The White King

Angst/Drama (and vaguely implied Magneto/Charles)

Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.
Spoilers: X-Men 3: The Last Stand and a little of the movies proceeding it, but not much.
Summary: His chessboard is vacant, a mess of black and white, its pieces scattered across the grass.

A/N: I don't often write drabbles so this is as close to a first for me as I've come to in a while writing-wise, so be gentle, 'k?

His chessboard is vacant, a mess of black and white, its pieces scattered across the grass. But his eyes are only fixed to one: the white king. Lying on its back, facing him, carved features staring back at him. The embodiment of the friend he waits here every day for—the friend who still hasn't come.

This park isn't his, despite how often he frequents it. Every morning, when the sun breaks across the horizon, he finds his way to this park—to this seat—and every evening, when the sun returns to the opposite side of the world, he leaves—going nowhere, to no one.

He spends his days surrounded by those he hates, but those who he is suddenly lower then. These people, they have won, but they don't see it. His war is lost, his cause ruined, his only rule broken.

When he started this war (his war), he had decided one thing: no matter how many died on the battlefield, no matter how desperate he becomes, Charles would survive. He never told any of his pawns, nor his bishops or knights—but he always intervened.

And Charles knew.

Charles knew when Eric first announced his war, and Charles knew when Eric was imprisoned. Charles knew as Eric knocked over his own plastic king. And Charles knew as he allowed himself to be destroyed by his own student.

Eric hadn't understood the feelings that had overcome—overwhelmed—him at the time, the emotions that crashed down on him like a tidal wave and refused to relent. The memories lingered, the pain remained, and he found himself standing outside of Xavier's school more often then ever before. And somehow, Charles knew this too.

Now Eric sits where he always does anymore as people, not mutants, pass him by, living their lives in whatever manner they've decided to live their lives. He lived his the way he never meant to, hung up on proving to one person what he could never prove to himself.

The war hadn't been worth finishing after Charles, for who then would he share it with? When in the past they'd shared hopes and dreams, he'd believed that in the future they'd share a world.

Now they share only a chessboard.

And still Charles knows.