Summary:  A mysterious figure arrives at the Deadwood - the final resting place of deceased X-Trees. Shortly after, Archangel falls from the sky, seeming to work with the figure to dig up one of the graves...

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The Deadwoods. An ancient forest at the edge of the world. Where withered trees rattle off the names of the deceased, and poisonous miasma leeches from the spoiled ground. It is a forsaken and godless place where no Tree ought to be.

A long, long time ago, it was a burial site, used for the fallen members of the X-Trees, a team of Variants led by Professor Cypress Xavier.

But over time, nature here has dissolved into entropy and madness. The Deadwoods, no longer a memorial to the heroes of the living, but a twisted nightmare-scape of gravestones and creeping death as far as the eye can see. No sunlight shines here. It is the dark that prevails, and only those keen to fellowship with the dark, may find themselves among the withered.

A lone figure stands at the foot of a grave, his canopy and face obscured by a large hood. His desire for anonymity is unnecessary in the Deadwood, as the dead have not the mouths to betray the living. A few rogue leaves fall from out of his hood. They are an unmistakable black, like that of truest night, and, despite the lack of light, they shimmer like oil slicks. He walks the grove, an unsavory lightness in his gait, an eased, unaffected manner in how he carries himself. He doesn't seem to mind the dead; rather, he appreciates their silence.

He waits. The miasma grows thicker, angrier, swarms the figure like angry hornets. Prodding him with fingers, urgent, eager, for his removal. The figure does not budge. He stays. He strolls. He breathes in poison, and survives.

His presence unsettles the Deadwood itself.

It is near afternoon, when his guest arrives. A low hiss cuts through the air, the ground rumbles. Overhead, a shadow dips in front of the clouds. It barrels toward the ground, and the sound becomes piercing. As he plummets, he comes into focus and there is no mistaking him: the harsh outlines of skeletal branches; the glint off patchwork metal; the bruised bark, and most importantly, the absent look in his eyes. Where once was housed empathy and compassion, are now abysses where only anger and hate reside.

They say Walnut Worthington III used to be an angel before the figure in the grove had a hand in designing his fall.

"Have a nice flight?" the figure asks when Walnut lands, dirt and leaves kicked up into a whirlwind around the angel's roots. He asks because he is attuned to pleasantries, and the polite contrivances Tree Society thrusts on its members. He does not care however, nor desire a real answer. He is thankful when Walnut provides a grunt and nothing wordier.

He strolls through the rows of graves, marveling at the sheer volume.

When last he was here, there were barely a dozen. Now, because of the genetically engineered Petrify Fungus he unleashed on the world three years ago, there were hundreds. Mossy gravestones advertising names he recognizes, and others, less so, barely discernible from the others: Bobby Drake, the Freezetree. Emma Fir. Hemlocke.

Henry McCoy and Jean Redwood. Of these, he laments the latter, for Jean had proved a most exquisite test-subject. Never giving up that help would come, always trying to take him down herself, never screaming, despite the amount of liquid fire he injected into her veins. Even at the end, in the thralls of his fungus, she held her own, protecting those of the X-Trees left, while the virus thickened her sap and turned her bark to stone.

Jean Redwood was his greatest failure, simply because he'd never gotten to hear her scream.

But there is no purpose in dwindling in the past; not when such a bright future was upon them. He glides to another row, eyes lost in the sea of plaques, twin ships at sea without a beacon to direct them home. He was vilified for the purity the Petrify Fungus brought the world, but that was because Trees grew shallow nowadays. No longer were their roots deep and wide, penetrative, searching for answers, for better soil, for the promised land of Yggdrasil. And what they failed to recognize, what minds like Cypress Xavier refused to see, was that greatness awaited in the ashes, that the mightiest of forests grew from the ruination of cities, a price he'd easily pay.

"I didn't come here to watch you bask in past successes." Leave it to Archangel, a large maple, with his bruised purplish bark and narrow gaze, to remain ignorant, to not understand that true life starts in death.

"I always like the dead, you know why?" Archangel tenses, his large branches stiff and unrelenting, his wings poised and razor-sharp, ready to attack. If he was so rash to do so, he would fail, yet again. The corners of the figure's lips, stained black as night, twist into a smirk. He is amused by Archangel's posturing, and confident such a threat would never come to fruition. "It's because," he continues, running gnarled fingers along the point of his chin, "they know how to stay quiet."

A primal growl gurgles up from the depths of Archangel's throat. It is raw and nasty, and reverberates with a lifetime's worth of hatred.

The figure smiles, his eyes glowing from deep within his hood. Archangel never failed to be entertaining. "If you were to try and kill me here and now, Walnut, how many failures would that make? A dozen?" He takes a lumbering step forward, the forest recoiling, every blade of grass, dying leaf and needle of pine desperate to escape this monster's claws. The figure is honored to be seen as such, though he'd much prefer the label of 'visionary' to that of 'monster.' But beggars couldn't be choosers, could they? "Two dozen?" he continues. Archangel's inorganic razor feathers screech together in agitation. The figure's grin widens maliciously. "More than that small brain of yours can keep track of?"

Quick as lightning striking a Great Oak, Archangel's arm snaps outward, his fingers digging into the figure's neck.

The figure is not alarmed. He is calm, composed. Even as Archangel lifts him skyward, the tips of his roots dangling above the forest floor. He's never seen Walnut look so impressive, so downright sinister.

But the figure is fearless; he has long since moved beyond such inconvenient musings. His reaction is one of cool-headed logic - he reaches into his robes, procures a shovel and casts it into the dirt. Archangel breathes heavily, the few remaining organic leaves atop his head trembling. The fight of right and wrong rages in his expression, the Tree wavering between revenge and mercy. It's this agony, this constant pull between light and dark, that keeps Walnut from achieving perfection.

A mind could only be set free when the conscious fell to the wayside.

"You didn't come here to chat," he says, Archangel's fingers continuing to constrict his airway. His throat clenches, and the forest dips into shadow as his vision grows unstable but he does not let this discomfort show. "Just as I didn't come here to fight." He raises one of his branch-arms and motions toward the shovel, then the grave. "I summoned you to dig."

Archangel sneers, his nails digging into the figure's bark. Dark black sap oozes from the wounds. He smile is smeared in black and vile; it is one that chills Archangel to his core. Finally, Archangel relents and throws his arm back along his side. The figure lumbers forward, a wet cackle escaping his lips.

Walnut boughs forward, and, with a grunt, plucks the shovel from the ground. He spears the earth, turning over soil and twig and earthworm. Digging, as he was commanded to do.

The figure takes his time, straightening his robes, adjusting his hood. He disregards the sap staining his pale, white bark. "How good of you to finally do the work you were called upon to do," he comments.

Archangel bites back the words he wishes to spit at the figure's roots. Instead, he digs. The work, mindless and exhausting. It isn't until the sun has begun setting that the casket is unearthed. Eight feet beneath the ground, a modest coffin. Light gray, satin finish. A large 'X' engraved on the top.

The figure sidles up to Archangel. Looming over the coffin, a bark of delight rolls off his tongue, scaring the crows from their nests. The wind doesn't dare howl.

All is quiet save for the forest's guest as he repeats each word etched onto the grave's headstone.

"Beloved friend. Family. Husband. Leader. Hero." Lips like oil slicks part, the figure's big, black eyes, wet and glassy.

Archangel thinks it preposterous that his companion might cry, but so was the nature of bittersweet reunions.

"It's been a while, Scott."