Erik Lensherr | ( Magneto ) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wecanavenge) wrote2012-12-07 10:48 am
wecanavenge) wrote2012-12-07 10:48 am
✘ | 016 | VOICE
[Private to the Admiral]
This is your doing, I assume. If I ever feel so compelled to write something like this again, rest assured that it will be filled with the horrors I continue to hope you go through.
For Charles - Another sweater. It's all he wears - make this one as hideous as the one you gave me. If not another sweater, then something equally cozy. And hideous.
For Jean - A picture of Annie. [He doesn't know if that's too little, too personal - but it's the first thought in his head.]
For Toshiko -Coffee and sleeping pil Two bullets [Sorry Tosh he's still bitter, but at least in the end he just crosses it out and leaves it blank.]
For Stark - A dead rat, if you wouldn't mind.
For Wanda - [This is considerably harder; he wants something useful for her, something she'll use if not enjoy. And, well, there's only one really useful thing he can think of, for people like them.] One of the flight suits Hank made us. [And added as an addendum:] In some color she'd prefer.
For Ivy - [He's debating what's useful, what's pointless. A plant seems silly and obvious, and it's not like he knows overmuch about flora anyway. But.] Something for the hybrid. Health, a companion, one of those ridiculous sweaters people seem to put small dogs in. [A pause] Maybe a bush it will enjoy hiding in. [And then he realizes he is actually trusting the Admiral to do something here and woah can't have that.] Give her some exotic plant that she can maintain, when that proves too much for you.
[Private to Toshiko]
I want a hanukkiah. I'm sure the Admiral will acquiesce.
[Private to Anya]
We should talk. [He pauses, mindful of all the missteps with Wanda; he's trying.] If that's all right.
[Private to Ivy]
[He's not death tolling anymore, and he's being jaded about the world and wound tight over Anya's appearance here - but belatedly he adds this in, because by now it's been a while, and he has no idea how she weathered port.]
We haven't spoken in some time. [Which is code for should I be worried, or are you okay in your semi-poisonous greenhouse.]
[Public]
I've always found it difficult to tell the month, here. I assume it's December, now, with the snow - but it's not as if we all came from the same time.
[He pauses, and there's some shuffling, the sound of pages turning.]
Every year, December 25th is celebrated around the world. [Dryly:] Something to do with a man and a cross. And every year, around the same time, the 25th of Kislev is celebrated to a much, much lesser extent. I have no idea what month it is by the Jewish calendar, let alone what day; but if it's December, it's more than likely that Hanukkah is approaching.
When I was a boy, we would celebrate each night by lighting the hanukkiah, one candle a night, for eight nights. [There's something almost, almost nostalgic in his voice; he hasn't observed any holiday since he was eight or so.] In better years, my parents managed presents for each night. Small things, but always appreciated.
[Another short silence, another page turning, before he goes on.] My father told me the story when I was very young - of the Maccabees fighting King Antiochus, the desecration of the Temple and the great victory Judah led against the Syrians. I believed the miracle then - that when the Jews, newly freed to practice their religion again, went to rededicate the Temple, there was only enough oil to light the menorah for one night, and yet it burned for eight, long enough to prepare more oil. It was the Eternal Light, meant to symbolize God's eternal presence. [He sounds almost dismissive, now, like he's laying out a lecture he doesn't believe in. Erik has never been a religious man.]
When I was small, I believed it. I know better now. There was no miracle; there are no miracles. The oil likely burned, and the flame likely guttered and died again. And two thousand years later, parents still lie to their children to give them hope, and make them feel less disconnected from the world around them at this time of year.
[He snorts quietly.] At least it's a pretty sham.
This is your doing, I assume. If I ever feel so compelled to write something like this again, rest assured that it will be filled with the horrors I continue to hope you go through.
For Charles - Another sweater. It's all he wears - make this one as hideous as the one you gave me. If not another sweater, then something equally cozy. And hideous.
For Jean - A picture of Annie. [He doesn't know if that's too little, too personal - but it's the first thought in his head.]
For Toshiko -
For Stark - A dead rat, if you wouldn't mind.
For Wanda - [This is considerably harder; he wants something useful for her, something she'll use if not enjoy. And, well, there's only one really useful thing he can think of, for people like them.] One of the flight suits Hank made us. [And added as an addendum:] In some color she'd prefer.
For Ivy - [He's debating what's useful, what's pointless. A plant seems silly and obvious, and it's not like he knows overmuch about flora anyway. But.] Something for the hybrid. Health, a companion, one of those ridiculous sweaters people seem to put small dogs in. [A pause] Maybe a bush it will enjoy hiding in. [And then he realizes he is actually trusting the Admiral to do something here and woah can't have that.] Give her some exotic plant that she can maintain, when that proves too much for you.
[Private to Toshiko]
I want a hanukkiah. I'm sure the Admiral will acquiesce.
[Private to Anya]
We should talk. [He pauses, mindful of all the missteps with Wanda; he's trying.] If that's all right.
[Private to Ivy]
[He's not death tolling anymore, and he's being jaded about the world and wound tight over Anya's appearance here - but belatedly he adds this in, because by now it's been a while, and he has no idea how she weathered port.]
We haven't spoken in some time. [Which is code for should I be worried, or are you okay in your semi-poisonous greenhouse.]
[Public]
I've always found it difficult to tell the month, here. I assume it's December, now, with the snow - but it's not as if we all came from the same time.
[He pauses, and there's some shuffling, the sound of pages turning.]
Every year, December 25th is celebrated around the world. [Dryly:] Something to do with a man and a cross. And every year, around the same time, the 25th of Kislev is celebrated to a much, much lesser extent. I have no idea what month it is by the Jewish calendar, let alone what day; but if it's December, it's more than likely that Hanukkah is approaching.
When I was a boy, we would celebrate each night by lighting the hanukkiah, one candle a night, for eight nights. [There's something almost, almost nostalgic in his voice; he hasn't observed any holiday since he was eight or so.] In better years, my parents managed presents for each night. Small things, but always appreciated.
[Another short silence, another page turning, before he goes on.] My father told me the story when I was very young - of the Maccabees fighting King Antiochus, the desecration of the Temple and the great victory Judah led against the Syrians. I believed the miracle then - that when the Jews, newly freed to practice their religion again, went to rededicate the Temple, there was only enough oil to light the menorah for one night, and yet it burned for eight, long enough to prepare more oil. It was the Eternal Light, meant to symbolize God's eternal presence. [He sounds almost dismissive, now, like he's laying out a lecture he doesn't believe in. Erik has never been a religious man.]
When I was small, I believed it. I know better now. There was no miracle; there are no miracles. The oil likely burned, and the flame likely guttered and died again. And two thousand years later, parents still lie to their children to give them hope, and make them feel less disconnected from the world around them at this time of year.
[He snorts quietly.] At least it's a pretty sham.