked at them pointedly, his meaning clear, “and that is where your interest should end.”
With a curse, Remy stormed out of the room, abandoning his toppled chair on the floor. Logan eyes were intent on Charles, frowning at the telepath’s response to his enquiry.
~ No Logan. It is up to Rogue if she wants you to know. ~
The school’s headmaster sat down and indicated for dinner to begin, the ensuing subdued conversation a sharp contrast to the festive cheer being enjoyed by the students in the other rooms.
Logan turned his attention to Scott, watching him with a new curiosity.
Later that evening, Charles Xavier made his way to Rogue’s bedroom. She opened the door, expecting him, and quietly returned to the chair by the window.
He grabbed the desk chair nearby and placed it directly in front of her, sitting down as his eyes adjusted to the dark. Rogue watched his movements, quiet. Charles took her hands in his comfortingly, and at her invitation, entered her mind.
A little girl was sitting on a stool, her legs swinging energetically as she watched an older woman stir the contents within a bowl, set on the counter of a large kitchen. The coltish body of the four year-old wiggled as though incapable of staying still.
“Get to bed, Anina. Your daddy’s gonna be cross if he sees you here,” the woman warned. But her dark eyes twinkled, belying the seriousness in her tone.
The girl shrugged her shoulders, dipping a finger quickly into the bowl, earning her a smart smack on her hand by the wooden spoon the woman wielded. She still managed to get some batter, and licked her finger appreciatively. “Daddy’s busy with Auntie Carrie, Nanna. He don’t care none.”
The stirring stopped and Nanna looked at the young girl sternly. “Never you mind, child. He cares plenty. Now git!”
The young girl smiled, kissing Nanna on the cheek before jumping off the tall stool. Charles caught the worried look on the woman’s face as she watched the girl sprint up a spiral iron staircase, located in a corner of the room.
Bright sunshine exploded around him.
There was a summer wedding in progress, and Charles saw the same young girl, dressed in a pretty, yellow cotton dress. She was standing off to the side, the two adults in front of her exchanging matrimonial vows in a beautiful garden just outside a majestic, white antebellum home.
Charles recognized Owen D’Ancanto as the groom, and upon closer inspection, noticed the bride had a startling resemblance to Rogue. After the couple sealed their union with a kiss at the prompting of the officiating minister, they walked quickly down the aisle, eyes only for each other. Neither acknowledged the little girl who had lifted her arms to them when the ceremony had ended. The child slowly returned her arms to her sides as the newly wedded couple stepped into a horse drawn carriage, waiting for them around front. They waved to the gathered guests happily before driving off down the long driveway, away from the Mississippi estate.
Charles looked back at the young girl, left alone at the altar. Tears streamed from her dark green eyes. Nanna approached the girl quietly, and gently pulled the heartbroken child into her arms.
Walls closed up around him.
Charles stood in what appeared to be a young child’s bedroom. Pieces of a shattered porcelain toy tea set lay in a corner, a tiny table upended, its equally sized chairs fallen to their sides. The woman he now knew as Auntie Carrie held a switch in her hand, standing by the prone form of the little girl lying on the four poster bed in the center of the room. Angry red slashes were visible across the back of the six year old’s legs.
“You are a whore Anna Marie, just like your mother!” the crazed woman screeched, punctuating each word with additional vicious blows. “You will stop that sinful singing, you hear me!”
Charles bent down in front of the girl. Her eyes were glazed over, wincing from every strike, tears falling silently onto the pillow beneath her head.
Ballet pink colored walls darkened, replaced by the walnut panels of a study.
The young girl was sobbing hysterically, begging. She was clinging to an unresponsive Owen D’Ancanto, who was sitting in a high backed leather chair behind an imposing ornate wooden desk.
“It's decided, Anna Marie.” He pushed her cruelly away, getting up and leaving her devastated and crumpled on the floor.
The room faded completely away, replaced by cold darkness.
It was raining, and a strong wind tore at the young girl’s clothes as she stood outside an academy of some sort. A Rolls Royce was idling beside her on the roadway. The back passenger side window of the vehicle was rolled down, exposing the hate-filled face of the girl’s stepmother.
“Don’t try to come back, Anna Marie. Don’t ever, ever, come back.”
Carrie D’Ancanto sat back, indicating with a wave of her hand for the driver to leave. The black car drove away into the night, the woman’s malicious smile visible through the rain-riddled glass. Torrential rain pounded on top of the seven year old, soaking her through within seconds. Her dark green eyes were emotionless as she turned to make her way up the wide steps, entering alone into the large, imposing building.
Professor Xavier pulled away from Rogue’s mind and returned to her room, the face of the young girl morphing into the woman before him. Rogue’s eyes then glazed over and looked straight through him.
Xavier stood up, suddenly feeling very, very old. He compelled her to walk to the bed, and pulled the covers over top of her, forcing her into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Logan’s frown deepened, catching the haggard look on the professor’s face when he left Rogue’s bedroom to return to his own quarters. Stepping out from the shadows of the corridor, Logan opened her door and watched the sheets on her bed lifting and falling from her unnatural, even breathing.
Grim-faced, he closed the door behind him and stood by the bed, her pain harsh and enveloping around him. Taking off his shoes and belt, he lay down beside her, digging one arm carefully underneath her to pull her flush against him, reaching to meet the other draped over her waist. He bent his leg under hers, tucking her into his large chest, her back and shoulders pressed into him. He held her tightly, inhaling the peaches and peppermint of her hair to offset the scent of her misery and its effect on him.
Logan’s racing heart finally slowed to match the steady beat of hers and he fell asleep, soothed by their familiar embrace.