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Part II – The Scarred Earth (c)


Months slipped by and it was soon too cold to keep the doors open. Even Ororo valued the peace of her comforter and warm sheets, snuggling in them, watching the bare trees through the windows and the still lace.
She was slow in getting up that morning, even though her usual routine was to start with the sunrise. Instead she laid in her freshly changed white flannel sheets, since it was heading into deep winter and flannel was the most obvious choice for the season. No one had come to rouse her, as Jean had done in the past when Ororo had accidentally slept late, although it had been a rarity even then. They all seemed to know now not to disturb her.
When she was ready, Ororo made her way down the stairs and into the kitchen, noticing the already brewed coffee and the box of donuts on the counter. She avoided the donuts and pulled out a mug, heading to the coffee maker, a small smile on her lips as she looked at the Christmas decorations Jean had strewn about the kitchen in preparation for the holidays.
The academy was officially on winter break, much to Ororo's relief. She had found her mind wandering in class lately, her eyes always dropping on Rogue and those cursed dog tags, watching them gleam off the winter sun like a small beacon, refusing to let her forget.
"There you are!" Jean exclaimed as she bounded into the room, holding a line of lit Christmas lights. "I was wondering if I had to go up there and haul you down."
"No need," Ororo said, putting the pot back, picking up her mug. "I am here."
"You want to come and help?" Jean asked, smiling, brushing her red hair away from her
face.
"Of course," Ororo nodded after sipping her coffee, the steam gliding up around her face, following Jean into the large lobby, where Scott was balanced precariously on a ladder, hanging large green boughs over the door of the mansion.
Ororo stopped on the hard wood floor, looking at the pine green and the red ribbons and the white lights. It was a myriad of cheer, and she wouldn't expect anything less from Jean. Before Ororo could open her mouth to commend her friend, the door opened with a rush of cold air and twinkling of bells from the garland, Rogue slipping in with a fist full of mail.
"Watch it," Scott warned gently, eyeing Rogue from above. Rogue looked up and smiled apologetically.
"I didn't know you were up there," Rogue said in a quiet southern accent, reaching out and steadying the shaky ladder with one hand.
"I told you to be careful, Scott," Jean said without looking up, engrossed in untangling the line of lights.
Ororo smiled, setting her coffee cup down to help steady the ladder as Scott climbed down, jumping to the floor.
"It looks wonderful," Ororo said, smiling at his work. The door was now completely outlined in tree boughs, ribbons, and small silver bells that sparkled underneath the white lights. Rogue nodded her agreement, looking back to the mail.
"Wait until we get the whole thing up," Jean laughed, pulling on the lights. "If I can ever get this knot undone."
"You got something, Ms. Munroe," Rogue said, holding up a plain envelope. "From Maria Ragsdale?"
Ororo frowned and took the letter, murmuring, "How odd."
"Who's that?" Jean asked, sighing at the lights, brushing her hair out of her green eyes.
"A friend from long ago," Ororo murmured, taking a look at the postage stamp, not recognizing it, wondering why on earth Maria would be writing her instead of just giving her a call.
"Oh my gosh," Rogue suddenly cried, pulling another plain envelope out of the stack. "This one's from Logan!"
Ororo snapped to attention, her eyes darting over to the young girl and to the letter she had clutched in her hand.
"He didn't leave a return address, did he?" Scott asked wryly, receiving a sharp look from Jean.
"What?" He shrugged, picking up the other end of the tangled lights with a cocked eyebrow. Jean was busy watching Ororo, a frozen expression of concern on her features. Ororo ignored her, focusing on the envelope in Rogue's hand, frowning at Logan's handwriting that scrawled out Marie's name.
Rogue grinned wildly, handing the rest of the mail to Ororo has she scurried off to her room, ripping open the envelope with shaking hands.
Ororo glanced down at the stack of junk mail that Rogue had deposited in her hands and sighed inaudibly, turning and setting it down on the antique table in the hallway. Without a word, she looked at her own piece of mail and left the room, leaving Scott and Jean to wonder behind her.

She sat in a chair in the quietest room in the house, the open letter in her lap, head back, eyes closed, with the cold winter sun slanting through the glass panes of the window. Strangely, she wasn't thinking about the letter. In fact, it was the furthest thing from her mind. Instead she was thinking about those damned dog tags.
"Ms. Monroe?"
Ororo opened her eyes to the brilliant light and saw Rogue standing next to the chair, Logan's letter in her gloved hands.
"Yes?" Ororo asked, bringing a soft smile to her lips for both their benefits.
Rogue glanced down at the letter, a hand reaching up to play with Logan's chain around her neck, fingering the ball links softly. "He says he wants you to read this," she said hoarsely, looking down. "He says he's sorry," she continued after clearing her throat, frowning with confusion at Ororo. "But I don't understand. What is he sorry about?"
Ororo paused, her hands drifting down to Maria's letter, shaking her head. "A minor disagreement. It's nothing."
"Well," Rogue shrugged. "Here it is anyway."
Ororo took the letter Rogue held out to her, smiling until the girl turned and left the room, giving her privacy.
She took one look at the letter and closed her eyes again, leaning back in the chair, feeling the sun beating down on her, not making her any warmer. In the back of her mind she could replay every moment of that night so long ago, feeling the cool breeze drifting through her open window, playing along their heated skin, sliding underneath her white sheets. Then she folded the paper back along its original creases and slid it back into the hastily torn envelope, and opened her eyes.

"What are you talking about!" Jean cried, aghast, sitting behind her desk, staring with shock at Ororo's determined face. "That's ridiculous, ‘Ro," Jean continued, shaking her head. "You can't just up and leave."
"I've already called Maria back," Ororo shrugged, watching her friend calmly. "They have to have the position filled as soon as possible."
"And you said you would do it?" Jean asked, still grappling with words.
"Jean," Ororo tried quietly. "You're on your feet here and several students have graduated as it is, many looking to take a position as a teacher, and the X-Men are no more without Xavier."
"But we still need you," Jean insisted stubbornly, refusing to back down.
"I'm doing this for an old friend," Ororo said, keeping her eyes on Jean. "She's leaving her position and she's asked me to fill it for her. They're desperate to find someone, but they'll take anyone she recommends. I think it would be a fantastic experience, and perhaps I can come back here after all this with something more to offer. Please don't make me ask you twice, Jean."
Sighing, Jean rubbed her temples, letting a few awkward moments pass before looking at Ororo from under her hand. "This has nothing to do with Logan, does it?"
"No," Ororo said after a second's pause, running her mind over that man. "I'm doing this for myself."
"And what should I tell Logan," Jean began to ask, "if he should return?"
"It is not his affair where I go," Ororo said. "He demonstrated that very clearly."
After a long moment, Jean asked, "Will I see you often?"
"Whenever you should want to see me," a smile curling on Ororo's lips.



Now here he was striding up to her, all flesh and blood, vividly alive in front of her face, as though daring to test her. Here he was, Ororo thought, trying to block all those images from her head, desperately wanting to stop the flow of memories. She no longer wanted to remember the touch of his hands or the feelings of shock when she stood in his empty room, watching Rogue, batting away the tears in her eyes, reading the note he had made almost as an afterthought.
Here Logan was. Logan in his trademarked battered jeans and simple shirt, dark boots, black hair wild from the wind, the ever constant stubble lining his jaw. This was the Logan that she had been waiting to yell at, or slap, or turn away from and silently cry. It didn't seem fair that the last remnant of him she had stored in her mind was the sight of his body, tangled in her white sheets, just before she had fallen asleep.
Yet here he was and all she could do was watch him stop in front of her, dark eyes burning, and remember the smell of him.





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