The remnants of the Hellfire Club bolt the instant they see the missiles coming, all leaping to touch the demonic teleporter, and Angel in some frantic spasm of half-forgotten friendship grabs hold of Raven's arm just as they disappear in a cloud of sulphur. Erik can see the clashing terror and relief wash over Charles's face—where have they taken his sister? What will they do with her? but at least she has escaped the smoking crater this beach is about to become—

But it will not, because Erik is sending the missiles back to those who launched them, he will do it however much Charles fights him, however many insignificant bullets Moira sends his way—

Then Charles falls with a choking scream, and everything else on the planet becomes unimportant, nonexistent. The missiles drop short of their targets, half of them detonating in the air from the stress of their sudden release, and Erik does not for a half-second care. He's already on his knees in the sand, gathering Charles up to him, his mind sweeping frantically through his friend's body for the bullet.

It isn't a bullet, not anymore. It's a dozen warped shards and slivers, shattered on impact, bounced around through Charles's ribcage, slicing everything to ribbons. Trying to remove them would only double the damage and the damage is already irreparab—

No no no.

Charles is gasping, strangled painful noises and Erik realizes he's trying to speak through the blood filling his lungs and mouth. He tears the helmet off and presses his forehead to Charles's, trying to hear.

Erik Erik oh god

"Charles." His voice sounds weak and hollow to his own ears. "Charles, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Moira lets out a sob and Erik turns on her, gathering the familiar escape of rage, his hand lifting—you did this—but Charles is already screaming in his mind no no please, please Erik don't hurt her and his control is so shot that Erik hears him almost say she didn't do this, you did but he doesn't say it because he's dying and he can't leave Erik with that.

"No, you're not going to die. We'll do—something—"

Like what, my friend? For a moment he manages a grim, breathless laugh, and he's so pale, so colorless next to the scarlet spreading through the fabric over his chest, hot against Erik's fingers. Raven I want Raven I want to tell her I did so many things wrong but I loved her

"Stop that! We just have to—get help, I have to find someone—"

"Don't leave me!" The panicked words are strong enough to push through the weakness and blood and be said aloud. His gloved fingers are clutching at Erik's arms. "Erik, don't leave me alone!"

"I won't." Erik lifts Charles as he stands, cradling him tight to his chest as if he can trap him there, keep his soul from escaping his body. "I won't, Charles, you won't be alone."

He starts walking, away from the beach into the trees, and Moira and the boys follow, silent and shocked.

It is some kind of miracle that Erik doesn't run into trees or step off a ravine because he can't look away from Charles long enough to see where he's going. He simply walks, one foot following the other, not allowing himself to consider the unlikelihood of this island having any human habitation at all, much less the skilled surgeon who would be Charles's only hope. To stop walking is to give up, to simply sit and watch Charles die.

Erik cannot hear his own breathing over the ragged, frantic sound of Charles slowly drowning in his own blood. The only thing louder is the voice in Erik's head, Oh my friend I'm sorry so sorry, I suppose we won't finish that chess game, oh it hurts Erik I'm sorry, look after the boys look after Raven, thank you for taking off the helmet I don't want to be alone. He can feel Charles's mind clinging to his, desperate for as much contact as he can get.

Erik tries to give him everything he can, no mental barriers, no holding back. You're not alone, Charles.

They've left the others behind now, or at least gotten separated from them. Charles has not looked away from him once. His thoughts are growing less verbal, less coherent. Erik gets flashes, blurry-bright—the smell of books, the taste of champagne, a little blue girl in the kitchen. A hundred swirling moments from his childhood and from Oxford but oh, thousands of them from these last few weeks, the brilliant hope and joy of finding and training their students, of flight and fire and laughter and you, Erik, especially you, everything about you, all your shadows and all your light you are so much brighter than you think you are — your revenge is done and you let the men on the ships live you can be more than this, I know you will be. He raises a hand to Erik's cheek and smiles, eyes unfocused. My friend. Love you. My friend.

The hand drops. The drowning sounds falter, and stop. A cold, silent stillness falls over his mind.

Erik stumbles but doesn't fall. He keeps walking. And Erik is strong and Charles is small but still his arms begin to burn, and then his legs, burning and trembling but he keeps walking. Walking gently now, carefully, as if to keep from waking the man in his arms.

He doesn't know what he's walking toward, what he's still looking for, until the trees thin and he's looking out at water again. The sun is nearly gone, only a faint red smear at the horizon, tainting the waves. For the first time since the silence fell he dares to look down at Charles.

Brilliant blue eyes foggy now. Lips pale but for a delicate freckling of coughed blood, cold and metal-flavored under Erik's lips.

You're not alone. One of the last flickering images he'd sent Erik—darkness and saltwater and cold seeping to their bones, none of that important next to Erik, you're not alone.

He kisses Charles again and keeps walking, down into the darkness of the water.