With one light on in one room, I know you're up when I get home
With one small step upon the stair, I know your look when I get there
If you were a king up there on your throne, would you be wise enough to let me go
For this queen you think you own
Wants to be a hunter again, wants to see the world alone again
To take a chance on life again, so let me go
The unread book and painful look, the TV's on, the sound is down
One long pause, then you begin, oh look what the cat's brought in
If you were a king up there on your throne, would you be wise enough to let me go
For this queen you think you own
Wants to be a hunter again, wants to see the world alone again
To take a chance on life again, so let me go, let me leave
For the crown you've placed upon my head feels too heavy now
And I don't know what to say to you but I'll smile anyhow
And all the time I'm thinking, thinking
I want to be a hunter again, want to see the world alone again
To take a chance on life again, so let me go.

~ Hunter, sung by Dido, written by D. Armstrong & R. Armstrong
(Lyrics from http://www.didoweb.com/lyrics.html#HUNTER)

Smiling to herself, Rogue placed a gloved hand over her belly as she stood in front of the mirror. Her pregnancy was not yet showing, she thought, as she turned to regard her flat stomach from every possible angle. All she had to show for the fact that she was carrying Magnus' child was a pink flush to her cheeks, nausea and a few industrial size cartons of Tylenol for the ache in her back. In fact, she mused as she stared at herself, she had never looked better or been happier.

Magnus was right - she had made the correct choice in leaving Remy. In leaving their hopeless relationship for marriage and the chance of a family. Magnus was *always* right; always knew and wanted what was best for her. That was why he . . . she searched for the word . . . he corrected her when she was wrong; told her how weak, foolish and pathetic she was, holding perfection in front of her like a prize. The victor's crown of his approval.

Humming snatches of a lullaby, Rogue ran a brush through her thick mane of auburn hair, allowing it to fall through her fingers like heavy silk. She winced slightly where the bristles brushed a tender spot on her scalp. An unhealed bruise, or cut. The physical reminders of his lessons. Magnus was right - his corrections were necessary if she was to be a fit mother for his son: the heir to his crusade.

Replacing the brush on her dressing-table, her hands returned to her stomach, attempting to discern some faint movement beneath her skin that would show that the child was alive. That she had not failed him in this too. Nothing, she thought with a sense of disappointment, it was still too early. What would she tell Magnus when he inquired after his son's health?

Biting her lip nervously, she glanced out of the window to see if he was coming. The evening was beautiful - the setting sun stained the sky in shades of purple and primrose. Framed by buildings, the horizon shone with golden radiance, however, the garden of the ruined mansion was dark. Gnarled, twisted trees pushed through the sodden earth, strangled by vines. A few wild roses, rich with a decadent perfume, still bloomed in the tangle of shrubbery that surrounded the house. Like pale ghosts, marble statues of nymphs and goddesses were faintly visible through the green maze of privet hedges and ivy. Through a mass of greenery, Rogue could make out Magneto sitting on a bench, beside a sculpture of Zeus. He was not alone. Blink sat next to him, leaning her sleek head close to his white one and laughing. It could be innocent, but . . . . Clenching her eyes shut to stop the tears from forming, Rogue turned from the window and repeated her mantra. Magnus was *always* right.

Magneto's footsteps had disappeared down the hall a long time ago, but she could not move. She did not dare to move. She lay there, knees drawn up to her chin, arms wrapped around her head, curled up on herself. It felt as if she were disconnected from her body. Her ribs did not explode with agony every time she breathed. Sticky, warm blood was not slowly drying and coagulating on her face. Her legs did not ache from a dozen bruises that were already beginning to go mulberry. No, the real her was floating above her body and watching in mute fury, like an avenging angel.

Down the hall, Charles began to scream. Magneto had evidently disturbed him when he went to kiss him goodnight. His high, thin cry grated across her raw nerves. Her perfect son. The flesh of her flesh and the bone of her bone. Her golden-haired, blue-eyed boy. How she hated him! She could not work up any guilt over that thought. She was tired of feeling and acting the way she was supposed to do so. She was sick to her core of being the perfect wife and mother, of acting in the manner her husband liked his women to act, of listening to his instructions.

The memory of his voice pounded through her head, like his fists on her bare skin.

"Smile, Rogue."

"Laugh, Rogue."

"Be supportive, Rogue."

"Don't question me, Rogue."

"Be a good girl, Rogue."

"You must spend more time with our son, Rogue."

With every remembered instruction, something pulsed within her, like the beat of blood. It was something primal, that wanted to rip and tear, that screamed its pain, that lived for the hunt and the kill, that ran with the hounds and flew with the hawks, that had caused the first men to scrape weapons out of stones, that knew nothing of wedding rings and gratitude and crowns. Her fists smashed against the floor.

"It's over, you old bastard, it's all over."

"Goodbye, you son of a bitch," Rogue yelled as she threw her wedding-ring into the overgrown garden. She knew it was foolish of her - even the slightest amount of gold fetched a fortune on the black market now that the currency had collapsed - but she didn't give a damn. She wanted the satisfaction of seeing it sparkle against the night sky before falling into darkness and disappearing from sight forever. She needed to know that those chains would never be put on her again. She laughed bitterly. Why had she ever thought of her marriage to Magnus as a crown? Why had she ever gloried in being queen of his little, mutant kingdom?

"D'ya mind if I ask ya a personal question, chere?" Remy asked from his seat on his Harley. Rogue turned to face him, feeling her old love for him surge up hotly within her. He was so beautiful, both on the inside and on the outside.

"Shoot, darlin'."

"Why did ya decide to leave him after all dese years?"

"Simple," her answering smile was quick and fierce, as she swung her legs over the back of the bike and slid her arms around his waist, "Ah've decided Ah want t'be a hunter again."