I still hold the scars. Three tiny, light-blue bumps that blend with the  scales, and no matter how much I adjust the forms I take, those marks are  there. Reminding me of that battle. Reminding me of how I failed.

Failure. My entire life has been plagued by that word.

When I was ten, I failed my parents. My father and mother, having been  raised during World War II, subscribed fully to the  philosophy of the Nazi  party -- racial purity, a stance that extends now to genetic purity.

When my previously pearly skin turned blue and blonde hair grew blood red, I failed my parents. I was living, viable proof that one of my parents was not pure. My father was not to blame; of course, he could never have been at fault. Not in his eyes, any way. He blamed Mother.

At the tender age of ten, I witnessed death for the first time.

My father turned his rage on me then, and his fists pounded into my skin,  and everywhere his blows hit, my skin paled. He had an idea then.

"Change," he ordered. "Turn back." I did. I didn't want to be different. Different was bad, he had always taught me that.

For three years, out of terror and familial obligation, I stayed, never letting my concentration slip for fear that what I now considered my true form would show and incur my father's wrath. For three years, I never left our home. Father told me that to leave would disgrace him, lower his standard in the eyes of the townspeople.

Then two days after my thirteenth birthday, a savior came down from the sky.

I had just set down to my standard dinner of nearly rotten meat and bread when the screams from outside began. I fought my natural curiosity for as long as possible, but in the end, I rose from my chair and walked to the door. I was shaking, certain this was all a test from my father and that I would be beaten for even contemplating opening that door. Tense hands fumbled at the knob, but I finally got it open. The scene playing out in the town square silenced thought and speech.

All I can remember of how he looked was the flowing purple of his cape and the glowing white of his hair. I was drawn to him, drawn to the majesty and power in his muscular frame. I padded silently to the square, keeping my concentration high as I struggled to not let my real form slip into view, all the while searching alleys and shadows for my father's form.

I shouldn't have worried.

I found my father seconds later lying in a crumpled heap under the white-haired man who floated above the square of his own volition. I was torn between loyalty to my father and joy at the sight of him finally brought to someone else's mercy. All loyalty to my father ceased when the white-haired man spoke.

"Did you think I would not remember?" he asked, tone calm but with the steel of authority. "That I would not recall the taunts as I sat in that chair?" With each word, he lowered himself to the ground until he stood a few feet from my father. His fist clenched, and my father's body contorted as he cried out in pain. "A pity your father is no longer among the living," the man smirked. "I would deeply love to see him again."

Those words took me back to the stories of glory my father would tell of Grandfather and his work in the containment camps, his work in the labs, trying to turn the Jews into the master race, trying to alter genetic structure. Father especially enjoyed telling of the small boy who had tried to escape by bending metal with his mind. Grandfather had reveled in taking Father into the labs to watch the boy and the various experiments performed on him. It had been a wonderful game to my father.

"Rabe!" I was forced away from the thoughts of my father's glee at torturing the child by Father's voice calling my name, his hand's reaching out to me. "Help me, Rabe," he pleaded, his eyes telling me to change my shape into something formidable and kill the white-haired man.

I glanced away from my father and up to the white-haired man. He watched me with an air of disinterest, and I knew in my bones that should I try to harm him in any way, I would not survive. I met the white-haired man's eyes and smiled.

My father took that smile to mean I was going to help him. He was very wrong.

"Yes, Rabe, help father," he stated, his voice returning to its normal condescending tone as if he thought with my mutation had come stifling ignorance. I smiled again walking across the square. I stopped inches from my father and cocked my head, studying him. I tried to remain calm, to give off the air of disinterest the white-haired man had perfected.

I failed at that as well. Anger, pain, and grief at my lost mother and childhood welled up within in me, and I lashed out. My poorly shod foot connected with my father's nose, shattering it. He screamed obscenities at me as he cupped his nose and blood pooled in his hands. I screamed at him in return, senseless with the relief of finally being free of his control.

With that scream, I let my concentration fall and stood in the glory of my true form.

Blue skin glittered in the fading sunlight, red hair blew about my face, and my yellow eyes gleamed with malice and joy. I was free.

I could hear the twittering of the townspeople as they each came to one uniform consensus of my appearance -- "DEMON!"

That shout rang through the town as mob mentality took over. Rocks were thrown in my direction, and I flinched away from them. They never connected.

I remembered the white-haired man then, and turned to him. His arms were spread wide, somehow erecting a protective field around us.

"Rabe," he stated, his voice filled with an unexpected kindness. I met his eyes with surprise. "Raven. The ultimate trickster." I nod slightly at him, understanding what he said. Mother had wanted me to take pride in my name -- Rabe, the Raven, shape-shifting god of the ancient Germanic peoples. "Tell me, Raven, do you wish to stay?" I glanced back at the townspeople, still throwing rocks to no avail.

"No," I whispered, turning back to him. He smiled slightly and closed his eyes. The next thing I realized, we were flying. The same protective shell now propelled us along through the air, and I watched the German countryside blur beneath us. We landed at a small country farm, which would become my home as I trained with Erik Magnus Lehnsherr, the man soon to be called Magneto. I learned martial arts from the best teachers, and Magnus himself taught me history, philosophy, and the other things that had been forbidden
from me under my father.

For six years, I never left that farm except for the later years when Magnus would send me into the surrounding towns to perfect the craft of shape-shifting.

It was on one of those trips that I met a young handsome count, Alaric Wagner. It was that same trip that I failed again.

I was barely using my shifting talent, only trying to cover the scales and the tint of my skin. My hair remained the same shade of red, my eyes, though now 'normal' looking, were a pale brown, nearly yellow. I attracted attention, as I was supposed to do, to see if the ruse would hold up under careful scrutiny. The young count served to be the perfect test subject.

He flirted relentlessly with Raven Darkholme, and I found myself falling completely into the character. By the end of the afternoon, I was returning his casual flirting. By the time the moon rose over the surrounding mountains, I had myself convinced that I was in love.

That night, I slept uneasily on the farm, my thoughts turning endlessly back to the count. I knew Magneto would never allow me to see the man outside of a training session, so the next day I begged off training, stating sickness.

I mimicked the previous day's form exactly and snuck out of the cottage to the village. The count and I met on the far edge of town, and spend the entire day lying in a field, enjoying each other's company and the pleasure of each other's touch.

That day, I felt normal. For the first time in nine years, I was happy. I knew it wouldn't last, for even as I took pleasure in Alaric's arms, I was failing.

I left that night with Alaric's promise that he would send for me as soon as he cleared it with his father.

Word never came, of course.

Two months later, I grew sick. With woman's intuition, I knew the cause. I snuck into town the next day and had it confirmed. I was pregnant.

I was torn between trying to keep the baby or to get rid of it, but I chose to keep it in the end, because I was certain Alaric would return and would want to see his son.

It was easy to hide the pregnancy from Magnus. My shape-shifting talent did that for me. It was only the matter of slightly changing my shape to hide the growing bulge. In later years, Magneto would confess that I hadn't fooled him, that he could sense the slight change in the magnetic field surrounding me. It's time like those I believe he is full of shit.

Nine months later, I slipped into the village and to the small clinic that served as a hospital for the surrounding farmland. Looking back, I know it was a mistake. I would have been better off staying with Magnus.

The labor was intense with pain I'd never experienced before and would never again. It was over quickly, lasting a scant four hours, surprising both myself and the nurses in attendance. They were sharing smiles with each other when one of them glanced my way, and screamed. One of the nurses looked up in shock, and then glanced at the baby, still connected to me with the umbilical cord. The screaming began again.

They fled, not staying to make sure my child lived, not staying to make sure I survived passing the afterbirth. They didn't care for me, only for their own souls. They had to get away from the demons. I looked down at my child, his blue fur matted with blood and clear liquid, his three fingered hands and feet kicking at the air, and chuckled to myself.

"You have my eyes, little one," I whispered, pulling a pair of scissors off the table. I cut the umbilical cord as carefully as possible and wrapped my son in the remains of a blanket, holding him against my chest. His mouth searched for my nipple and instinctively I shifted form to allow him better access. I sighed with happiness, but even then I was overcome with dread, knowing that if I kept the child, he would be forced into preparing for Magneto's war. I had to give him away.

I thought briefly of taking him to Alaric's estate, but I knew it would do no good. I could demand that he acknowledge the child for decades and it would do no good. I was, after all, only a common farm girl. My only choice was a local orphanage where they could provide a wet nurse for the child.

That night, once again taking the familiar form of Raven Darkholme, I turned my child over to Saint Michael's Cathedral. The priest looked at my son and made the sign of the cross. He demanded that I tell him what demon had cursed the child. I made no reply save my son's name -- Kurt Alaric Wagner.

I left then, back to Magneto, prepared to beg for forgiveness in my failure. I swore to him that I was his willing student from that day forth. He took me back unconditionally, and I began training again.

For eighteen years, I remained with Magnus. At 37, I was the oldest of the Brotherhood of Mutants, although my gift assures that I will never look a day over 25, assuming of course that Sabretooth was born in this century. I had been Magneto's consort since I was 21, and never once I have I regretted failing Magneto all those years ago.

Until, that is, Wolverine impaled me on three six-inch long pieces of adamantium and left me with a failure I couldn't shift away.

Which is why I've come back here to Winzeldorf, Germany, to Saint Michael's Cathedral, to the other failure I can't mask -- my son.

"Fraulein?" a quiet voice asks, causing me to turn. He's changed in the eighteen years since I've last seen him. Oh, the fur is still there, still the same shade of blue, his eyes are still a gleaming yellow, and a three-foot long tail still whips about behind him. But he has grown up, grown taller, and now wears the vestments of a student priest. "I couldn't help but notice how lonely you look. Is there something I can do?"

"No," I whisper, no longer able to look at him. I keep seeing every failure I've ever made rising before me. I start to walk away from him when the shouting starts and fearing a mob, I stop and turn back, maternal instinct demanding that I protect my son. I relax as I realize the source of the shouts.

The priest that had accepted my son from my arms eighteen years ago and accused me of consorting with demons was running across the churchyard. He recognized me. Of course, I had once again donned the Raven Darkholme look in hopes that my son could remember me. It was a foolish thing to do.

"You," the priest snarls, pulling Kurt further away. "Did you come to steal him back for your dark lord?" he demands. I laugh at that then, a harsh laugh.

"No, priest, I have no interest in the boy beyond mild curiosity," I reply.

"What are you talking about?" Kurt asks, looking from me to the priest and back again. The priest grabs Kurt's hand and drags him away.

"She is a demon," the priest says, "In the form of your mother. Ignore her," he orders. I turn away from him and I hear Kurt whisper, "My mother?" I know he's watching me walk away, but I refuse to look at him again. I hear the heavy cathedral doors close, and I finally turn.

It's then that I notice a dark car stopping at the cathedral's curb. I watch with mild interest as a familiar figure with red-tinted sunglasses gets out of the driver's side and opens one of the side doors, pulling out a foldable wheelchair. I repress the urge to run over and stop the man as he lifts the bald man out of the car and sets him into the wheelchair. I watch in seething silence as the man in glasses wheels the other up the walk and into the cathedral.

As the cathedral doors close behind them, I let out a cry of utter rage as I realize that I have failed again.

Xavier will try to recruit my son, and my son will probably join his little group of X-Men.

I fall to my knees sobbing as I realize that trying eighteen years ago to keep my son out of this war was a failure and as I realize that when it comes to the final battle I will have to fail again. Either I will save my son and fail Magnus or I will be forced to fail my son.

I'm on my knees crying because I know that I will be forced to kill my own son.

*FIN*