The Spectrum of Affection

"My chambermaid saw the oddest of things in the night," Raven conveyed to Charles over breakfast the following morning, "A lone figure, making his way down to the creek. Would you hazard a guess as to who that might have been?"

The scraping of knife over toast subsided abruptly. Charles looked up at Raven to discover a twinkle in her eye. He cleared his throat with as much nonchalance as he could muster. "Well, you know: there are all sorts this side of the country."

"Evidently."

Raven smiled at him knowledgeably and turned to face the window, letting the pale light of winter sun ignite the gold of her hair.

It was not without some embarrassment that Charles resumed to read the papers spread out on one side of the table. The words did not leap and jump at him as they usually did - they remained still and stiff like hieroglyphs of old, a simple print of ink on paper. He was much too distracted by thoughts of calloused hands and flickering oil-lamps.

He was loath to admit it, but he was consumed by the personality of Mr Lehnsherr and the genetic baggage he carried with him. Altruistically speaking, Charles was of a mind to reveal to the doctor the true nature of their kind. As for his own intentions, he was immensely fascinated by the man and thus coveted their friendship.

Beneath hooded lids, he could see the face of Mr Lehnsherr as it was shone upon by the oil-lamp, soft as the streak of a paint-brush, yet Charles was hours afterward acutely aware of every line and every blemish of the skin. There was an agony in his features, woven into the fabric of his being. Charles wanted to trace those threads and unravel the source of his pain, put a stop to worried thoughts and anxious dreams.

He did not dare, however.

Absent-mindedly, he put aside the piece of toast of which he had not taken a single bite, and folded up the paper of which he had not read a word. Raven gave him a most curious look as he excused himself from the table prematurely and walked back to his study to brood.

As he paced up and down the room, still in his robes, he would ever so often draw back the curtain over the window and peer outside. To his straining eyes, over-sensitive from the lack of sleep, the winter morning appeared far too bright. Nevertheless he would linger, and look for the indentation of the landscape down by the river. He saw the rising column of chimney smoke and not much more.

The sensations which had overcome him were akin to wanderlust, he mused. His hands itched to act, his mind eager for stimulation. It was negligent of him to encourage this depravity, but he was lively and what was more he sorely missed the excitement of adventure.

The afternoon saw a temporary stop to his pontification as he was due to make rounds of inspection with his housekeeper McCoy. Together they set off across the lands, Charles with staff in hand, and McCoy with his Jack Russell.

To begin with, they stopped off at the stables and Charles reached out mentally to the mares to calm them when the terrier became too enthusiastic about his teasing. McCoy was chatting to him as they moved on, but Charles found his ears deaf to all but the rush of blood in his head and the dallying echo of a man's voice.

Their movements escaping the notice of Charles altogether, the two men suddenly found themselves on a threshold of a small town which bordered on Charles' lands. What a merry little town it was, with quaint little half-timbered houses and a bustling market square over which the shadow of an English church loomed.

In a time not too long ago, Charles would have struggled to filter the onslaught of information and sensation which the people exuded. Now, if he chose, it could be quiet in his head. He could pluck one impulse at a time: the smell of baking bread, a child's straying thoughts, perchance a whispered prayer. For the most part, he preferred the harmony of silence.

McCoy proposed to rest their legs in the local tavern, and Charles humoured him, keen to reacquaint himself with his estranged housekeeper. They tipped off their hats to the ladies within, and took seat where they could see the open door and the cobble-stoned square outside.

McCoy spoke of the estate, of his unattainable chéri and the death of a priest in a village not too far away. Charles listened to the chatter good-naturedly, but was soon distracted by the another discussion going on toward the back of the tavern.

"I'm telling ya', he is up to no good that one, my lordship!"

"How long has he been here for?"

The voice of the one to speak last caused Charles to shudder. Well-articulated, with velvety intonation, yet void of any animation of spirit - if Charles knew anything of people, he knew the speaker to be a dangerous man.

"First I saw 'im, was in January," replied the other.

Charles made to glance over his shoulder with as much discretion as possible.

Two men sat in the alcove beneath the staircase to the upstairs: one a farmer with a cap shoved deep over his eyes, clutching at his pitcher of ale: the other straight-backed and regal, long hair combed back and tied together. His attire was strikingly sombre - a coal-black coat setting a stark contrast to the white shirt beneath, with a formal-looking signet ring on the middle finger of his left hand.

As Charles stared, the man turned around. Their eyes met, briefly. Charles heard his name in the internal noise of the other. He was tempted to delve deeper, but did not want to spook the man and reveal his natural advantage.

Suddenly, Charles felt a great power stifle the air in the interior of the tavern, emanating from the well-dressed stranger. It was oppressive in its intensity, and more than that it seemed controlled, commandeered by the man to follow his whims.

There was no doubt about the matter - Charles was faced with yet another mutant, as incredulous as it seemed.

The man, seemingly having lost interest in Charles, resumed his conversation with the farmer. Charles was forced to apologise to McCoy who had made notice of his absence of attention. Yet guilty as he felt, Charles was disturbed by the idea that the man was heralding great power and foul-mouthing Mr Lehnsherr, thusly further dividing his focus.

A few times more the name of Mr Lehnsherr was mentioned as the farmer became increasingly agitated about the situation, blaming the newcomer for everything from crop failure to stolen cattle. In return, the stranger asked more intrusive questions about Mr Lehnsherr's abode and behaviour.

With a hasty excuse to McCoy, Charles briskly walked up to their table. His hands were clenched tightly, and his face was frozen in indignation.

"Gentlemen," he greeted them, as polite as he could force himself to be," I am Count Xavier and Mr Lehnsherr is a good friend of mine. I have heard quite enough about his supposed crimes - I will not stand by and allow his name to be dragged through the dirt when I know the accusations to be untrue."

The farmer became pallid beneath his cap but it was the other man who stood up to face Charles.

"I have not yet had the fortune to meet you, sir. I am General Shaw of the West India regiment." His smooth voice was deceptively calm, betraying none of the power he was evidently capable of.

Charles stood a little straighter. "Sir, I believe I have made my point clear?"

The General was a good head taller, and used it to his advantage as he towered over Charles and smiled condescendingly.

"Quite."

"Very well."

Charles turned on his heel and re-joined McCoy by their door-side table. He did not know how much of the conversation McCoy had heard, but was reluctant to bring it up. They finished their meal and left in a haste. It was an unpleasant experience for Charles to have met a mutant of the malevolent kind, so he was relieved to go.

Charles and McCoy spoke little on their way back to the mansion, and they parted before they arrived at the gates. Charles watched the slim figure of his housekeeper and his springy dog follow the path down to their cottage until they disappeared out of sight.

He was of half a mind to call it a day and pour over tomes of natural science in his private library. Yet he remained outside instead, and watched an indistinct dusk settle over the countryside, gentle shades of violet, blue and peach fluctuating above the horizon.

The first stars were alight in the sky when he heard someone coming up the road behind him.

"Mr Lehnsherr?"

The gangly gentleman approached him clad in a long, dark coat, his hands tucked into his pockets and boots making furrows in the snow. His face had a healthy flush, hair swept to the side by the restless wind.

"I see you are just as much the night-owl as I am, Mr Xavier."

Charles shrugged, but his mouth was smiling of its own accord. "I suppose it is so."

The breath of Mr Lehnsherr made a fine mist in the gathering darkness as he exhaled. "I came over to offer my gratitude."

"Gratitude?"

"I was informed of a discussion taking place in the tavern today. You see, the tavern keeper owes me a favour after I helped to fix the locks of his door. The discussion was about me apparently: a farmer and this unpleasant fellow thought of me as a nuisance to the county. The keeper told me that you intervened and stood up for my honour. Thank you, Charles."

Charles felt himself go warm all over, but it was in particular his face that felt ignited. "Speak not of it," he stammered.

Mr Lehnsherr stepped closer and he, too, was taller than Charles, but in this instance the difference in height did not invoke any feelings of inferiority - it was as it should be, and there was only sincerity in the expression of Mr Lehnsherr.

"You must understand, after a lifetime of solitude, I am unaccustomed to the virtues of friendship."

"I am sorry to see that you have not been met with much kindness."

One more step by Mr Lehnsherr closed the final stretch of distance between them. Their bodies were close to touching, creating a pocket of warmth in the nippy evening.

"But I have. By you, no less."

"Mr Lehnsherr -"

"Erik."

Charles balked. He did not trust himself to act properly in this close a proximity. What he wished for, what he wanted was so impermissible and the consequences so dire that he simply did not dare to follow through with his intrinsic desires.

He took a few steps back and cast his eyes down, fearing that the expression on Erik's face would weaken his resolve.

"I apologise, I must retire for the night - it is too late, after all."

He glanced up, then, and the crestfallen look upon the face of the other caused his heart to twist painfully.

"I am well and truly sorry," Charles repeated.

His last words reverberated into the night and the silence consumed them, leaving nothing but a vacuum in their wake.

With one last nod to the brokenhearted, Charles turned and walked home.