Request: The founding of Carlos's school, or how he formed the J-Men.
Word Count: 1,150
A/N: I do not have enough apologies for this being late: I just got back from a trip, I was 2000 words into another prompt that I knew wasn't going to get done in anything resembling time so I started another way, way too late, but at the core is - I suck. So apologies, but it's finally here. Erk.
These are the stories we tell ourselves at night to make the darkness recede. We're like children telling fairy stories to make the night safe.
It was back in England.
No, it was before that, in Spain, when I was young and we were young and so sure we were the first, the only
Long before you were born.
Of course, it was, he was only a child, he knew nothing of the world beside the colony. Besides endless fields, the pounding surf, and the terrible lizards of the plains. They liked to tell themselves that.
I found Master McCoy first. His parents gave him to me to teach, wanting a better life for him
His parents were dead by the time he was three, leaving him alone in a world that left him in the gutter, whispering that his mother had taken an ape to her bed and died of shame, her cuckolded husband following after. Charles had found him in the refuse, abandoned like a sack of garbage. Then it was Carlos who carried Hal, pulling the rat he had intended to eat from his too big hands and letting the child wrap his arms around Carlos's neck. Three years old. He'd learned quickly, words, words, words. No one had ever spoken to him but to swear before. He could read and write as well as any scholar by the time he was ten, a genius trapped in the body of a monster. Carlos had wept for him. Had wept for those like him he did find.
Henry and I lived in my home outside of London for many years until an old friend called me to speak to his so-daughter.
Speak. Exorcise. Sir John Grey didn't trust priests, he wasn't a religious man. But he had no other words for the way his small red-haired daughter sobbed and shook, repeating what had only been thought by others as clearly as they'd been said out loud.
Carlos' blood sung with it. Enrique, Henry, had shown he was not alone, but with this small angel who curled on his lap and cried herself out into his doublet, he felt the call of like to like. He hadn't wanted to, but. He blocked her powers, brought on by witnessing the death of her best friend. Blocked the death thoughts of the ten year old girl whose mother had served as wet nurse to Lady Jean Grey. He would not see the girl again for many years, her father moving them both around to keep them safe. Safe as could be for a witchbreed.
Next I found Master Summerisle, and brought him to the house with me and Henry.
He'd been twelve when he'd been found. It was a miracle they hadn't blinded him when they carved the bleeding x into his chest, throwing him over a cliff to drown like all witchborn in his village had been. Like Mordred in the tale of King Arthur he survived, floating on a piece of wood down the coast. Blind, he stumbled into the village, head ducked low, instinctually avoiding the kicks aimed at his too skinny body. Carlos had taken the boy's hand and led him home. They'd been a sight, he was sure, the steady blind boy, a strong arm for the weakening man with a cane. They never stumbled.
Scotius never spoke of his younger brother, fostered in another home after their parents had died. Carlos had never heard word of Alexander Summerisle. He knew Scotius prayed Alexander wasn't the 'monster' his brother had been branded. He knew Scotius was sure his brother was dead.
An acquaintance discovered that a visor of ruby quartz around Master Summerisle’s eyes.
Everything else had failed. Some attempts had left Scotius screaming long into the night. Henry had held him back from walking on his rapidly useless legs to help his student. But the visor worked.
So simple, after all the rest.
A visor had worked.
They'd never spoken of it again.
I knew then that I couldn't just stumble across young men like Hal and Scotius, but I had to search them out. The fires of the Inquisition in the south were heating and I did not want such a thing to occur in England and even with the Queen's patronage we were a...problem.
We were a danger. We were in danger
I heard tales of a ship in Her Majesty's fleet who made the warm waters of Greece cold. I sent Scotius to the docks to inquire when it next came into port.
They never spoke of that either.
And he brought back with him a young cabin boy by the name of Robert Trefusis. Now we were three young men and an old man to teach them to be gentlemen. To form a sanctuary for our kind- yes, like Roanoke is now. But we were so small, you see? And then there was the matter of Jean. We call her Jean Grey now and know her for a lady, the only child of a gentleman who would have died to protect the red haired angel that reminded him so of his dead wife.
And in the end, he did. She felt him die and wandered, catatonic, until she found the Sanctuary. She stumbled into Scotius’s arms just inside the gate and if he’d had his way would never have left.
When she joined us we disguised her as a boy, a young man to serve as my page- separate then, from the other young men and without suspicion.
I had loved her.
But Scotius had never loved anyone before and we needed him.
I needed him to save them. As Erik worked in the south, dealing death to those who could not pass as human, I needed to safe those who could not.
They were so few.
A monster with the mind of a genius.
A woman who lived as a man.
A man with fire for eyes.
A boy made of ice with a warm heart.
And then there was Warner.
And finally an angel.
Beyond them, the sea crashed onto the beach and they could hear the bustling village. Scotius’s voice calling to Warner. Benjamin Grimm and John Storm arguing. Hal and Robbie splashing in the water with other children. His J-Men had saved so few.
Franklin Richards, the first child born to those who had escaped James to Virginia four years past, cupped Carlos Javier’s face in small, cubby palms, meeting his eyes calmly, as he spoke into Carlos’s mind.
’twas not for naught.
And perhaps it was even true, Carlos mused, stroking the boy’s fine golden hair. The inquisition was over. The skies were calm.
And he had a new generation of Witchbreed being born in the Americas. A small army could be made here. With his training.