Shadows of the Past:
A/N: Not really an X3 fic, but somewhere in between.
Disclaimer: None, and I do mean none, of these characters are mine, they happen to belong to Marvel and their creators. I just like to screw around with them when Marvel’s head is turned. *evil laugh*
*****
The cool night air stung her skin, even through the thick wool cloak, as she ran, clutching a bundle to her breast. She’d thought she would be safe in her little village, where she could never be found by the prying eyes of the government. But little villages have a way of clinging on with the desperation of a drowning man to old beliefs.
Like demons.
She could hear the angry yelling behind her, drawing ever closer. Their pounding footsteps filled the woods, making birds and animals scatter.
“Momma!” cried the bundle in her arms, for it wasn’t just blankets this woman carried, but her two year-old son.
Instinctively, she held him tighter, praying to God (or any other deity willing to lend an ear) that even if she died, that he lived, somehow, someway…
She paused, panting, in the middle of a small clearing surrounded by the remnants of dead trees. A raging waterfall could be seen nearby, plunging over 100 feet downwards. Jump off of that, and you wouldn’t live to tell your tale.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the hollow base of an oak tree, with a small hole in the very center. The opening was small, very small indeed, but just large enough for a young child to fit through.
She knew what had to be done…she just wished there was some other way.
There wasn’t.
She set her son in the snow. He was so tiny that the snowdrift nearly consumed him. She kneeled and pulled back his little hood, and his looks instantly gave answer to the question of why they were being so angrily pursued.
A face so dark a blue-black color was nearly invisible in the black of the night and was framed by pointed ears that were simply too large for the boy’s head. His chrome yellow eyes, lit by moonlight, shone with silent tears, and he stuck the thumb of one tri-fingered hand in his mouth, gnawing on it frightfully with small, but sharp, baby teeth. Behind him, a stubby tail shivered with more fright than cold.
“Kurt, I need to you to hide, baby.” She didn’t usually use pet names with him, believing them to be a weakness, but even she could see just how desperately her offspring was in need of her comforting words. “And don’t come out of this tree until I come back, got it?”
Little Kurt nodded and held a hand-made, ragged teddy bear close. “Yes, Momma.”
“That’s my boy.”
Showing uncharacteristic weakness, she gave him one last hug. The action pushed away her own hood and revealed skin and eyes mirroring her son’s. “Climb in the tree, hurry!”
He did as she ordered, all the time clutching the teddy bear like a lifeline. Some of the stuffing came out of the right arm.
“Be back soon?” he asked nervously. He had never liked being alone, without his mother there to protect him.
“Yes, Kurt, I will. Be quiet!” she added in a fierce whisper before fleeing.
Alone, cold, scared, Kurt waited. When the mob roared into and past the meadow, still pursuing Kurt’s Momma, he cringed further into the tree and hugged his teddy bear with all his strength, rocking himself like Momma would whenever he’d been scared. He thought he was a big boy, and didn’t need the hugs and kisses from his Momma. But all he could do was shake and shake with silent sobs, watch the snow fall, and wait for Momma.
*****
“I say, what IS it?”
Voice drew Kurt from his sleep. It had been a nice dream; Momma had been in it. With forwardness only a child can muster, he instantly knew that the voice wasn’t Momma’s. It was a man, no, TWO men.
“A child, Brother Brown, that is as plain as day!”
This voice was different from the first one; that one had scared Kurt with its harsh tone. The second voice was soft, quiet, and reminded Kurt of Momma.
Momma?
“Momma…” he whined, struggling in the strong arms in which he was held. “Kurt wants Momma!”
“A miracle…” the nice voice said in a hushed whisper, like the owner of it didn’t know how to speak any other way.
“A miracle? A demon is more like it!” declared the second voice.
Before Kurt could even react, he was snatched from the first pair of arms and dangled in the air, helpless, from the fat hand of the meaner man, a fat little man with a puckered face that looked like he had just spent his day sucking on lemons nonstop. When he looked down, he could see the raging waterfall gaping up at him, and he shrieked in pure terror.
“Momma, Momma, MOMMA!”
“Brother Brown, I demand you put that child down, this instant!” demanded the other man, a tall broad-shouldered man with flaming red hair and beard. He reached up for Kurt and snatched him out of Brother Brown’s hand just before the other man was about to drop him. Before he could be cradle-crushed in the red man’s arms, Kurt tried to defend himself in the only way he knew.
“OW!” Brother Brown squawked, clutching at his chubby wrist where the babe had bit him, inspecting the bloody teeth marks. “You see, I told you, Abbot Wagner. He’s a son of Satan!”
“Oh, pish posh!” said the kindly Abbot. Swinging Kurt up unto his shoulder, he rubbed the distressed boy’s back with large but gentle hands. “He’s scared, that’s all. There, there, dear boy.”
Kurt stopped wailing, but he did not stop sniffling into the soft brown robe that all monks of Abbot Wagner’s order wore. Wagner’s long hair and beard were soft and cushy to Kurt’s touch, and comforted him. “Momma…”
“Where is this Momma of yours, son?”
“Momma run, take Kurt with her. Hide Kurt in tree, go away.” Kurt rubbed his wet and sticky face with the back of a hand. “Momma not come back…Kurt do bad?”
“No, no, no…Kurt do good,” Wagner assured him. “Kurt do very good. Ugh, you’re filthy! Brother Brown, we are taking this child with us; he is in desperate need of help, and most especially of a good bath!”
“But—“
“No buts! Come now, little Kurt,” he said to the foundling. “You’re going to a new home now.”
“Home?” That sounded good to Kurt. “Home…with Momma…”
*****
She was bloody. She was hurt, full of bullet holes. But she was the most determined woman on the face of the Earth.
She half-walked, half-crawled, over to the hollow tree where she had left her son. But when she looked inside, she found nothing but the ragged teddy bear in the core of the old oak. She tore it apart with her bare hands, ignoring that the action tore open her healing wounds and splashed blood onto the virgin snow, shrieking out her child’s name. Her eyes darted like a madwoman’s around the clearing until they settled on the roaring waterfall near her.
He was gone…her only real reason for living had been cruelly snatched away from her and destroyed…just because he and his mother were DIFFERENT.
At that moment, an unspeakable, indescribable, hate for the human race awoke within her heart, consuming it until nothing was left but the black abhor flame. Her eyes glazed over until the yellow in her eyes had taken over the entire eyeball. As she shed her robe, melting it into her skin, scales could be seen rising like tiny mountains all over her sapphire body. Red hair shortened, straightened, and became not the soft crimson that Kurt associated with his mother, but the color of fresh blood.
Raven Darkholme died that day.
And Mystique was born.
Now all of the world, human and mutant alike, would feel her wrath.
Just... woah... Nicely done... 
))
I remember now. :blush
