Post by Arthur Coleman on Jun 8, 2007 12:13:24 GMT
He does not sit sharply erect as usual, his spine bent to allow him to rest his chin upon his thin, laced fingers, his head bowed in utmost concentration. For nearly three entire days Arthur had been at his desk, with what looks like perhaps half of the school's gathered information on ESP and telepathy in mutants, various publications of different sizes and specific topics open to different chapters. Only one factor appears to be in common, at least in the subtext: mental shielding.
More surprisingly, the copies are not in braille, the fragile music professor nearing the point of mental exhaustion after making various attempts to extract what little knowledge that is available in the books, hoping that something in the pages will offer him some assistance. He'd opened his awareness to the books and to the books only, almost blatantly ignoring his own body's plea for rest to the point to where he can't remember the last time he's eaten or slept. Each first passing moment had consisted of some new lead, and his heart had lept that perhaps this at last, was what he had been looking for. Arthur had found no answers, only one dead-end after another. But it isn't as though there is much else to stop him besides his own fatigue, his papers graded and final averages complete, and he had continued to bury himself in the information at hand, even when he continued to come up empty.
To the common outsider, it would appear like an obsession. With an understanding of the past events, however, the meaning might become more clear. After all, hadn't he been the first to shatter beneath the weight of the emotional power of Jean Grey, and then the raid, and then Bobby's death-scare? He hates himself for being so helpless, not just himself but in light of the protection of the students. It's what he is supposed to be here for--teaching and protecting. The dangers to mutants are all too apparent, and he'd known the risks of taking this position, although he'd perhaps only noticed his own risks, and not the risks there would be attached to the children when danger reared its ugly head and he could do nothing but perhaps cower.
Wearily, Arthur snaps his mind shut like one of the books before him, stemming the flow of information so suddenly that his head begins to throb in protest. It's foolish to try and change the past.. he muses to himself, knowing that he constantly blames himself for his lack of leadership and sound reason in the face of terror that he'd shown several times before. And yet fate had drawn him here, because without Charles--God bless his soul, Arthur would have never survived the mental strain. It had always been so comforting to know that his mentor and friend had always been here to offer his wisdom, a shield he'd readily hidden behind but revered. And what would Charles say to this if he were alive today?
Arthur tries not to think about this as he rubs at his left temple, shifting his focus and recalling his last cowardly departure. Perhaps someone out there is better suited to his position..
More surprisingly, the copies are not in braille, the fragile music professor nearing the point of mental exhaustion after making various attempts to extract what little knowledge that is available in the books, hoping that something in the pages will offer him some assistance. He'd opened his awareness to the books and to the books only, almost blatantly ignoring his own body's plea for rest to the point to where he can't remember the last time he's eaten or slept. Each first passing moment had consisted of some new lead, and his heart had lept that perhaps this at last, was what he had been looking for. Arthur had found no answers, only one dead-end after another. But it isn't as though there is much else to stop him besides his own fatigue, his papers graded and final averages complete, and he had continued to bury himself in the information at hand, even when he continued to come up empty.
To the common outsider, it would appear like an obsession. With an understanding of the past events, however, the meaning might become more clear. After all, hadn't he been the first to shatter beneath the weight of the emotional power of Jean Grey, and then the raid, and then Bobby's death-scare? He hates himself for being so helpless, not just himself but in light of the protection of the students. It's what he is supposed to be here for--teaching and protecting. The dangers to mutants are all too apparent, and he'd known the risks of taking this position, although he'd perhaps only noticed his own risks, and not the risks there would be attached to the children when danger reared its ugly head and he could do nothing but perhaps cower.
Wearily, Arthur snaps his mind shut like one of the books before him, stemming the flow of information so suddenly that his head begins to throb in protest. It's foolish to try and change the past.. he muses to himself, knowing that he constantly blames himself for his lack of leadership and sound reason in the face of terror that he'd shown several times before. And yet fate had drawn him here, because without Charles--God bless his soul, Arthur would have never survived the mental strain. It had always been so comforting to know that his mentor and friend had always been here to offer his wisdom, a shield he'd readily hidden behind but revered. And what would Charles say to this if he were alive today?
Arthur tries not to think about this as he rubs at his left temple, shifting his focus and recalling his last cowardly departure. Perhaps someone out there is better suited to his position..
