Prologue

On nights like these, Charles could hardly sleep. The malevolent snowstorm that had been promised for days had finally arrived in Westchester, and it was currently raging outside his window. Even in the safety of his own chambers, the air was cold and crisp with the arrival of winter. Punching his down pillow, Charles turned over onto his side and pulled up his sheets, listening to the muffled howling of the wind outside. Curious as to whether true slumber was evading anyone else as well, Charles cautiously cast out his telepathy the way Master Grey had been training him to do for the past year, like a fisherman gently casting a net.

The first two minds he sensed were of the guards posted outside his door. One was inwardly grumbling about the cold, unused to the night watch, while the other was thinking fondly about his wife and their new babe, only a few weeks old.

Moving down the corridor to the King's own chambers, Charles frowned when he found his father still awake, his mind a cacophony of distracted, half-formed thoughts as he skimmed over his mountain of correspondence. A new mind joined him briefly; it was a servant popping in to replenish the candles in his study, so Charles relaxed. Still he lingered, until his father was alone again, just to ascertain his safety. It was an old habit he had found hard to break after the death of his mother.

Next was Raven. In her boudoir, she was safely cocooned in her blankets, unbothered by the blizzard and just on the cusp of nodding off. Charles discreetly sent her the tiniest mental nudge into proper slumber, so that at least one of them would be getting some rest.

Stretching out his telepathy over the rest of the western wing, Charles found the other occupants equally unaffected. In the squires' quarters, Alex, Scott and Sean were already dead to the world, their familiar minds fuzzy with nonsensical dreams. Charles smiled in the dark; Sean was dreaming about pies.

As Charles' mind moved on to spread over the kitchens, he paused with a frown. For a moment, he was sure he had sensed something. A spark of terror, perhaps hunger?

He sat up in bed, listening keenly now as he mentally sifted through the possibilities. Maybe it was a stablehand returning to the keep after a visit to the taverns, or possibly a tired, starving guard after a long shift.

Then again, that didn't explain the fear. This person was terrified.

His grip tightened on his blanket as he debated whether he should go investigate, or at least call for one of the guards. But at this time of night, it was tempting to write it all off as a trick of the mind. His powers had only manifested last year, at the late age of ten and two. Despite all his extensive training with Master Grey, Charles found himself grappling with his gift - or rather, his control of it - on the best of days. Still, Charles' better instincts were pinging all over the place. Something was definitely wrong.

Making up his mind, he quickly hopped out of bed and slipped out of his room, pressing two fingers against his temple so that the guards' watchful gazes slid right past him, unseeing. He made his way quietly towards the kitchens, heeding the stronger and stronger pull of an exhausted mind, muddied with fear and starvation.

Charles' heart lurched in sympathy.

It didn't take Charles long to reach the palace kitchens, which were dark and deserted this time of night, the air warm and rich with the lingering smells of stewed onions and turnips. Baking racks were stacked next to the oven, in preparation for the first shift of kitchen servants who would be up at dawn to bake bread. The mass of coals in the fireplace were still aglow, and someone had left out a lantern. At least Charles had a little light to see by, but then again he didn't really need it. There was a loud stream of please-go-away/don't-find-me/I'm-so-hungry ringing in Charles' head. It was a voice on the cusp of manhood, low and shaky. Charles winced, turning up his shields like Master Grey had taught him so that the fear wouldn't bleed into his own mind.

"Is anyone there?" Charles carefully stepped into the kitchen at the slowest possible pace. "Please do not be frightened."

The silence was almost deafening. Then: Who's that? How do they know I'm here? I don't want to hurt them. What followed next was a grim fight-or-flight determination and a….summoning of sorts. To his shock, Charles could hear all the knives in the kitchen start to rattle ominously.

"You don't have to hurt anyone," Charles said out loud, receiving a stunned '!'in response. He placed two fingers to his temple. Calm your mind. You're hungry and alone. Take whatever you want, we have lots of food. You do not have to steal.

Shock was now the most prevalent emotion, followed quickly by curiosity and wary distrust. You were in my head. How did you do that?

You have your tricks, I have mine. I am like you, Charles sent back. Truthfully, he was still reeling from the sheer force of this person's power, far stronger than anything else he'd sensed in any of the other gifted children, including his own sister.

At least the knives had stopped rattling. Now Charles could see the top of a dark head peeking out from behind the table. The figure straightened up once he saw that Charles was around his own age and appeared harmless enough.

The boy was tall and lanky, his face streaked with dirt and grime. From what Charles could see of his clothes, they were torn and shapeless, sewn together in a wrap-around fashion more common to the kingdoms of the South. The boy's eyes glittered in the dark like a cat's, sharp and watchful. Apparently he had decided not to underestimate Charles, harmless or no.

"Calm your mind," Charles repeated, holding out his hand placatingly. "My name is Charles Xavier. You're named Erik, are you not?"

Surprise bloomed in Erik's mind, and he stepped forward so Charles could better see him in the light from the lantern. "How did you-- oh, right." Erik tapped at his temple, still looking troubled.

"You're starving," Charles said. That was an understatement; Erik had likely not eaten for days. His feet were bare and blackened, and he was almost swaying on his feet. Charles wondered where he had come from and whether someone was in pursuit of Erik. Charles could have peeked into his mind to find out more, but at the moment, there were more pressing issues. Poor Erik looked as though he were about to collapse. "There is bread and honey in the pantry," Charles said, pointing the way. "Please take some."

A wary Erik hesitantly followed the direction Charles was pointing him towards, flinging open the metal doors with his gift and gathering food in his arms. Charles reached for the kettle that had been perched on top of the dying fire, finding enough hot water for tea. He made Erik a pot and left it to steep, then simply watched as the poor boy ate ravenously with his hands. Sensing that he was making Erik nervous by hovering near him, Charles kept himself busy with searching the pantry for more food, eventually uncovering a jar of preserves and some apples. Erik ate those in no time as well.

"Sorry," Erik muttered once he was finished, surveying the scattered carnage of his feast. "I didn't ask if you wanted--"

"I do not want any," Charles assured him. One of the fortunate aspects of his life so far was that he had never known hunger or starvation. "Where did you come from?"

Erik's face clouded over and so did his mind, sparking with anger and grief and terror. There were flashes of a mob, a burning village, bodies everywhere. It was so intense that Charles had to quickly pull back from Erik's mind, massaging his temples. "Where am I now?" Erik asked instead.

"The Kingdom of Westchester," Charles told him. "You are most welcome to stay. There are many others like you. Like us. My sister, for example, could assume your likeness in the blink of an eye."

Erik's eyes widened. "Truly?" And then, more tentatively, "I can stay?"

"Yes." Charles gave him the warmest smile he could manage. "Gifted people are welcome and cherished here."

Erik looked down at his hands. "I thought I was alone."

"You are not alone, Erik," Charles said softly, reaching out to place his hand on top of Erik's trembling one. "You are not alone."