Disclaimer: These characters are the property of Marvel comics, and have been used without the permission of the rights holders for non-profit entertainment purposes only. The lyrics are to the song "A Painter Passing Through," by Gordon Lightfoot, and are reproduced without permission for the same purposes.




Painter Passing Through

Mac O'Roni



Once upon a time, when I was on my own,
Once upon a time, like you’ve never known.
Once upon a time, I would be impressed.
Once upon a time, my life would be obsessed.
Once upon a time, once upon a day
When I was in my prime, once along the way.

     The pup had finally come to realize what the Witness had known for a long, long time. You couldn’t change the past.
     He had tried, grant him that. Tenacious as a bulldog, the pup was. Good trait, in moderation. To some extent, although he was endlessly irritated with the kid’s idiocy and pig-headedness, he was proud of him. Reminded him of himself, when he had been young and stupid.

If you wanna know my secret,
Don’t come running after me,
For I am just a painter
Passing through in history.

     And that had been very long ago. Every day, the Witness was confronted again with the startling realization of his age. Memories of the man he’d been seemed closer and more real than the truth of the man he was, but he was far from senile—in his waking moments, at those times when he did not allow himself to drift on currents of the past, he was well aware of who and what and when he was.

Yesterday is gone; yesterday’s all right.
Yesterday belongs in your dreams at night.
Yesterday is swell, yesterday is great.
Yesterday is strong; remembering can wait.
Once upon a time, once upon a day
When I was in my prime, once along the way.

     The pup had come back, expecting to find a world changed from the harsh, blasted environment he had come from. After all, had he not helped to defeat Onslaught, thus saving the X-Men from the traitor that had destroyed them in his original permutation? But, as the Witness could have told him if he would have asked, or listened, time adjusts. Nothing you could change in the past could ever change the future—history, real history, was writ in stone and blood.

If you wanna know an answer
I can’t turn your life around,
For I am just a painter
Passing through the underground.

     The pup had come back, older, wiser, and if anything, even more jaded. He understood things better now, the Witness noted with grudging approval. He had given up his foolish plans of saving the world single-handedly. Given them up a lot quicker and with less of a fight than the Witness himself had done, in fact. Maybe the pup was smarter than he’d been at that age.

I was in my stride, always at my game.
Here comes Mr. Cool along the walk of fame.
I was in denial, always in control.
The world was in my hands, my touch had turned to gold.
Once upon a time, I was in a daze
When I was in my prime, once along the ways.

     He had been so reckless back then. They all had been. But the two of them who should have been smarter than that, the two of them who should have known best how to survive…well, they had been more reckless than any of them, hadn’t they? LeBeau and Logan. The Cajun and the Canuck. The Gambit and the Wolverine.

If you wanna know my secret
Don’t come running after me,
For I am just a painter
Passing through in history.

     They’d had their shot at happiness, in the permutation the pup’s bull-headed charging about had created. Brief, but sweet while it lasted. In the two years between the time when Onslaught should have destroyed every X-Man except for LeBeau and the time when the United States government released their freshly-developed biological anti-mutant weapon that had ultimately wiped out 80% of the world’s mutant population, including every X-Man except, predictably, LeBeau, the two of them had realized that they shared more than the warrior spirit.
     The Witness’s thin, bloodless lips parted in an ancient imitation of his old cocky, arrogant grin as he remembered the day Cyclops had caught the two of them naked and sweating and loving in the Danger Room. He’d never seen ol’ Slim back out of a place so fast in his life.

Now that I am old, let me rest a spell.
All that I am told, I can never tell.
Never in my life, never will it pass.
I am still alone, remembering at last.
Once upon a time, once upon a day
When I was in my prime, once along the way.

     But Logan had died, just like everyone else who was intended to die, when the Liberty Now virus had done it’s horrible work. His healing factor and sturdy constitution hadn’t been enough to save him, and there had been no way to save anyone else. To this day, the Witness did not know how or why he himself had survived, other than to spare the world a paradox. It had been worse than ever, surviving through that permutation—left with nothing but memories of the man he had come to love more than he’d ever loved in his long, miserable existance.

If you wanna know an answer
I can’t turn your life around,
For I am just a painter
Passing through the underground.

     But it was all over now. The Witness was glad. He was tired of continuing, and more than ready to rest. As the pup droned on, making lame apologies for all the groundless accusations he had made in the past, for misunderstanding his appearance of madness and villainy for the truth instead of the cover-up job it was, he allowed himself to slip further and further away. As the present faded ever more, the past came more fully to life, and he saw a familiar face—sharp, determined, feral, beautiful.

"Mon cher," Gambit whispered. Logan took him in his strong arms and kissed him soundly.
"Long time, no see, Gumbo. Missed you."
"I miss you, too, mon cœur," Gambit replied.

     Bishop finished talking and stood before the Witness, waiting to hear what the old man would have to say to him. A minute passed, and then another.
    "Father?" he ventured.
    "Father?" he asked again, and stepped forward tentatively. He lay his broad palm along the old man’s withered cheek. When there was no response, he checked for a pulse. There was none.
    The Witness, last surviving X-Man, crimelord, cynic and savior, was gone.

If you wanna know my secret
Don’t come running after me,
For I am just a painter
Passing through in history.



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