Marvel: Silver Hand

It had been a week since Alexander's suspension, and the punishment Clara gave him had been brutal. Every day, he spent hours in the basement cleaning the swords, armor, and other heirlooms his family had collected over generations. The repetitive task left his arms sore and his mind wandering, but he never complained—not out loud, at least.

Today, as the midday sun streamed through the small windows of the basement, Alexander wiped his brow and set down the last polished sword. Satisfied with his work, he trudged up the stairs, his body aching for a break.

When he reached the living room, he saw Emma sitting at the dining table with Clara, books spread out between them. Emma was focused, her pen scribbling notes while Clara pointed out something in her textbook. It was a normal scene, one that made Alexander feel oddly at ease.

But his attention shifted as the TV caught his eye. The news anchor's grave voice filled the room.

"...a tragic incident involving a young mutant boy, just 12 years old, who was shot and killed by a police officer. The officer has been pardoned, sparking outrage among mutant advocacy groups..."

Alexander froze, his gaze locked on the screen. The image of the boy appeared—a smiling face, full of life, now gone.

"Poor kid," his mom murmured from the couch, her voice tinged with genuine sadness.

Clara, however, scoffed. "Mutants are freaks. Good riddance."

The room fell silent, tension thickening the air.

"What did you just say?" Emma's voice was sharp, her usual composure cracking.

Clara turned to her, her expression firm. "You heard me. Mutants are dangerous. They shouldn't even exist."

Emma stood, her fists clenched at her sides, her face a mix of anger and pain. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know enough," Clara shot back. "Every time we hear about mutants, it's always some disaster or someone getting hurt. They bring it on themselves."

"That boy didn't bring anything on himself!" Emma's voice rose, trembling with emotion. "He was just a kid!"

Alexander watched the argument escalate, his heart pounding. He had never seen Emma so upset before. As Clara's words grew harsher, Emma's anger seemed to boil over. She grabbed her bag, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"I can't stay here," she said, her voice quieter now but filled with determination.

"Emma, wait!" Alexander called, rushing after her as she stormed out the door.

Emma was halfway down the driveway when Alexander caught up to her.

"Emma, stop!" he said, grabbing her arm gently.

She turned to him, her face a mix of frustration and sorrow. "Why, Alexander? So I can listen to more of that hate?"

"She didn't mean it," he said, though even he wasn't sure if that was true. "Please, just don't leave like this."

Emma sighed, her shoulders slumping. For a moment, it looked like she might relent, but then she said something that made Alexander's breath catch.

"I have to go, Alex. You don't understand."

"Then help me understand," he pleaded.

Emma hesitated, then looked him in the eyes. "I'm a mutant, Alex."

He stared at her, stunned. "What?"

"I'm a telepath," she explained, her voice soft but steady. "I can read minds, influence thoughts... That's how I've been able to calm you down before, or... stop fights from getting worse."

Alexander's mind reeled. Everything suddenly clicked—the strange calm he felt around her, the way she always seemed to know exactly what to say. But despite his shock, he didn't feel afraid or angry. Instead, he took a deep breath and said, "That's okay."

Emma blinked, surprised. "What?"

"It's okay," he repeated. "You're still Emma. You're still my friend. I—" He hesitated, then decided to say what he had been holding back for months. "I love you."

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she looked vulnerable in a way he had never seen before. Then she stepped closer, cupping his face in her hands.

"I wish things were different, Alex," she whispered.

Before he could respond, she kissed him. It was soft and bittersweet, and Alexander felt his heart race. But as the kiss ended, he noticed something strange—his thoughts felt... fuzzy, like a dream slipping away.

"I'm sorry," Emma whispered again, and this time, her voice sounded distant.

When Alexander opened his eyes, he was standing at the end of the driveway, staring at the empty street. Confused, he looked around, trying to remember why he was outside. He thought he had been talking to someone, but the memory was just out of reach.

Shaking his head, he walked back to the house, his heart feeling oddly heavy.

Inside, Clara was pacing, her arms crossed.

"Where have you been?" she demanded.

"Nowhere," Alexander muttered, not in the mood for an argument.

"Don't give me that attitude," Clara snapped. "You're already in enough trouble."

"Why do you hate mutants so much?" Alexander shot back, his voice rising.

Clara froze, caught off guard by the question.

"Because—" she started, but his mom interrupted.

"That's enough, both of you!" she said firmly, standing up from the couch. "We're family. We're supposed to look out for each other, not tear each other apart."

Alexander and Clara both looked away, shame creeping into their expressions. His mom sighed and pulled them into a hug.

"No more fighting," she said softly.

"Okay," Alexander said, his voice barely audible.

That night, Alexander sat in his room, his mind restless. Something felt off, like a piece of his day was missing. He tried to focus on playing his flute, but the notes sounded hollow.

Celebrimbor, silent as always, watched him with a heavy heart. He had long suspected Emma was more than she appeared, but seeing the boy lose another person he cared about stirred something in the ancient elf—a sadness he hadn't felt in centuries.

As Alexander finally drifted to sleep, his dreams were filled with fragments of memories—flashes of Emma's smile, her touch, her kiss—but each time he reached out, the images dissolved into nothing.

And for the first time in a long while, Celebrimbor wished he could speak to the boy, if only to tell him that he wasn't alone.