Post by Pietro Maximoff on Oct 30, 2007 16:03:34 GMT -5
((OOC: A Halloween Thread. Please, ease Pietro's loneliness. Not open to Wanda or Kurt.))
::Pietro sat on the rooftop in the middle of the day, staring down at the gardens where Wanda sat on a bench beside Kurt, both speaking in German. He could not overhear their conversation from the distance, but it did not matter. He knew they were flirting, and that was enough. They grew closer every day; he could see the glow on Wanda’s face, could hear the excitement in her voice when she spoke of the German teleporter. He was happy that she was happy; he loved her. He was also worried; what if they wed? What would Wanda do? Surely, as close as he and Wanda were, it would be intrusive to ask to move in with them, and how to explain to Rossignol such a living arrangement? He could be honest with her. No, not honest, but “honest.” After all, the life they lived was nothing more than one of Uncle’s lies.
Nobody would believe him, even if he could be honest, truly honest for the first time in five years. Who would believe that there were no Maximoff twins? That there was only Pietro Maximoff Lehnsherr and Wanda Frank Shade? Only two people on the face of this Earth remembered the truth for what it was: Charles Xavier and Pietro himself; and neither of them would speak of it.
He first met her in Czechoslovakia five years ago, on a visit with Uncle. He may have left Westchester, but he hadn’t left his family behind. The older man had come to visit for Pietro’s twenty-fifth birthday, bringing news from the others and giving him a bit of money to live on. He lived off his own labor, but Uncle had insisted that it was a milestone, and he deserved a new pair of boots if nothing else. They had been at a village market, on a quest to buy groceries for that night’s supper. She had stumbled out of a burning hut up the hill, screaming and crying. Her hair singed, her feet bare, her face covered in ash, her arms covered in blood…she had been pathetic, and yet beautiful to his eyes.
“Witch!” the villagers had cried, upon seeing the condition she left. Pietro shared a glance with Xavier and both went into action. Pietro took two buckets from a fishmonger and ran to the river; he made several trips between the hut and the river, quenching the flames in the blink of an eye. With all his speed, it had been too late; most of the hut had been reduced to cinder. A quick sweep of what remained of the hut had revealed a mostly-charred dead body; he had felt ill after that.
Meanwhile, Xavier had used his abilities to freeze the entire market around them, so they could not advance on her. A thought Pietro would never voice was that his Uncle enjoyed using his abilities that way; it must make him feel powerful. Confined to that chair, he could not physically restrain a child, but with his mind he could stop an entire village. Whatever his Uncle’s thoughts, the job was done, and Pietro came down from the hill in time to catch her as she fainted.
They took her back to their room at the inn, where they treated her wounds. She weaved in and out of consciousness, but was never coherent. She spoke broken German, and his ears had strained to make sense of her mumblings. She spoke of “Victor,” whom he realized had been the dead man in her hut. No clarity came to her that night, and she grew ill with fever. Pietro had remained by her side all night, telling German stories to help ease her into a more restful sleep.
Eventually, Uncle had entered her mind, to help bring her back to the realm of consciousness. He had found a deeply disordered mind, on the brink of a complete breakdown. Victor Shade had been her husband, and she had killed him, with her uncontrollable powers. The guilt would kill her. More shocking than that was the next revelation Uncle made to him; that Wanda’s mind had begun to bond with his. They were roughly the same age, spoke a common language, and in her agitated state, he had been the first one to have contact with her. His presence, Uncle had explained, had a soothing effect, and may hold the key to helping her. Pietro had hastily agreed; she needed to be helped.
How they had come up with this asinine story, Pietro no longer remembered. She had needed to forget her past life, as anything could have triggered a memory and sent her back into insanity. And Uncle had said her mind would accept new memories involving Pietro, since she had latched onto him. How terrible her childhood must have been, that to become the daughter of Magneto could be an improvement, Pietro never asked. Knowledge would only make the lie harder to live. Uncle had borrowed Pietro’s experiences, asked him to think vividly of them, so they could be copied and modified in Wanda’s memory: being raised as Sinti, then taken to America to stay with Uncle and Magneto, the abuse, the other children who would become the X-Men, and then leaving it all behind to return to Europe.By the end of it all, Pietro had a twin sister.
There were new memories, of course, that Pietro had never seen. Uncle had tried to brief him on them all, but he could not remember every detail of every lie. When Wanda confronted him with something that had never happened at all, he would play it off as though he had repressed it, or that he was too agitated to remember. Even in her false memories, he had born the brunt of the abuse, for in life, he had been the only one to suffer it at all. Then there were the times he would speak of something he remembered, but Uncle had neglected to give to Wanda. Somehow his words prompted her mind to create her own version of the memory. It frightened Pietro, the control he had over this woman, and the true extent of her dependence on him.
Uncle had tampered with the minds of everyone else; Scott, Jean, Ororo…even Magneto, to make them remember that it had not been Erik Lehnsherr and his eager, carbon-copy son, but Erik Lehnsherr and his too-attached, overprotective twins. Uncle had not been able to alter Pietro’s memories to match those of everyone around him; his mind was the only thing keeping Wanda stable. The slightest disruption and she could lose everything. Pietro wished his memories had been altered; it would save him the heartache.
She had never met the Maximoffs, the sainted Sinti couple Pietro spoke of only in adoring tones. It was easier that way, as Uncle had not been able to track them down after the incident. And even if he had, Pietro did not think he could lie in front of his parents; it would be an insult to the childhood they had worked so hard to give him. Instead he lied to everyone else; he lied to Wanda.
Wanda wondered why he claimed to be damned, when at the same time he assured her that she was not. She had never lied to him, like he lied to her. Every crime, every sin of which she was guilty had been his fault. Like the assault on Magneto. The vengeance in her eyes had matched his own, and so he had let her take revenge on a man for actions he had never committed against her. Pietro had let it happen, because he had been angry himself, and worse than that, he was committed to the lie.
Why was he so committed? If he were to deviate from it, even for a moment, it would destroy her. But his reasons were not entirely altruistic. The fact was that he had fallen in love with Wanda, and that love kept him from ever wanting harm to befall her. His protectiveness was real, although it was only five years old instead of thirty.
He loved her hopelessly, not the way a brother loves a sister, but the way a man loves a woman. Every touch she took for granted because they were “twins,” he appreciated for what it could never be. When he held her in his arms, she wrapped her legs around him and they would be so close…the incest taboo, Pietro had decided three years ago, was far worse when there was no incest and yet no way to explain that fact. His love was not the dark, twisted, misplaced affection of a lecherous older brother, but was true, romantic love for a woman who by all rights should be his wife. Not perverted, but pure.
Not pure, he reminded himself. There was nothing pure about this. He knew nothing of Wanda, the true Wanda, apart from the fact she killed her husband. He had fallen in love with a woman who thought she was his sister; he had become Pygmalion in the twisted story that was his life.
Would he love her, had he met her before that fateful day? Pietro thought so, but he had no reason to, apart from the yearning he felt for her each day they shared together. His speed let him think faster than others, and with the same number of hours in each day, he had far more thoughts than others. Many of which focused on the life he and Wanda could have shared. He knew it a fruitless wish, nothing more than childish fantasy, and yet he could not stop them, just as he had not been able to stop the thoughts of Rossignol after they had met.
Rossignol...this was a situation he had not faced. Since meeting Wanda, he had not loved another, yet his heart burned for Rossignol as much as it did for Wanda, albeit in a different way. He could not tell her about any of this. No, he would keep it to himself, living this same lie. Isolated by his knowledge, just as he was isolated by his speed.
Weary of his ruminations, Pietro rose. At the moment, he could not watch Kurt and Wanda for even a second longer. He crossed to the very edge of the roof and then began to run across, dipping at the appropriate moment so he could run down the wall. He landed in the front yard, overlooking the grounds and the path that led towards the gates.
Overwhelmed by it all, he sat on the front steps of the mansion, letting the world come slowly.::
::Pietro sat on the rooftop in the middle of the day, staring down at the gardens where Wanda sat on a bench beside Kurt, both speaking in German. He could not overhear their conversation from the distance, but it did not matter. He knew they were flirting, and that was enough. They grew closer every day; he could see the glow on Wanda’s face, could hear the excitement in her voice when she spoke of the German teleporter. He was happy that she was happy; he loved her. He was also worried; what if they wed? What would Wanda do? Surely, as close as he and Wanda were, it would be intrusive to ask to move in with them, and how to explain to Rossignol such a living arrangement? He could be honest with her. No, not honest, but “honest.” After all, the life they lived was nothing more than one of Uncle’s lies.
Nobody would believe him, even if he could be honest, truly honest for the first time in five years. Who would believe that there were no Maximoff twins? That there was only Pietro Maximoff Lehnsherr and Wanda Frank Shade? Only two people on the face of this Earth remembered the truth for what it was: Charles Xavier and Pietro himself; and neither of them would speak of it.
He first met her in Czechoslovakia five years ago, on a visit with Uncle. He may have left Westchester, but he hadn’t left his family behind. The older man had come to visit for Pietro’s twenty-fifth birthday, bringing news from the others and giving him a bit of money to live on. He lived off his own labor, but Uncle had insisted that it was a milestone, and he deserved a new pair of boots if nothing else. They had been at a village market, on a quest to buy groceries for that night’s supper. She had stumbled out of a burning hut up the hill, screaming and crying. Her hair singed, her feet bare, her face covered in ash, her arms covered in blood…she had been pathetic, and yet beautiful to his eyes.
“Witch!” the villagers had cried, upon seeing the condition she left. Pietro shared a glance with Xavier and both went into action. Pietro took two buckets from a fishmonger and ran to the river; he made several trips between the hut and the river, quenching the flames in the blink of an eye. With all his speed, it had been too late; most of the hut had been reduced to cinder. A quick sweep of what remained of the hut had revealed a mostly-charred dead body; he had felt ill after that.
Meanwhile, Xavier had used his abilities to freeze the entire market around them, so they could not advance on her. A thought Pietro would never voice was that his Uncle enjoyed using his abilities that way; it must make him feel powerful. Confined to that chair, he could not physically restrain a child, but with his mind he could stop an entire village. Whatever his Uncle’s thoughts, the job was done, and Pietro came down from the hill in time to catch her as she fainted.
They took her back to their room at the inn, where they treated her wounds. She weaved in and out of consciousness, but was never coherent. She spoke broken German, and his ears had strained to make sense of her mumblings. She spoke of “Victor,” whom he realized had been the dead man in her hut. No clarity came to her that night, and she grew ill with fever. Pietro had remained by her side all night, telling German stories to help ease her into a more restful sleep.
Eventually, Uncle had entered her mind, to help bring her back to the realm of consciousness. He had found a deeply disordered mind, on the brink of a complete breakdown. Victor Shade had been her husband, and she had killed him, with her uncontrollable powers. The guilt would kill her. More shocking than that was the next revelation Uncle made to him; that Wanda’s mind had begun to bond with his. They were roughly the same age, spoke a common language, and in her agitated state, he had been the first one to have contact with her. His presence, Uncle had explained, had a soothing effect, and may hold the key to helping her. Pietro had hastily agreed; she needed to be helped.
How they had come up with this asinine story, Pietro no longer remembered. She had needed to forget her past life, as anything could have triggered a memory and sent her back into insanity. And Uncle had said her mind would accept new memories involving Pietro, since she had latched onto him. How terrible her childhood must have been, that to become the daughter of Magneto could be an improvement, Pietro never asked. Knowledge would only make the lie harder to live. Uncle had borrowed Pietro’s experiences, asked him to think vividly of them, so they could be copied and modified in Wanda’s memory: being raised as Sinti, then taken to America to stay with Uncle and Magneto, the abuse, the other children who would become the X-Men, and then leaving it all behind to return to Europe.By the end of it all, Pietro had a twin sister.
There were new memories, of course, that Pietro had never seen. Uncle had tried to brief him on them all, but he could not remember every detail of every lie. When Wanda confronted him with something that had never happened at all, he would play it off as though he had repressed it, or that he was too agitated to remember. Even in her false memories, he had born the brunt of the abuse, for in life, he had been the only one to suffer it at all. Then there were the times he would speak of something he remembered, but Uncle had neglected to give to Wanda. Somehow his words prompted her mind to create her own version of the memory. It frightened Pietro, the control he had over this woman, and the true extent of her dependence on him.
Uncle had tampered with the minds of everyone else; Scott, Jean, Ororo…even Magneto, to make them remember that it had not been Erik Lehnsherr and his eager, carbon-copy son, but Erik Lehnsherr and his too-attached, overprotective twins. Uncle had not been able to alter Pietro’s memories to match those of everyone around him; his mind was the only thing keeping Wanda stable. The slightest disruption and she could lose everything. Pietro wished his memories had been altered; it would save him the heartache.
She had never met the Maximoffs, the sainted Sinti couple Pietro spoke of only in adoring tones. It was easier that way, as Uncle had not been able to track them down after the incident. And even if he had, Pietro did not think he could lie in front of his parents; it would be an insult to the childhood they had worked so hard to give him. Instead he lied to everyone else; he lied to Wanda.
Wanda wondered why he claimed to be damned, when at the same time he assured her that she was not. She had never lied to him, like he lied to her. Every crime, every sin of which she was guilty had been his fault. Like the assault on Magneto. The vengeance in her eyes had matched his own, and so he had let her take revenge on a man for actions he had never committed against her. Pietro had let it happen, because he had been angry himself, and worse than that, he was committed to the lie.
Why was he so committed? If he were to deviate from it, even for a moment, it would destroy her. But his reasons were not entirely altruistic. The fact was that he had fallen in love with Wanda, and that love kept him from ever wanting harm to befall her. His protectiveness was real, although it was only five years old instead of thirty.
He loved her hopelessly, not the way a brother loves a sister, but the way a man loves a woman. Every touch she took for granted because they were “twins,” he appreciated for what it could never be. When he held her in his arms, she wrapped her legs around him and they would be so close…the incest taboo, Pietro had decided three years ago, was far worse when there was no incest and yet no way to explain that fact. His love was not the dark, twisted, misplaced affection of a lecherous older brother, but was true, romantic love for a woman who by all rights should be his wife. Not perverted, but pure.
Not pure, he reminded himself. There was nothing pure about this. He knew nothing of Wanda, the true Wanda, apart from the fact she killed her husband. He had fallen in love with a woman who thought she was his sister; he had become Pygmalion in the twisted story that was his life.
Would he love her, had he met her before that fateful day? Pietro thought so, but he had no reason to, apart from the yearning he felt for her each day they shared together. His speed let him think faster than others, and with the same number of hours in each day, he had far more thoughts than others. Many of which focused on the life he and Wanda could have shared. He knew it a fruitless wish, nothing more than childish fantasy, and yet he could not stop them, just as he had not been able to stop the thoughts of Rossignol after they had met.
Rossignol...this was a situation he had not faced. Since meeting Wanda, he had not loved another, yet his heart burned for Rossignol as much as it did for Wanda, albeit in a different way. He could not tell her about any of this. No, he would keep it to himself, living this same lie. Isolated by his knowledge, just as he was isolated by his speed.
Weary of his ruminations, Pietro rose. At the moment, he could not watch Kurt and Wanda for even a second longer. He crossed to the very edge of the roof and then began to run across, dipping at the appropriate moment so he could run down the wall. He landed in the front yard, overlooking the grounds and the path that led towards the gates.
Overwhelmed by it all, he sat on the front steps of the mansion, letting the world come slowly.::
