Before The Veil

Posted on Mon Jun 29th, 2026 @ 8:19am by Maeve MacKenna & Jean Grey-Summers

3,863 words; about a 19 minute read

Mission: Episode 8: Shadows Over Avalon
Location: War Room, X-Mansion
Timeline: March 26, 1992

Most of the others were already gone by the time Maeve made herself move.

She had nearly left with them. More than once. Her feet had carried her as far as the door, then stopped there like some stupid part of her body had decided it was braver than the rest of her. Voices faded down the corridor. Equipment plans. Footsteps. Someone asking about rope. The mansion shifting into motion around the mission.

Maeve stayed where she was.

Jean and Sean were near the back of the room, speaking quietly again. Maeve didn’t look at Sean for long. She couldn’t. Not yet. His apology still sat badly in her chest, tangled with the faces on the screen and the way he had said Amelia and Saoirse’s names in front of everyone.

But Jean was harder to avoid.

That hurt in her voice had stayed behind after everything else. *I wish you’d said something to me sooner.* Not angry. Not even really disappointed in the sharp way Maeve understood. Worse than that. Soft. Personal.

Maeve rubbed her thumb against the cuff of her sleeve and stared at the floor for a second.

Go on, then. Crawl for it. See how sweetly she slips the leash around your throat. Stay here with them, if you like—see how long before they start deciding what you are.

Her jaw tightened.

She did not answer.

Not in here. Not with people still close enough to hear. Not after Kennedy had already made it clear how it looked.

Maeve crossed the room before she could talk herself out of it. When she reached Jean, she stopped a little too far away, like she wasn’t sure she had the right to come closer.

“Jean?”

The name came out quieter than she meant.

Maeve glanced down, then back up again. There were a dozen things she could have said. Better things. Fuller things. Something that explained the years of keeping her head down, carrying pain until it either went quiet or came out sideways, pretending she was grand because that was easier than finding out what happened when she wasn’t.

And how stupid that sounded now, standing here after everything had already spilled out in front of everyone anyway.

None of it came properly.

“I’m sorry,” she said instead.

Her fingers curled into her sleeves, nails pressing into her palms like she deserved the sting.

“About not tellin’ you. The voice thing.” A small breath left her, almost a laugh, but there was no humour in it. “I wasn’t tryin’ to keep it from you. Not like that.”

“I’ll meet you in your quarters,” Sean said with a sheepish dip of his head before quietly excusing himself from the room. The relief on his face was unmistakable; escaping the awkward exchange with Maeve was a welcome reprieve.

Jean waited until the door shut before turning her full attention back to Maeve. Her expression remained soft, filled with the quiet compassion that seemed to come so naturally to her.

"Oh, Maeve, I would never pressure you into doing something that makes you uncomfortable, nor would I ever force you to tell me what's wrong," Jean said gently. "It just hurts to know you're carrying something so heavy, and I can’t help you."

She offered Maeve a reassuring smile before taking her seat at the table once more, motioning to the empty chair across from her.

"But you're here now, and you're willing to talk, that's what matters." Jean folded her hands loosely in front of her, her voice calm and inviting. "Why don't you tell me about this voice you've been hearing? Help me understand what it's like."

Maeve glanced after Sean as he left.

“He doesn’t have to...” she started, but the door had already closed.

The words died there. It was stupid, maybe, feeling bad about him leaving when she could barely look at him five minutes ago. Still, it sat wrong in her. Another person made uncomfortable by being too near whatever was spilling out of her today.

She looked back at Jean and hesitated before taking the chair across from her.

Sitting made it feel more official somehow. Like she had agreed to be honest, and honesty was a trap if you weren’t careful. Maeve tucked her hands into her sleeves and stared at the table instead of Jean’s face.

“It’s not always talkin’,” she said after a moment. “Not like... constant. It’s not sittin’ there commentin’ on breakfast or whatever.”

A thin attempt at humour. It barely held.

“It started quiet. Years ago, I think. After the docks. First time I really remember it, anyway.” Her thumb picked at the inside seam of her sleeve. “When my power came up and those men died, there was this voice. Just two words. *Well done.*”

She swallowed.

“I told myself it was shock. Guilt. My own head bein’ horrible with me. Easier that way.”

And yet here you are, offering me up like a bruise for inspection.

Maeve’s jaw tightened, but she kept her eyes on the table.

“It used to come in dreams more than anything. Or when I was scared. Angry. When I felt like I’d lost control.” She rubbed her palms slowly over her knees, grounding herself in the drag of fabric under skin. “After Club Blood, it got worse. Sharper. Like it wasn’t behind a wall anymore.”

A pause.

“It promises things.”

That part came out smaller.

Maeve hated that most.

“Power, mostly. Or not just power. Control.” She risked a glance up at Jean, then looked away again. “It says I’m holdin’ myself back. Says people are afraid of me because they should be. Says I could stop beggin’ the world not to hurt people I love if I’d just stop pretendin’ I’m gentle.”

Her mouth twisted.

“It knows where to put the knife.”

I know where you keep them. There is a difference.

Maeve’s fingers curled tight inside her sleeves.

“It talks about them too,” she said, quieter. “The others. Says they’ll start watchin’ me. Decidin’ what I am. Says kindness turns into a leash if you let it sit long enough.”

She breathed in, slow and uneven.

“And now with Achill... it’s worse. Like it’s been waitin’ for this.” Maeve looked up then, and for once she didn’t try to hide how frightened she was. “It knows things it shouldn’t. Or it guesses them so well it might as well know.”

The room felt too quiet around that.

Maeve pressed her nails into her palms.

“It wants me to open up to it. That’s what it feels like. Not just listen. Let it in.” Her voice roughened. “And I don’t want to. I don’t.”

The last words came quickly, almost defensive.

“I know how that sounds after everythin’ in there. Floors cracking and me mutterin’ like I’ve lost the run of myself.” Her eyes dropped again. “I didn’t tell you because I thought maybe I was. Losing it, I mean.”

She gave a small, humourless breath.

“And because if I told you, then you’d know too.”

Maeve sat there for a second, shoulders tight, hands hidden in her sleeves like a child trying not to be caught stealing biscuits from a kitchen.

Then she looked back at Jean.

“Can you tell?” she asked. “If it’s me, or if it’s somethin’ else?”

"Yes... I can tell." Jean gave a slow, understanding nod, though she didn't immediately answer Maeve's request. Instead, she studied the young woman for a quiet moment, her emerald eyes filled with empathy.

"But I don't think you truly need me to tell you what it is," she said softly. "Deep down, you already know it isn't a part of you. You know the things it whispers aren't your own thoughts, it feeds you lies you instinctively recognize as false."
Jean's gaze drifted toward the holographic map as Achill Island reappeared above the table. The tiny island hovered between them, bathed in pale blue light.

"What does concern me," she continued thoughtfully, "is when it appeared. It found you after you left home... and now that you're returning, its voice is growing louder. I don't believe that's a coincidence."

"I can shield your mind from it, if that's what you want. I can quiet the voice and give you some peace before you return to Achill." Jean’s words were gentle, but the warmth in them carried an unmistakable gravity. "But relief like that comes with a price."

Jean lowered her eyes for a moment, the faintest shadow crossing her expression before she looked back at Maeve.

"If I silence it for you, you'll never learn why it's there... or what it truly wants. Sometimes the only way to overcome something that lives in your mind is to understand it, not simply shut it out."
There was a quiet sorrow in her voice, the kind that only came from experience. Maeve could feel the weight behind those words, as though Jean had walked that road herself and knew all too well that hiding from the darkness only gave it time to grow stronger.

“But it takes strength and courage to face those unknowns, especially when they make you question who you really are.” Jean sighed softly, she knew how hard this was to face. “The voice will test you Maeve, you need to be strong and you need to remember who you are no matter what it tells you.”

Maeve listened without moving much.

Jean’s words should have helped. Maybe they did, somewhere underneath the shame and fear and the ugly twist of relief that Jean believed her. Not dismissed. Not pitied in that awful, careful way people used when they thought someone might break if spoken to too quickly.

But when Jean said she could shield her mind, something behind Maeve’s eyes went cold.

The voice laughed.

Not softly this time.

It rolled through her skull with enough force that Maeve flinched, hand flying to the edge of the table as if the room had tilted.

Silence me?

The lights flickered.

Only once, but enough.

Maeve sucked in a sharp breath. The holographic image of Achill wavered above the table, its pale blue coastline trembling as if seen through deep water. Beneath her chair, the floor gave a low, answering groan. Not cracked this time. Pressed. Strained. Like stone buried far below the mansion had heard a challenge and stirred in its sleep.

Poor bright little flame. She thinks a curtain drawn across your mind makes a prison door. She thinks because she has touched stars, she can command the old earth.

Maeve shut her eyes hard.

“Stop,” she breathed.

Too quiet. Too quick.

Her fingers dug into the table, and the metal edge bent slightly beneath her grip.

Tell her, little earth-heart. Tell her I was whispering before she knew your name. Tell her I waited in the bloodline, in the grief, in the stones your mother taught you to honour. Tell her she may cup her hands around a candle, but she cannot smother the moon.

Maeve’s stomach turned.

For a second the War Room smelled wrong. Salt wind. Wet grass. Smoke from an old hearth. Blood on concrete. The ruined club. The docks. Achill. All of it layered over the clean, machine-cold air until she couldn’t tell which memory belonged to which wound.

Then Jean’s last words reached her.

Remember who you are.

Maeve opened her eyes.

The hologram settled by degrees. The floor stopped complaining beneath her feet. Her hand loosened from the table, leaving faint dents where her fingers had pressed too hard.

She looked embarrassed by that. Frightened too, but the embarrassment came first, because of course it did.

“I think she heard you,” Maeve said, voice rough.

A bad joke. Barely one at all.

She rubbed her thumb over the crescent marks her nails had left in her palm and kept her gaze on the wavering map instead of Jean’s face.

“I want peace,” she admitted. “God, I do. I want five minutes where there’s not somethin’ in my head tellin’ me I’m weak, or dangerous, or stupid for trustin’ anyone.”

Her jaw tightened.

“But if you shut her out now, I’ll still have to walk through that portal not knowing what she is. And if she’s waitin’ there...” Maeve glanced up, pale but steadier than she had been a moment before. “I don’t want to meet her blind.”

The voice was quiet now.

That was worse.

Maeve swallowed.

“I’m scared,” she said. “I hate sayin’ that, but I am. I’m scared she’s stronger than me. I’m scared she knows me better than I know myself. And I’m scared part of me wants what she’s offerin’, because it sounds like not being hurt anymore.”

She looked back at the map of Achill.

“But she keeps telling me she can make me something people fear.”

A beat.

“I don’t want my sisters saved by that.”

Her hand flattened carefully on the table, not gripping this time. Just touching. Grounding.

“So don’t silence her yet,” Maeve said quietly. “But help me understand how to keep her from taking over. Just... enough that I remember there’s another voice in the room.”

“Do you know what the Phoenix tells me?” Jean asked, her voice scarcely more than a whisper, as though she were about to reveal a terrible secret never meant to be spoken aloud.

“It tells me I should burn this world. That I should scour the Earth clean of the cancer that is humanity. It tells me that once this planet has been reduced to ash and rock, I should carry those flames to every other world I can reach. That I should become judge, jury, and executioner to civilizations beyond my understanding. It tells me to deliver death in the name of eternal fire.”

The confession hung in the air like a funeral bell. It was horrifying, and yet, after what Jean had done to Genosha and Limbo, no one could dismiss her words as mere fantasy. Phoenix possessed the power to make every one of her words a reality.

“But I don't believe what the Phoenix whispers to me.” The quiet certainty in Jean's voice returned, carrying with it the gentle strength that had always defined her. “Yes, humanity is flawed. We are capable of cruelty beyond measure. But we're also capable of compassion, sacrifice, forgiveness, and love. There is wonder in this world that no fire has the right to erase. Life is beautiful.”

Her emerald eyes softened.

“When the Phoenix calls to me, when it tempts me to surrender, I remember what truly matters. I remember the people I love. The places that shaped me. The countless moments of joy that exist alongside the pain. No matter how much I've suffered, I know life is still worth living. I know there is still goodness in this world.”

Jean fell silent for a long moment before speaking again, her next words carrying a truth she knew would wound Maeve.

“Your mother knew.” A faint, bittersweet smile touched Jean’s lips. “She knew the strength that lives inside you. She knew your heart was like hers, that even when the darkness came, you would keep choosing the light.”

“So remember where you came from. Remember who you are. Remember that you are not alone.” Jean’s voice became little more than a whisper once again. “Those are the things that will drown out that voice. Those are the things that will save you.”

Maeve stared at Jean.

For a moment, she forgot what she had been about to say.

Burn the world. Carry the fire outward. Judge everything. Kill everything. Jean said it softly, almost gently, and somehow that made it worse. Not dramatic. Not trying to frighten her. Just telling the truth about the thing she lived with every day while still smiling at students, making tea, teaching lessons, holding everyone else together like it didn’t cost her anything.

Maeve’s throat tightened.

“Jesus,” she whispered.

There wasn’t much else to say to that.

She looked down at her hands, suddenly ashamed of how much she had thought she was the only one carrying something ugly in the dark. Jean had a star screaming murder in her bones and still chose warmth. Still chose them.

Then Jean mentioned her mother.

Maeve went still.

Her mam. Aoife. Wind-tangled hair. Hands smelling faintly of herbs and earth. A smile that could make a room feel less cold. Then rock, rain, shouting—and the terrible blank space after. Maeve’s power had come alive in that space. Grief had opened, and the earth had answered.

Something shifted behind her thoughts.

Did she know, little earth-heart? Or did she refuse me, as you do? Your mother chose silence too… and silence has a way of ending things.

Maeve’s breath caught.

The table gave the faintest tremble beneath her palm.

Not much. Just enough for the pale blue island to flicker once in the hologram.

She pulled her hand back as if burned, eyes sharp with sudden fear.

“No,” she said under her breath.

Then she realised she had spoken and shut her mouth.

For a second she thought of Desmond. Not because she meant to. It just happened. Amber eyes. Big hands. The way he looked at her like she was allowed to be difficult and still worth staying near. He had gone home, and it still hurt, but thinking of him did something Jean had promised it might. It put one small, stubborn thing between Maeve and the voice.

Him. Her sisters. Jean’s hand on her shoulder. The greenhouse soil under her nails. The little stone deer in the woods.

Things that mattered.

Maeve swallowed hard and looked back at Jean.

“That’s… seriously messed up to have to carry around,” she said quietly.

It wasn’t enough—not for what Jean had admitted, not for any of it.

“I’m sorry,” Maeve added, awkwardly, because the words were small and useless but true. “That you have to hear that.”

Her fingers found the edge of her sleeve again, twisting fabric between them.

“And my mam...” She stopped, jaw working. The question sat there, awful and new, but she couldn’t make herself ask it. Not yet. Not when the answer might change the shape of everything.

Instead, Maeve drew in a slow breath.

“I don’t know if I can drown her out,” she said. “Not always.”

Her eyes flicked to the map of Achill.

“But I can remember.”

She said it like a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep, which made it matter more.

“I can try.”

“That is all I could ever ask of you.” Jean reached for Maeve's hand, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. There was warmth in the gesture, a quiet promise that needed no grand declaration. “And if the burden ever becomes too heavy, you won't carry it alone. I'll be there to help you.”

It was the same promise she had made to every frightened soul who had crossed the threshold of Xavier's. No one was expected to face their darkest moments by themselves.

“This is an incredibly brave thing you're about to do, Maeve.” Her voice was calm but unwavering. “I know you're answering this call because it's deeply personal. I know your heart won't let you turn away. But don't let that make you forget the courage it takes to stand here now, choosing to face it instead of running from it.” Jean slowly released Maeve's hand. Advice and reassurance were all she could give; the path ahead belonged to Maeve alone. “Don't doubt yourself. Trust your heart. It has already carried you farther than you realize, and it will guide you through whatever comes next.”

Maeve let Jean take her hand.

That should have been awkward. It was, a bit. Maeve wasn’t used to being held like that without there being some emergency attached to it. No one bleeding out. No one dragging her from danger. Just warmth, steady and given freely, as if Jean had decided Maeve deserved it and that was the end of the matter.

For a moment, the voice said nothing.

Then it curled back in, quieter than before.

Careful. She would make herself mother to every wounded thing. Do not mistake that for love.

Maeve’s fingers tightened once around Jean’s before she made herself loosen them.

That one was easier to hate.

Jean spoke about courage, about facing it instead of running, and Maeve had to look away because the words got too close. She had run before. From Achill. From her father. From her sisters. From letters she never finished and doors she never knocked on. Maybe this was running too, straight into the place she had left, only with better boots and people beside her.

Or maybe it wasn’t.

Maeve swallowed and looked back at Jean.

“You’re better than it, you know,” she said.

The words came out blunt and a little clumsy, because she hadn’t planned them. Her gaze flicked down, then up again.

“The fire. The Phoenix. Whatever it says.” She shifted in the chair, uncomfortable with the earnestness of her own voice. “You’re better than that. I know you probably know that already, but... still. You should hear it from someone else now and then.”

How sweet. She comforts the flame while her own house burns.

Maeve ignored it, though her jaw tightened.

She drew her hand back carefully and tucked both of them into her sleeves again, as if that could hide the fact that Jean had helped.

“I should go pack,” she said, making it sound almost practical. “Before Casey decides we all need three different kinds of rope and I end up carryin’ half a tent.”

A small, tired attempt at humour. Not much, but more than she’d had when she walked over.

Maeve stood, then hesitated.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For not... lookin’ at me different.”

She didn’t wait too long after that. If she did, she might say too much, or worse, start crying, and she had two hours before she had to walk through a fairy doorway on the island that had already taken her sisters.

So she gave Jean one last small nod, turned, and left the War Room with her shoulders a little less tight than when she had entered it.

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