Title: Bright Eyes

Author: Jemisard

Fandom: X-Men

Pairing: None

Rating: PG

Status: New.

Archive: If you ask nicely :)

E-mail address for feedback: kalika@senet.com.au

Series/Sequel: No

Disclaimers: They aren¹t mine. You know that. I¹m just borrowing them.

Thanks:MEMNOCH, LYTHIAS, PHOENIX, WYRDCHAOS. You guys are the best.

Summary:After the gathering of the twelve in Egypt, and the defeat of Apocalypse, they have to face the loss they suffered.

Warnings:DEATH FIC. Spoilers for "Apocalypse: The Twelve".
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Is it a kind of dream,
Floating out on the tide,
Following the river of death downstream?
Oh, is it a dream?

When that flash of light had subsided, and the dust was lit by the golden gleam of natural sun light, they could have pretended it was a dream.

nearly.

One thing remained, reminding them that it wasn't a dream, that it had been real. One thing that would never leave their minds.

Never leave his mind.

Into the stream of light, only moments before, the light that would be his death, his son had thrown himself.

There's a fog along the horizon,
A strange glow in the sky.
And nobody seems to know where you go.
And what does it mean?
Oh, is it a dream?

As they made their way out into the morning sun, no one spoke. No one had anything to say, that could be said. Morning filtered through the green glass and smoking ruins, casting strange shadows across the sands.

She, who suffered most maybe. turned and looked up at the sky, then wailed, screamed, flinging herself to the blood streaked ground. Red hair melting into the life of the dead, head shaking back and forth as she screamed, begged them to listen, to believe that he wasn't dead.

Bright eyes,
Burning like fire.
Bright eyes,
How can you close and fail?

She looked up as the first drops of rain hit her, tears from her Goddess to share her grief. She watched the silver haired beauty raise her hands to the sky and wail, long and loud.

She had seen them. Large, soft brown eyes, filled with love, tenderness, just like she had always dreamed they would be. They had turned to her and smiled, pleaded, sung and died in one second, through the shattered, blood colour quartz.

The one time they would have given anything for that deadly look, it wasn't there. So he gave up everything else.

How can the light that burned so brightly
Suddenly burn so pale?
Bright eyes.

As she turned her face back to the sands to weep, the man behind her, rival, friend, brother, lay his hand on her shoulder, squeezed once and moved away. He shed no tears, his eyes were cold as ever, blue glaciers, unable to show the sheer depth of emotion inside.

His hands closed around the molten metal he carried. She wasn't ready, not yet. He turned back to the dead man's father and gave him the golden lump, cracked red still in place, despite everything.

The man looked down at it, eyes sinking shut, and he touched his fingers to the lower edge. The red, once bright and burning with life, was now dead and dark.

Is it a kind of shadow,
Reaching into the night,
Wandering over the hills unseen?
Or is it a dream?

Only person refused to join the group. He sat alone, in the shadows on the ruined temple, head down, shaking with anger and grief. The shadow creeping over him felt all too fitting. He was the Chosen One, the last defence, the warrior trained to defeat their arch nemesis.

The son of the dead man.

A son who had lived over twice the life his father had.

He closed his eyes and lay his cool hands over his face. Only moments before, before the bubbles holding them had shattered and they entered battle, he had wandered through a psychic landscape with his father. They had talked and held one another, knowing one of them could die.

But he had never thought it would not be him. The First, his people called his father, The First was not meant to die.

But he had.

There's a high wind in the trees,
A cold sound in the air.
And nobody ever knows when you go.
And where do you start,
Oh, into the dark?

The storm had died. Enemies held one another as desert winds whispered in the battle weary ears, calling names, memories, that they would carry from here. She stood up, eyes red as his must have been once and walked to his father, kneeling in front of him. Her eyes were wide with grief, the images of the dark that their lost one feared flashing in both their winds. Was that what laid ahead? Would he become lost in darkness, forgotten in the end?

Born in darkness, die in darkness?

Slowly, they gathered around, friends, family, enemies, respected acquaintances. Hands reached for each other, heads bowed, masks being removed and clutched tightly.

Bright eyes,
Burning like fire.
Bright eyes,
How can you close and fail?

It was the least they could do. As the sun rose into the new day, a day that his death had guaranteed them, that otherwise might not have been, they stood in silence, some heads bowed as though in prayer, others held up high to stare at the slowly lightening sky. One faced the bright lit East, yellow disk rising above the horizon, looking to that new day, two faced the West, where darkness still gripped the sky.

None spoke. None cried openly. None moved, they could have been statues in the sand.

How can the light that burned so brightly
Suddenly burn so pale?
Bright eyes.

Then, one by one, they moved, still in silence. Soft touches of farewell, faintest murmurs passing from mouth to ear. She looked at the father and closed her hand around the golden band tightly clutched by the hand in his lap. She looked up at his son, in so many ways her son, if not by birth, slowly bringing his hand to rest on hers, while their team stood in a circle around them, all on the ground, all close, but not touching.

An ibis in the distance hailed morning with its call, summoning the new day, the new chance, to begin.

And the team left for the new day, without their leader.