Author's Note: PLEASE READ. This is based upon the events of ChristianGateFan's fic The Choice, and this present story will make more sense if that tale is read first, but I believe that this can stand alone without that. This is a tale of redemption and hope, but before we get to the light at the end, we have to start at the midnight beginning and go through the tunnel to reach the dawn. So Charles (and less so, Erik) is put though the ringer once again, but our heroes will triumph. WWII history lessons included for free.

Normal Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of the X-Men, said creations are property of Marvel/Fox/Stan Lee/Jack Kirby, et als.

Many thanks to ChristianGateFan, for her inspiration and permission to walk a bit in her world, and to ChristianGateFan and WingedWolf21 (and my friend Gene) for their invaluable assistance in beta-ing.

REVISED - 3-11-2012

At the wise suggestion of random4ever, I am adding this link to the origianl story 'The Choice' by ChristianGateFan


and a small summary, so you know where this tale is coming from:

Events are much like XMFC, until they are at the mansion for training and Emma is broken out of custody and back with Shaw. Charles & Erik are kidnapped and held by Shaw in a secret location. He hires a bunch of men (who may or may not be under the influence of Emma) to act as guards, telling them to torture (but not permanently injure or kill) the pair, and then gives our boys a choice: the torture stops if (a) they join him or (b) one tells Shaw to kill the other (the remaining partner goes free). For 10 months they are tortured, until Charles manages to trick Shaw, making him believe that Charles is dead, so both are returned to the mansion (Erik swearing vengence of course). At this point, Shaw believes that Erik will hate humans forever because of Charles, and that Erik will fall into his clutches eventually.

What no one has anticipated, is that one of the guards has a conscience and a soul, and will do anything to pay his debt.

But before we can see what he will do to redeem himself, we need to see how he got there, and see Charles' captivity from his perspective: "To crooked eyes, truth may wear a wry face." Gandalf, Lord of the Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien.


- It's the same every night.

He's in a white place, and before him, lays his Angel. His beautiful, beautiful Angel. Dark dark chocolate brown hair, falling in waves and slight curls, thick and silky; he could spend a day doing nothing but running his fingers through the strands. Palest skin; his mother's finest china was no lighter, and he's certain that his Angel would glow in the moonlight. If there was moonlight. Body, perfectly proportioned, toned, yielding, yet there is strength hidden beneath the too soft flesh. Limbs that move with a dancer's grace, or perhaps a runner's poise, partially on the ground, partially above it. Lips, red red, so red, like a child eating a cherry Popsicle, begging to be kissed. Ahh, but the eyes! Eyes of a royal, celestial blue; bluer than the heavens, bluer than any lake, than the sea. Eyes that see all that you are, all that you might become. Eyes that can lay you bare with a glance. Angel eyes. They draw him in and hold him, ensorcelled. And always, those eyes beg, plead.

yesyesyesmyAngelmydarling! yesIshallgiveyou whatIcraveIlustIdesire youwillbewithmealways andyouwillneverreturntothesky...

- Every night, unchanging, the same.

He takes his Angel, claims his Angel. He claims those red lips, burning with sweat, with salt, heat and the tang of metal, of iron. His tongue swoops in, his Angel must open to him, and he savors dominance in each swipe. The taste of his Angel is a spice he cannot name, a wine of unknown vintage. He only knows it makes him drunk, powerful.

He claims the curve of an angelic neck, marks the pale pale skin like a footprint on snow; red bruise marking what is his.

His Angel rises to meet him, perhaps to fly; but that he cannot allow. His Angel must stay here, here in the mortal realm.

So he claims his Angel, holding, grasping, bruising, but with delight, as he watches his Angel squirm in the game, the play of 'trying to escape', when there is no escape.

He is naked now too, his body on fire for his Angel, so he must feed his lovely Angel...but Angels do not eat. When did his Angel last eat? Lips of roses and blood part, slow, grudging (grudging? noNOno) just a tease, to be tight, the better to suck and swallow hard. He is hard and fast, and the gasps and gurgles of his Angel drive his hips down and in, manhood enveloped within those ruddy ruby lips, releasing just enough to fill his Angel with the taste of him.

He does not, cannot come just yet.

He must claim his Angel, claim his prize. Claim his winnings.

He drags his manhood over that perfect body, trailing lust. His Angel pants and wheezes, as his dick touches angelic breasts, coating sensitive nipples with mingled angel spit and mortal juice until they are hot and hard, until the moans drive him to where he needs to be.

He never knew Angels had naughty bits.

He is powerful, so powerful, he can do anything. Even tease an Angel to madness.

His Angel is writhing beneath him, so hard that he cannot play using his hands, lest even chained, his Angel will slip away. Where did the chains come from?

He lets his manhood take over, caressing, poking, prodding, rubbing. The moans are everywhere, reverberating, a wordless plea...

He plunges in, hard HARD, like a siege engine, like a battering ram. His Angel is brave and tough, can take it, can take anything he dishes out.

His Angel screams.

He lances in and out, as hard and as fast as a mere mortal can; then he finds the spot.

His Angel screams.

He has found the sweet spot, and to please himself (it pleases his Angel doesn't it? You can tell can't you?), he nails it, and nails it and nails it.

His Angel cannot stop screaming.

His Angel orgasms, an eruption of seed everywhere; he cannot hold back now, and adds his shouts to the din.

They are both shaking now; his Angel is flushed red, God He looks adorable when He's embarrassed.


His Angel is crying; why is He crying?


He wants to kiss Him, to stop the tears, to ask what's wrong, perhaps He's hurt?

- Every night, this happens.

He is cold, so very cold, shivering on an equally cold hard floor. He is naked, hands chained above his head, unable to sit up. Drugs burning through his system, slowing him even more, robbing him of what little strength that constant malnourishment did not take. Worst of all, his power, his Talent, his birthright, his telepathy, has been muted by those same drugs. He feels the vibrations of steps in the hall, the door opening: his tormentors are back. He knows what comes next, the foul game they play, more amusing to his guards than whips and clubs and blood; he's helpless, and they all know it...

All his guards have had him, save the youngest. He looks up and sees: himself. Horrified, he understand now; he has switched places with his Angel, and now he will see the truth.

He is struck first by how old he looks; rough and unkempt, he looks closer to 30 than the 20 he is. His black hair is slicked back with Brillcreme, his dark eyes are pools of night, filled only with violent hunger. He's a bit taller than his Angel, but blockier and stockier, more earth-bound, mud to his Angel's air.

He is stunned, he cannot believe it. It can't be true. This isn't him. He wouldn't beat, torment, torture, rape someone that he loved.

Would he?

Everything he does, everything he is, stands on its head.

Loving passionate kisses? Searing, clamping, choking, bruising...bites so hard his Angel bleeds, his breath so foul with cigarette smoke his Angel gags. The 'love' bite will ache for days.

Tender embraces? His hands are no better than callused paws, claws, talons; bruising and ripping, all but dislocating arms from their gentle owner's shoulders.

Erotic Angel sounds? His Angel choking half to death and trying not to vomit, the taste of him bitter and nausea-inducing.

The rest? No NO NO he refuses he will not, nononononoNONONO, please please please spare me spare us what have I done? what have we done? we've never hurt you, please have mercy please I beg please don't touch don't touch don't touch nonono NONONOOOO it hurts ithurtsithurtsithurts OHGODITHURTS nononono donthurt him dont hurt him please spare him! i'll do what you want what you need take me i'll be what you want do what you want i'lldoit i'll do it doitdoit ohgodohgod nono i'm coming i'm comingcomingcoming

- Every. Single. Night.

He can hear the others now. The laughter. The jeers. The clapping. Their 'captain', nicknamed "Swede", pounds him on the back: "You did it, kid, that was a real good one! You win the six-pack."

He wakes every night, his scream the echo of his Angel's agony, the nightmare that is no dream but a memory, Swede's laughter ringing in his ears.