The darkness had drawn in outside, flakes of snow drifting down past the window, lit briefly by the glow from the inside of the apartment. The evening was theirs, a fire burning in the wood burner, candles taking the place of electric lighting. It was warm, cosy, music playing softly in the background, a bottle of wine and two half empty glasses standing on the table.
It was the sort of evening that he couldn’t help but appreciate, the sort that he hadn’t thought that they would be able to have. And yet, after everything, there they were. It made it something to be cherished, a memory to be carefully tucked away, kept safe.
He looked down to where Natasha was comfortably sprawled along the length of the couch, her head in his lap, his fingers lightly tangled in her gleaming, auburn curls, reflecting again on the path that had brought them to that point, on how lucky he was to be with her, to have what they did.
“What is it you’re thinking about?” Her voice was low and warm, holding a vague edge of amusement as her green eyes met his.
“Just committing this to memory.” There was no point in being anything but honest with her. For starters she would see right through him if he chose to deflect, for another thing? He had no wish to hide his thoughts from her, not then. She understood besides what memories meant to him, how important they were. Understood because they were the same to her. Something to be kept, to be claimed, to be kept safe.
“Sap.” The affection in her voice seemed to curl around him, sweet and welcoming. There was a pause and he raised one eyebrow in question, waiting for her to speak. “You know what my first memory is?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“I didn’t think that I’d told you. I haven’t told anybody.” There was the barest ghost of a smile touching her lips, tinged with a hint of melancholy, and he stayed silent, knowing that she would tell him, that it was a gift that she was giving him, a part of herself that she hadn’t given away to anyone else. “It was before the Red Room. It’s vague, but it’s real, and it’s mine. I was perhaps four or five. I remember sitting in the kitchen in front of the fire. Sitting on a woman’s lap, my mother. I don’t remember what she looked like, or the man who was there, my father, not really. I remember that she had a shawl wrapped around us both. I remember the crackle of the fire. I remember that he was playing the violin, and that she was singing. Singing to me, a lullaby. It’s not...there is no more to it. It’s strange. The next memory that I have is of the night that I was taken. The night that they dragged me from my home, still only four or five years old, barefoot and confused, not knowing why these men had come and had killed my parents. It was around the same time as the first memory, except the second one is filled with blood and death, and with the cold. It sets the scene for what was to come.”
She paused and he could feel a mix of emotions run through him, sorrow and anger at the forefront. He saw her roll her eyes at him as she reached up, her hand coming to cup the side of his face for a moment. “It is long past. You know that. That first memory, my first memory? That’s something that I treasure. That once I had a family, that I was loved, that I had parents who cared for me. The second reminds me that they loved me enough that they fought until their last breath to try and keep me safe.”
There was nothing to say to that. No words that could really sum up what he felt about it, the way that it made him feel knowing that. He covered her hand with his. “Thank you.”
It was late, they were drunk, they both had an exam tomorrow, and they were currently holding on to each other as they stumbled across campus back to their dorm. Despite the very real risk of getting yelled at for being obnoxious, Jim couldn’t stop laughing, and Tony couldn’t shut up.
“I’m just saying, a drone that can break the sound barrier isn’t outside the realm of possibility -- ”
Jim snorted. “Sure, man, but we aren’t cracking that code tonight, look at us -- ”
Tony straightened up so quickly that Jim stumbled sideways without him, and Jim might have been indignant if Tony didn’t look so hilariously abashed himself, sending him into a fresh wave of giggles.
“Is that a challenge, Rhodes?”
“What? Nooooo, no way.”
“Say it.”
“Tony, we can barely walk --”
“Rhodey. Rhodey. Come on. You know you wanna. You know I can do it. Right? You know I can.”
“Jesus, Tony, fine. You have an hour, though, and you lose automatically if I fall asleep before you’re done.”
Tony whooped so loudly Jim was sure someone in the nearby sorority house was about to call campus security.
Thirty-six minutes later, Tony dropped a notebook onto Jim’s lap.
“I know you’re awake.”
“And sobering up, so let’s see what you....”
Jim picked up the notebook, and when he looked up at Tony, he knew Tony’s smirk was well-deserved.
Blood… everywhere… slick and slippery under her boots, sliding down her armor, caked in her hair… The hilt of her sword was slimy in her grasp and clattered out of her cold, numb hands.
She slipped and fell onto her hands and knees with a wet squelch. She was so cold… and the pool of thick, sticky liquid around her was sickeningly warm.
--
Sif sat up with a gasp and threw off her bed covers before stumbling to the washroom and retching.
She lay curled up on the cold, marble floor, wrapped in a thin dressing gown the maids must have laid out by the bath for her the night before.
A tremor shuddered through her body even as Sif tried to plaster more of herself to the icy, stone floor.
It was cold, and so she was warm.
She was warm and so she was alive.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
Unlike those men…
Asger, who she had learned to shoot a bow and arrow with. Halvar, who hadn’t batted an eye when she signed on as a fellow recruit. Tait, who she had bested in a sparring match just a few days ago… had it really only been a few days?
She was alive.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
Unlike those who had fallen before her.
Unlike those whose blood coated her weapons, stained the cleaning rags red, and washed off her skin in dark rivulets running down her body, clouding the bath water, dyeing it pink.
Those men were gone and cold and limp.
She had seen them fall like hay-filled practice dummies. She had seen the pain and shock written all over their faces, watched the light of life fade from their eyes before they slumped and flopped over the others, limp and lifeless. Dead.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
Sif’s fingers wound and tangled in her hair. Pulling. Knotting.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
She opened her mouth to cry out but only a squeak escaped her.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
She pulled at her hair, shivering again at the hard, cold floor she lay on.
She was alive. Alive. Alive.
They were dead. Dead. Dead.
Who was it who decided that she would be alive while they would be dead?
--
“Lady Sif! Will you not join us for another day of battle? I have heard the healers say you are unwell,” Thor’s voice boomed through her skull.
To this, she merely waved him away and massaged her temples.
--
Sinking below the surface of the water. Watching the red clouds billow up and away from her, mixing in with her surroundings.
She surfaced and ran her hands over her face to smooth her hair back, wipe the last of the water from her eyes. She dried off and then stared at the towel.
No.
No no no no no.
Why.
Why? Why? Why?
Why were her hands still red?
What was on her that was staining the towel red?
She was clean, not a speck on her… and yet with every wipe over her body, the towel became completely red, sodden, saturated.
--
It wasn’t the first time Sif woke up screaming.
It was the first time she had woken up screaming loud enough to the point that her throat was raw and hoarse as she croaked out a greeting to the other warriors.
--
“You can fight. Why do you not?”
It took an experienced ear to hear the concern in Heimdall’s voice.
She stepped back from the ominous, swirling portal that had swallowed up her friends and companions, “Perhaps not today,” she coughed out hoarsely.
--
Sif knew her half-brother was trying to help. But she also knew that he knew what was eating away at her.
As if losing her voice meant losing her hearing as well.
She had heard the men talking, whispering loudly amongst themselves.
“The Lady Sif who thought she could be a man.”
“Lady Sif who should have listened when everyone told her to give up.”
“She should have known better.”
“I knew it would happen.”
“She only got where she is now because the crown princes favor her as does the queen.”
“Battle is no place for a woman.”
“Did I not say that she would only slow us down?”
“I said from the beginning that she couldn’t handle it.”
“It’s good that she’s staying behind today. At least she’s learned her lesson.”
“At least now my daughter will listen now rather than be a warrior.”
“She should have just been a valkyrja.”
“Women should never be allowed on the battlefield. At least she proved us right.”
Heimdall with his distant demeanor and far-reaching gaze… He knew.
--
Sif was pacing around the palace grounds, anxious for news of the battle. Stupid. she thought, It’s your own fault. You’d know what was happening if you had gone.
But how could she have gone? Perhaps the other men were correct. As much as she should have liked to wring their necks, every single one of them, maybe the gossip was not unfounded. After all, she was here moping about, taking a leisurely stroll while they were out there fighting and killing and dying. How dare she call herself a warrior.
There was a commotion up ahead by the healing rooms. People scuttling back and forth, milling around. Healers shouting for more bandages, pain relievers, healing stones. A familiar flash of blue caught Sif’s eye. There was only one man who wore that shade of blue.
She suddenly ached to see a familiar face and willed herself forward into the clamor until she reached her friend. Well… if he could be called that.
Hogun’s piercing dark eyes found her and locked on, his permanent scowl even more pronounced with pain.
“What happened?” were the first words that tumbled from her mouth.
At this, the man cast his glance down the rest of his body. Sif followed his gaze to see that his greaves and breastplate had been removed, his dark grey tunic cut open. Healers were busy binding his arm in bandages and grinding a healing stone over a long, deep cut on his abdomen.
A flash of guilt ran through her and she looked away. Sif had had no more interaction with him than curt nods of acknowledgement during sword training or brief sparring sessions that were few and far in between when Fandral and Volstagg did not have him otherwise occupied. And yet, she felt guilty. It was as though his injury wouldn't have happened had she been there. Had she not decided to stay behind today. Even though she had crossed swords with him only a handful of times, Sif knew that he was a very skilled fighter. Every strike had sent a numbing vibration trembling through her arms. Full power and full precision. Every movement was deliberate and well-executed. A small part of Sif knew that even if she had been there, it more than likely wouldn't have made a difference. If someone had been skilled enough to pass the guard of the Warriors Three… well, what could she, at her current level do then? But maybe she could have helped. Maybe she could have called out a warning. Maybe she could have blocked the attack that left such a horrendous wound.
“It is not your fault.”
His low voice roused her from her jumbled thoughts and Sif looked back to see that the healers had cleared away and Hogun was sitting up, wound fully healed, pulling on a shirt that had evidently been brought to him along with a new set of armor. What did he mean? Of course it was her fault. It was her fault that she even imagined that she could be a warrior. It was her fault for even trying. It was her fault for boasting that yes, women could do it too.
Hogun pursed his lips for a moment before reaching for the pile of armor.
“You’re going back out there?”
The warrior answered almost immediately, “Of course.”
“How?”
“I am needed.”
That was it? They needed him? It was such a simple and yet weighted response. Sif still couldn't understand why he would not take a moment to rest or how he could go on killing and coming back soaked in blood that was not his own, “How can you go back out there? How can you shut off all your emotions and just keep killing people?”
“I can’t.”
For a moment she was stunned. Then how did he do it? “Do you get used to it?”
“No.”
Sif was nonplussed. How was anyone good friends with a man who spoke so little? “But how do you do it?”
He closed his eyes and sighed before turning his strong stare onto her, “Why are you asking me?”
How was anyone good friends with someone she could barely make eye contact with? And yet his gaze held her there, stricken almost, drilling into her as though they could see straight through her very being. Sif opened her mouth to speak but then closed it again. Why was she bombarding him with all these questions? Sif could have talked to anyone. To Heimdall, to Thor, to Fandral… even to Loki. So why Hogun of the Warriors Three? She chose her words slowly, “The other men…”
Hogun raised an eyebrow.
“They talk too much,” she left the about me unsaid. At the very least Hogun didn’t speak much about anything, if at all.
“This bothers you?”
If it weren't for the intensity of his stare, she would have glared right back at him. Of course it bothered her. Had she not bested almost all of them in sparring matches?
“Are they correct?”
“They are wrong,” she bit out hotly. What kind of question is that?
“Prove it.”
Sif really was going to glare at him now, “What?”
“If they are wrong. Prove it.”
Still, she lost to his hard, unblinking gaze, “Why should I?” she huffed, “They know they are wrong.”
“They do not.”
“They should.”
“Show them they should.”
She fumed silently for a few moments. How dare he? Had he not himself recognized her skill? Had she not disarmed him once?
And then it hit her. He was right. She had yet to give the men a reason to believe they were wrong. Being good in the sparring arena did not equate to being respected on the battlefield. If that were true, then what of the berserkers, some of the most respected and feared warriors, who went mad and were only very capable when actually in battle?
At her silence, the warrior returned his attention to the stack of armor. He stood from the bed and began putting on the large breastplate.
It took her a few moments to recover. “What if I get used to it?” Sif whispered, “Used to the killing, the blood, the death? I would be no better than them.”
Hogun tied off the last strap and tugged at each piece one last time to see if they would hold. He looked at her again, “No one is.”
She wrinkled her brow at him, confused for the moment.
“War is, at best, a short affair,” and then with a billow of his cape, he was gone.
--
Sif stood in her usual place. At the head of the group between the crown princes and the Warriors Three. Heimdall had patted her on the shoulder before resuming his post at the podium. She felt the peculiar sensation of falling into the bifrost as it took her once again, to the battlefield.
She could at least fight for Asgard. And if not that… she could at least do her best to make sure no one else was killed. She could protect her friends and those nearby. The harder she fought, the sooner the war would be over and the killing would end.
If it was to go to war to bring the peace, that she could do.
The water muffled his cries, and his lungs screamed in agony for the oxygen they were being deprived of. It burned, oh god it burned…but he kept trying. He had turned away for just a second, a single second, and when he looked back his sister had disappeared beneath the waves. Just a second…just a second…
He spotted her through the murky darkness of the lake, floating gently above the sand like a piece of seaweed caught on a rock. It was getting harder to move now, with the world fading in and out focus; there was a light, almost pleasant feeling to it. Was this what it felt like to die?
His arms wrapped firmly around Donna’s waist, he swam as hard and as fast as he could to the surface above. He gasped as air filled his starving lungs, but he hardly noticed. All that mattered was his sister. Helping his sister…
“Donna! Donna please!” he called, doing the CPR exercises they’d practically shoved down his throat his first year at university. In between breaths he clumsily checked for a pulse, but there wasn’t one. No no no…This couldn’t be happening. There had to be some way to save her, there just had to be. He wanted to be a doctor, didn’t he? He was supposed to be able to save lives! Faster and with more urgency, he continued the CPR.
“Come back to me, Dammit! Come back!” He yelled, shaking her in a desperate attempt to rouse his sister. She didn’t move. Her face had turned blue long ago, and she felt like ice beneath his hands. Deep down, all his schooling told him she was long since dead.
“Please. Please don’t leave me,” he whispered, tears rolling down his cheeks. Donna. His sweet, caring Donna was dead, and it was all his fault. Stephen cradled her in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably into her sand covered hair. It was all his fault….He’d killed his sister…
“Stephen!”
The sorcerer gasped and sat upright, his heart pounding heavily in his ears. That fateful day had been haunting his dreams for decades, but it seemed to be happening more and more these past few weeks. After everything that had happened recently, with the Ancient one….he supposed he deserved it. Was this his punishment for killing his master? The man he’d come to respect and admire after all these years was dead by his hand. He’d ordered his own disciple to kill him, saying it was the only way to stop Shuma-Gorath. It had seemed hopeless at the time, but there must have been another way to do it. There must had been something he could have done to stop the monster. Because of his own short comings, another person he cared for was dead. And now this was his punishment; to relive his mistakes over and over again.
After what happened he’d left the temple in Tibet, unable to face his guilt and the memories that lurked there. He’d decided to settle in New York, specifically a building in Greenwich Village. He must have fallen asleep on the couch while he was unpacking…
Rubbing his eyes, he sat up and looked around the dimly lit building. On a shelf in the corner sat the eye of Agamotto, glistening in the light like a tiny beacon of shame. His master’s passing had marked him as the next sorcerer supreme, but he felt completely undeserving of the title. He didn’t want it, nor should he have been given such a position of power. It would only lead to more sorrow in the end.
“Stephen!”
The voice from his dream rang out again, causing him to look around. No one was there, as was to be expected. The damn house was messing with him; the building itself was full of mystical energy, and there had been a history of strange happenings because of it. “I’m not in the mood,” he muttered, trying to sound commanding but coming off as far more desperate.
“Stephen!” it called again and he whirled around to face the source of the voice. “LEAVE ME ALONE!” he snarled, only to be face to face with-
“Donna,” he whispered, sinking to his knees. In front of him stood a misty apparition of his sister, clad in the blue dress she’d adored so much when she was a teen. “You’re not real. This is a trick.”
“Don’t be so dense, Stephen,” she said, plopping down beside him. She wrapped her arms around him, and while she wasn’t corporal it still provided a comforting affect. “I came here to talk to you.”
Seeing her beside him, her face just as vibrant as the day she’d died….it hurt. Ghost or not, he found himself holding her apparition as close as he could. He didn’t care if it was really her or not anymore, all he wanted was to be able to hold her again. “I’m so sorry.” He whispered, tears starting to fall down his face, “I tried to save you that day, but I just couldn’t.”
“It’s not your fault, Stephen. There was nothing you could have done. Not for me, not for your master.”
“But… I failed you.”
“No, you didn’t. You’re just one person. You have to remember that,” she said, kissing him on the forehead. It felt slightly cool where her lips should have brushed his skin. “I miss you. We all do.” And with that, she was gone.
Stephen lay asleep in his bedchambers, the room completely quiet save for his own relaxed breathing; not even the hustle and bustle of the city that never sleeps reached him through the old walls. Shifting beneath the covers, he rolled over only to find the other half of the bed mysteriously unoccupied. “Clea?” he mumbled sleepily as he squinted in the dim light, but the white haired woman was nowhere to be seen. The sorcerer slowly sat up and grabbed the small clock from his nightstand. 4:23 am. Now where did she run off to at this hour? Sighing, he pulled himself out of bed and started checking nearby rooms. This was Clea’s first time on Earth, after all, and the least thing he wanted was for her to get herself into trouble.
Out of the infinite number of places she could have ended up in the damn house, it took surprisingly little time to locate her. She was standing in his meditation chamber, silently watching the snow fall behind the oddly shaped window. Ah. It must have started soon after they fell asleep, because even from the doorway he could see that the street was covered in the fine powder.
Wordlessly, Stephen wrapped his arms around her and placed his chin on top of her head. Clea smiled as she turned to look at him, snuggling closer. “What is that, falling from the sky?” she asked; it was such a simple, innocent question that the sorcerer couldn’t help but grin back. There were a lot more differences between their homes than he originally thought, he supposed. “Snow. It happens when it gets cold here,” he stated simply, and she nodded in return. “I like this…snow.”
For a moment they both stood there, simply enjoying each other’s company as they watched the flakes fall gently from the sky. It had been so long since he’d experienced this; the feeling of intimacy between him and someone else. His family had died long before he was trained in magic, and after what happened with The Ancient One…he’d felt like he could never care for anyone again. But then he’d met Clea; beautiful, talented, wonderful Clea. No matter how hard he tried, he’d been unable to treat her with the same icy demeanor he did everyone else. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be ripped away from him too. “Do you…want to go and see it?” he said eventually, breaking the comfortable silence.
“Yes.”
Downstairs, Stephen had to practically hold her back so she wouldn’t run out in only a borrowed pair of his nightclothes. “Remember earlier? It’s still cold outside,” he chuckled, and she rolled her eyes in return.
“Fine. I’ll wear your coat.”
A few minutes later, the two were running down the street to a nearby park, laughing like children the whole way. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this happy. “So what do you want to do first?” he asked, only to be hit square in the face with a clump of snow.
“How about that?” she laughed, covering her mouth with a gloved hand.
“So that’s how you want to play it, huh? You better run!” he replied, picking up a snowball of his own and chasing her around; Clea whooping and hollering all the while. “Ahh!Got you!” he cried, play-tackling her into a particularly fluffy snow bank. Then, he leaned over and kissed her; full and deep and with all the love he’d kept locked away for decades. And she kissed back.
He could still see her in his mind’s eye. Beaming, laughing. Radiant and glowing while he basked in her light. Bubbling and overflowing with animated chatter while he was content just listening to the lilting music of her voice.
--
Hogun was going home, to Vanaheim. After the few short months that had seemed like years spent, healing on Asgard, he was returning home. Not that he hadn’t been given a sufficient welcome and comfortable stay on the king of the nine realms. Asgard was beautiful and golden, but the warrior still felt it lacked the warmth offered by Vanaheim’s forests and skies.
Although he was still as quiet as he had ever been, the thought of going home had brightened his spirits considerably. So much so to the point that Fandral had elbowed him playfully in the side, asking why he seemed to float rather than walk. In answer, he had said nothing other than, “You will meet her.” That had prompted even more teasing from the playful swordsman and a solid thump on the back from Volstagg, both of which the warrior took in with fondness and a dancing glint in his eye. Hogun had invited his newfound friends to come with him and visit the realm that the third of the Warriors Three called home. Fandral had agreed readily as had Volstagg on the premises that he could bring his family.
As he was preparing for his return, endless thoughts whirled around his mind. What if something had happened back home? What if his sister had run off with some footsoldier (it better not be Birger, he had warned that one about so much as laying a finger on his sister)? What if one of his friends had been killed in the war that had sent him to Asgard? What if the war wasn’t over? What if--? Hogun straightened up and shook his head. No, just this once, he would not let his mind wander to unfortunate situations. Just this once, he would allow himself to be happy.
--
Hogun wanted to reach for a handkerchief and wipe at the beads of sweat he knew were making their way down his neck, soaking into the cloth, running down his back in rivulets. Stars above, when was the last time he had been this nervous?
And then she was there, as gleaming and radiant as she had always been, “What is it that you have called me for that the messenger said simply could not wait? Are you alright? Are you hurt?”
He swallowed and shook his head.
“Has something happened?”
He opened his mouth, shut it, swallowed again and stared back at her large, glimmering eyes. Hogun reached out a hand and ran his fingers through her long, dark hair before withdrawing and stepping back from her.
“Hogun, what is it?”
Wordlessly, he reached into a fold of his cloak and pulled out a jewelled hairpin and held it out to her, his eyes piercing into hers, hoping, willing for her to understand. It was custom, that once a woman married, she would no longer wear her hair down… and in so offering the hairpin…
Her mouth dropped open and both delicate hands came up to cover her expression of shock.
For the third time that night, he swallowed at the lump in his throat, gaze never leaving her.
--
Inkeri was part of the party that welcomed him back. In the few short months that he had been gone, she had matured and grown more beautiful. Hogun dismounted and braced himself in time to be promptly tackled by his sister. After accusing him of worrying her and everyone else and telling him that Birger had indeed tried to woo her, she suddenly remembered herself, relinquished her death grip on him and dropped an elegant curtsy to the rest of the visitors.
“Guests of my brother, welcome to Vanaheim. You are welcome with our family during your stay.”
--
He was barely conscious. The healers had managed to stop the bleeding. But the poison… the poison… Vaguely, he heard them discussing… what was it? Something about an antidote… Where was the antidote? Where… ?
A healer held a sprig of herbs under his nose and he jolted back into consciousness.
“Sir Hogun, we will have to transport you to Asgard. Our methods of healing will not be enough to draw the poison out of you.”
He could feel himself being carried in a stretcher towards the bifrost square. He wrinkled his eyebrows and tried to raise his head and look around.
“Lie down, little one,” his mother was there, “They’ll fix you up, right as rain. It will be alright.”
“Asta…” he managed to rasp, his hand fumbling around on the thin blanket they had laid on him.
A warm hand clasped his, “I’m here… I’m here.”
“Asta… wait... for me…”
“Of course,” she smiled tearfully before bringing his hand up to her cheek, “We’ll have the wedding when you return.” She kissed his palm before reluctantly pulling away to let the healers through.
--
After Hogun had greeted his parents and seen to his friends’ accommodations, he decided that it would be a good a time as any to wander the grounds and visit the marketplace and see how his old sparring companions were faring.
No sooner had he stepped into the training arena than he felt a hand clap on his shoulder, “Good of you to join us, Hogun.”
Upon seeing Brandt’s grinning face, he clasped the other warrior on the forearm and patted him on the back, “How have you fared, my friend?”
“Oh, I’ve been well,” the other man answered, “It’s been a tick since I’ve got to the training grounds. My wife’s with child, running me ragged, she is.”
Hogun raised his eyebrows fractionally, “You have married then.”
“That I have,” Brandt let out a hearty laugh, “You’ve been gone a moment there, have you? We’d a-thought you’d gone and forgot about us what with all the fun you’ve been having on Asgard.”
“I suppose I have,” he glanced over at the now-unfamiliar faces, “Who is the lady?”
“I’m a lucky man, that I am,” the man shook his head, “Never thought I’d ever get fair Asta to agree to marry me.”
“Asta…” Hogun was silent for a moment, “I see… lucky indeed.”
“Lucky doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Brandt patted him on the shoulder, “Well, I must be off before she wonders where I’ve got to… It was good to see you again, my friend… Truly, it was. Although, I am afraid our days of fighting side-by-side must be put on hold for a time until the child is born, yes?”
“Yes,” as he nodded in agreement, Hogun felt a coldness start creeping up through his chest.
“I guess I’ll see you around, then.”
“Yes, my family will be expecting me,” he gave his friend a nod in farewell and the coldness hit him full force before being replaced by a hollow darkness that slowly enveloped him.
--
He knocked on Volstagg’s door before pushing it open. Hogun was greeted by the sight of Fandral playing with one of Volstagg’s daughters while loud laughter boomed from the vast, burly man. Fandral called out over the laughter of the children.
“What brings you here? Should you not be spending time with your lady?”
Hogun shook his head slowly, “I… must make an announcement,” he said slowly.
At this, Volstagg cheerily plucked his daughter from Fandral’s grasp and shooed his children to go find their mother.
Hogun gave the other man a grateful look before clearing his throat a little to continue, “I will,” he stopped and pursed his lips, “I will return with you to Asgard.”
Fandral’s expression sobered a little.
“What do you speak of?”
He paused, as though thinking over how best to phrase this. How was he to tell his friends about the reason for his decision… “There is nothing left for me on Vanaheim,” Hogun said carefully.
After a beat of silence, the other two shared a look and Fandral shrugged and answered quietly.
“If you say so, my friend. If you say so.”
--
Hogun tugged a little on his horse’s bridle on the way to the Bifrost location. He had clasped arms with his father, kissed his mother on the cheek, and swept his sister up in a hug. Now, the warrior mounted his steed and joined in with the leaving party.
One last time, he looked back to Vanaheim, to the place where he had spent the majority of his life, to the place where his family was, where he had been born. That warmth felt distant now, as though he were staring out at it from inside a long, dark tunnel.
He felt a hand clasp his shoulder and turned to see his friends. Hogun nodded to them and cast his gaze skyward, “Heimdall… take me home.”
Mother, should I trust the government?
Mother, will they put me in the firing line?
Is it just a waste of time?
Erik was barely a teenager in December, 1943. The war was reaching its peak, with whisperings of the Allied powers gaining momentum against the Nazi's. He and his mother had fled to Poland after the uprising in Warsaw, where civilians were massacred in the streets. Even though Poland was already occupied, they were able to remain hidden in the cellar of a young couples home for a number of years before being captured.
Just as he was drifting off to sleep, Erik felt a warm hand on his shoulder. He knew the feeling well, and he tiredly looked up to see his mother smiling down at him.
"Wissen Sie, welcher Tag es ist, meine Liebe?"
He thought hard to himself for a moment, and he shook his head. He didn't know what day it was, but it had to've been a good day. He didn't hear yelling or bombs outside - maybe the war was over? Maybe they could go home?
"Nein. Welcher Tag es ist?"
She leaned in close and whispered, "Fest der Lichter."
Hanukkah.
It used to be his favorite holiday...but after they had fled to Poland, his mother was too afraid to celebrate. It was too risky, with Nazi's walking the streets every night, and each year he heard of Jews being taken from their safe houses on each of the holy days. Worry filled his eyes, but his mother still smiled on.
She explained she made the menorah herself out of hardened clay, and instead of candles they would be using oil. They could only celebrate it that one night, for fear of being caught. All the evidence could be disposed of easily, and that way the owners of the house wouldn't be suspected for harboring Jews. It was all so thought out that he had no idea she was planning it. But with thousands of people being captured and killed everyday, she wanted to celebrate it one last time. Just in case.
Erik got out of bed quietly, so as to not wake the owners, but he was excited. His mother pulled the crudely made menorah out from a hiding spot in the corner of the basement. It was already fitted with tiny ceramic bowls in the space where a candle would normally sit, and he watched as she filled the bowls with oil. She pulled out a long match, lighting it quickly on the table. She held it out to him, and Erik smiled. Taking the match in his hand, he touched the flame to the first bowl of oil and it instantly lit. He let his mother light the next, and they traded off until all eight bowls were lit.
“Erinnern Sie sich an die Worte?”
The words? The last time they celebrated Hanukkah, he could barely remember the old text. He nodded slowly, and his mother insisted they recite it together.
Hanerot halalu anu madlikin
hanerot halalu anu madlikin
al hanisim ve'al hanifla'ot
ve'al hat'shuot ve'al hamilchamot.
She'asita la'avoteinu,
she'asita la'avoteinu
bayamim hahem, bayamim hahem,
bayamim hahem, bazman hazeh.
Al yedei kohaneicha, kohaneicha hak'doshim
vekol sh'monat yemei hachanukah
hanerot halalu kodesh hen
ve'ein lanu reshut lehishtamesh bahem,
ela lir'otam bilvad
ve'ein lanu reshut lehishtamesh bahem,
ela lir'otam bilvad. [x]
Erik stumbled on his words here and there, not really remembering the scripture as well as he should have. His mother helped him along, but when they finished, the room fell silent. For the first time in the last four years he was at peace, and he felt like just for a moment, everything was right in the world. There was no war, no mindless killing, or people trying to hunt them down. He looked up at his mother, and he saw a few tears sliding down her cheek while she stared at the menorah. Erik wrapped his arms around his mother and held her tightly.
CONEY ISLE, GLISTENING AND GLIMMERING
RISING BRIGHT, DRENCHED IN LIGHT
SEE IT SMILE, BECKONING AND SHIMMERING
ALL A-GLEAM, LIKE A DREAM
I’m not saying that the world is enjoying its longest period of uninterrupted peace because of me. I’m not saying that from the ashes of captivity, never has a greater phoenix metaphor been personified in human history. I’m not saying that Uncle Sam can kick back on a lawn chair, sipping on iced tea, because I haven’t come across anyone who’s man enough to come toe to toe with me on my best day.
Please. It’s not about me.
It’s not about you.
It’s not even about us. It’s about legacy.
-------------------
MAY 28, 1976
He was turning six in less than 24 hours, and his father had promised him his first Stark Industries tour.
He was excited. A part of him was. His dad was always going on and on about Stark Industries like it was his life. Howard could be very scary sometimes – he had been getting very, very, very scary – but Tony knew he acted differently toward… things he really loved. Like Captain America. And like Stark Industries too, probably.
It was such a strong, imposing name. Stark Industries. Stark Industries. Sometimes Tony whispered it to himself, lots of times – Stark Industries, Stark Industries, Stark Industries – just like other children repeated “Bloody Mary” in front of the mirror. He knew Bloody Mary didn’t exist, but maybe if he said “Stark Industries” three times, he would grow up fast and become everything his father wanted him to be.
His mom always said he was growing more every day, but he couldn’t see it when he looked at himself in the mirror.
He was nervous.
He was especially nervous because his mother wasn’t there in the car. Not even the driver was. Tony had never ridden in a car alone with Howard before. He had never seen his dad drive, come to think about it. He drove well. He drove steady. He wasn’t drunk. Tony was fidgeting a bit, or a lot, in the back seat, but nervous as he was, he could still notice where they were going – and he thought it was weird. Howard took wrong turns. Tony had never been inside the New York City headquarters of Stark Industries before, but sometimes he went out to skate in the Central Park with his mom, and they would stay out in Manhattan until it was nighttime, then they would walk past the SI building and ride back home to Long Island with his dad.
This wasn’t the way they usually took to go to Manhattan.
“Sit back, Anthony. Seatbelts on.”
His seatbelts were on already, but Tony sat back. His head kept wandering to the window, though. Howard must have been monitoring him through the mirrors, because eventually he just said, as though reading Tony’s mind, “We aren’t headed to Manhattan.”
“I thought we were going to see Stark Industries.”
“We are. I need to show you something else first.”
He didn’t know if he was more nervous or excited.
“Coney Island.”
Excitement won. Tony inhaled, eyes instantly lighting up, lips cracking into one of his brightest smiles. Now, this felt like a real birthday present, and it wasn’t even technically his birthday yet. He had heard a lot about Coney Island. There were pictures on the walls of his dad’s workshop.
“Daddy, I never rode a ruota gigante before!”
“Anthony, sit back.”
Tony sat back again. “Daddy, how do you say ruota gigante in English? Daddy, I –”
“Ferris wheel. Now, focus. This isn’t a game, Anthony. I need you to learn something today.”
“Do you know how to say merry-go-round in Italiano, Daddy? It’s giostra, and – ”
“Anthony.”
“Daddy, why couldn’t Mommy come? It’s almost my birthday.”
“Anthony. Listen to me.” This time, Howard’s voice grew stern enough for Tony to comply and stop talking. It took a few moments, but his dad spoke eventually: “What do you know about the amusement parks in Coney Island?”
“The first park ever was called Luna Park. Daddy, luna means ‘moon’ in Italiano.”
“What else?”
“The rides had lights in them, and electricity had only just been discovered. It was so new, people came to the park just to see the lights.”
“They called it the ‘Electric Eden.’” Howard’s tone had softened. It was the same tone he used to talk about Captain America. Tony wished he could see his dad’s face then, because he thought he might be smiling. “People would sleep on the beach during the day, so that they could wake up at night in this place that looked like the future.”
Can we please, please, please sleep on the beach and wake up to the lights too? was on the tip of Tony’s tongue, but before he could ask, Howard added, “People don’t do that anymore.”
“Oh.”
There were a few moments of silence. Tony used them to rein in his disappointment and get excited about the parks again. He didn’t need to sleep on the beach.
“My father took me to Coney Island for the first time when I was about your age,” Howard continued. Tony paid attention. His dad almost never talked about Grandpa Walter Stark. “It’s what first inspired me to create something like Stark Industries.”
The words again. Tony felt his stomach twisting in knots. In a good-ish way. A “this is it” way. This is it. This was the day he was supposed to learn how to love Stark Industries.
Tony saw the ruota gigante from a distance when they parked the car. It wasn’t spinning, and it wasn’t lit up. The parking lot was nearly empty. The ground was made of concrete. Everything was very gray. He strained his hearing to hear music, but he couldn’t.
Maybe it would be just like one of those birthday surprises. He’d seen them in movies, but he never thought he would get one. Like when all the lights are turned off, and then people climb from under the table and say “Happy Birthday!” and the music starts and there’s a cake with frosting. He’d never had cake with frosting before. Maybe that’s why his mom wasn’t in the car, maybe she was hiding everything and keeping it a surprise. Maybe it had been her idea.
Tony was clutching his father’s hand really hard as they walked. He couldn’t see anyone. Well, only a few people. Like janitors.
“Daddy. Where is everyone?”
Maybe mom and dad had spent the day together planning this and discussing what flavor cake he would like best.
“The parks are closed on weekdays this time of the year.”
It was Friday. He could feel the tears stinging in his eyes.
It was okay if they didn't pick a cake with frosting. He could eat one of those fruitcakes too, if that’s what his mom and dad thought he would like.
“When does it open?”
They stopped by a great iron gate. The fencing didn’t extend very far, circling the deserted rides inside. Everything was smaller than he thought it would be. The gate was locked. It was a bit rusty. Old. Everything looked old.
“It won’t open at all today.”
“Will we sleep on the beach?”
Maybe that’s where his mom was waiting. Maybe it was all going to happen tomorrow.
His bottom lip was quivering a bit. He already knew the answer.
“We won’t sleep on the beach.”
Howard let go of his hand then stepped in front of him, stooping down on one knee so they could be at eye level.
Maybe she was waiting by the ruota gigante. Maybe they could all ride the ruota gigante together. He’d never ridden a ruota gigante before.
“Do you see that?” Howard tilted his head toward the closed down park. “The vacant lots? Peeling paint? Rust? Everything over there, all the concrete. That used to be part of the Steeplechase Amusement Park before it closed in 1964. The area was bulldozed. All that’s left is this corner.”
Tony shook his head, and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to look, he might start crying.
“But it’s closed.”
“I came here to show this to you.”
“No.” His cheeks were already wet when his eyes opened. “No. No, Daddy, my birthday is tomorrow, can we come back tomorrow when it’s open?”
“Listen to what I have to say right now, Anthony.”
“But will we come back tomorrow?”
Howard shook his head.
“Daddy, please, please, I want to ride the ruota gigante for my birthday –”
“Anthony – ”
“You don’t need to come with me, I can go by myself, I won’t be scared, Daddy –”
“Anthony!”
“I can’t even see the giostra!”
He might have screamed that. Way too loud. He didn’t ever scream that loud. The place was so empty that he could hear his words echoing. He could check in a sob, or two, three at most, before he felt his father’s grasp tightening on his arms. “Enough with the crying now, listen to me, Anthony!”
Howard’s voice echoed too. Tony choked back the rest of his tantrum.
“This place isn’t impressive when it’s open either. Not anymore. It hasn’t been impressive since the end of World War II.”
Tony shook his head again.
“Hookers stroll the streets at night. Gangs raise hell all day long. People barely come to the beach.”
“No.”
“Listen.”
Howard lifted Tony’s chin with his index finger.
“Remember Donald Trump? He has dinner in our house sometimes.”
Tony nodded. He didn’t like Mr. Trump.
“His father, Fred Trump. He’s the one who bought this land after the Steeplechase closed down. He’s the one who had the area bulldozed. He wanted to build luxury apartments here, but the lot was leased only for amusements. After losing a ten-year-long legal battle, he reopened this sad bit of what used to be one of the most successful amusement parks in the history of Coney Island.”
Tony liked the Trumps even less now.
“What will you remember from Coney Island, Anthony?”
He still hadn’t been able to keep his chin from quivering, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have known what to say. He didn’t want to give his dad the wrong answer.
“Anthony.”
Tony swallowed.
“There are no lights.”
“Good. And what do you think Coney Island should be like?”
Tony hesitated.
“A… good investment.”
“No.”
“A place people like.”
“Better.” Howard released Tony’s arm, then stood up and looked down to his son. “What’s the answer you would have given your mother?”
Tony didn’t look up.
“It was supposed to be a dream tomorrowland.”
His father nodded.
“That,” he said, “is what Stark Industries should be like. Chin up, Anthony.”
Tony complied, looking up at Howard.
“When you get older, you will be in a very powerful position in the company. The position to make choices.”
He nodded shakily.
“You can choose luxury condos. Or you can choose something not only rich people will like. You can choose Coney Island, as Coney Island is supposed to be.”
Tony nodded again.
“I will always choose Coney Island, Daddy.”
Tony didn’t say anything new until he was in the car again, headed to the actual Stark Industries now. His tears had dried but his face was still stinging. Howard didn’t have to ask him to sit back, because he didn’t want to look out the windows anymore.
“Daddy?”
Howard only hummed in acknowledgement.
“Why can’t you buy Coney Island and make it into the Electric Eden again?”
“It’s not that easy. And you will learn that too.”
Tony pressed his back harder against the leather seat.
Stark Industries scared him.
-------------------
DECEMBER 24, 1989
Tony chuckled as he read the feature on Forbes magazine, lifting one foot to rest it on the coffee table. It was like testing if Howard was really dead or not. If he weren’t, he’d somehow find a way to sense that Tony Stark had his foot on top of the mahogany center table inside the CEO’s office at Stark Industries.
But no one came to complain about it. No one had been coming for the past week.
Obadiah Stane hadn’t noticed it either. He was sitting behind the late Mr. Stark’s desk, reading some papers. Tony was sitting on one of the couches.
Obie had complained a little at first, when Tony arrived. He wasn’t supposed to be there until much later. He wasn’t supposed to be there at all, but when Obie said he needed to go in the office that day, Tony said he wanted to go to Central Park to “make out with Lizzie Ross under a tree or something,” and at night he’d meet Obie again so they could head back home together.
But “make out under a tree” was actually code for “ice-skate on his own,” because it was winter, and his mother always, always made the time to go ice-skating with him during the winter, no matter what happened, no matter if it took a miracle. And well, this year it would take a miracle, but his mom believed in miracles so he might as well fucking test that.
He did, miracles didn’t exist, and he showed up in the office earlier than he was supposed to, and Obie didn’t seem to care that he had his foot on Howard’s stupid center table.
He ripped a page of the magazine, crumpled it into a ball, then aimed it at the balding spot on top of Obie’s head. He laughed again when he got it right, and Obie looked.
“What is it, kid?”
Ugh. He hated to be called ‘kid.’
Aaaand no comment about the table.
Well.
“Look at this,” Tony turned the magazine so Stane could look at the feature in question. “Top 50 most embarrassing business transactions of the past ten years. That Coney Island nonsense made it to number 21.”
“What Coney Island nonsense?”
Tony was about to answer: the Bullard vs Sportsflex idiocy. Four years worth of guys with sticks up their asses fighting over who had the right to build an amusement park where. It’s just Ferris Wheels and adjoining cheap hot dog joints, for fuck’s sake.
But Obie wasn’t looking anymore.
“I don’t know,” Tony said instead. “Still, Howard had a crush on Coney Island. I was thinking we could frame this feature about the decadence of everything he believed in, and place it along with the vintage pictures in the lobby.”
Obie actually looked up at that.
“Joke. It was a joke.”
“Pretty awful one.”
“I joke to mask the pain.”
(Technically, he wasn’t lying.)
Obie went back to his papers, and Tony went back to the magazine.
There were Christmas carols playing somewhere. Not in this room. Maybe in one of the other 34 floors. Either way, things were so silent in the office that Tony could hear the songs. He hated that.
“You know, when I was a kid,” Tony started. “I had this whole plan.”
“You had a plan? Now I’m listening.”
Tony whipped up a smile for Obie, who did the same for him. Obie’s smile looked pretty real though.
“Yup, I had a plan,” he tossed the magazine aside, leaning back on the couch. “My first move as CEO. I was gonna buy Coney Island, and I was gonna fix it, and give it to Howard as a Christmas present.”
Obie chuckled. He looked genuinely amused as he shook his head and looked back down to the papers, so Tony allowed, or maybe forced, himself to be amused too.
“Their land must be pretty cheap right now, if you’re still interested.”
Tony scoffed. “I’m not gonna buy land in fucking Coney Island. Maybe if they had some luxury condos. But the place is barely standing.”
“Indeed.”
“I’ll buy something in California, though.”
Obie looked again.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
“You have a loft there.”
“I know. Nah, I was thinking more… beach house,” he looked down, searching for the magazine again. “You know, to live in.”
“You want to move to California?”
“Better weather. Closer to Vegas.” He liked the lights in Vegas. “Stanford.”
“You’re set up to start your MBA in Harvard.”
“Looks like someone’s gotta send them a memo.”
Obie frowned.
“Miss Ross barely started her studies in Cambridge,” he said. “She won’t like to transfer.”
“She doesn’t have to.”
“I mean, after you get married.”
“I’m not getting married.”
Now Obie actually set the papers down on the table. Tony opened the magazine, tilting his head to the side in an attitude of mock inquiry. “If my dad was engaged to her dad, and he died before they got married, does that make Thunderbolt Ross a widower?”
“Tony.”
“Those were Howard’s plans. I’m not going along with it.”
“This was settled –”
“It was never made public, so there isn’t even a scandal to be worried about. Whatever, Obie.”
“You won’t move to California.”
“Who are you to tell me that? My dad?”
“Very cliché.”
Tony didn’t answer. He kept flipping pages on the magazine just so that he could look preoccupied, and to keep his hands busy.
It wasn’t until a good few minutes later that he spoke again. His tone was more subdued.
“Jim turned twenty-one last September,” Tony commented. He remembered the party his mother had thrown for his best friend. He wished Maria and Roberta had met. “He is now officially old enough to drink and screw while fighting for his country overseas.”
Obie rolled his eyes.
“He was old enough to fuck and fight by the time he was eighteen. So are you, by the way.”
“He’s going to Iraq next April,” Tony continued. He still didn’t look up from the magazine. “There’s nothing else for me here.”
“Except your job.”
“Well, that can move to California too. We have a Silicon Valley plant, the job is halfway done.”
“Sure.”
“I’m serious. If you don’t transfer now then I’ll do that when I’m the one sitting on that chair.”
“It’s unfair to ask Edwin to come with you.”
“Jarvis can stay.” That seemed to genuinely startle Obie, but Tony meant it. He didn’t want Jarvis to come. For one, he had his mother here. And then also for the same reason why he wanted a brand new house across the country from where he lived now. “I don’t want anyone to come with me. I don’t want Lizzie or Jarvis.”
Obie huffed an aggravated sigh.
“I just want you.”
A pause. Tony tried to swallow back the embarrassment. He didn’t know if he was trying to manipulate Obie into letting him move, or if he was being truthful.
He was being truthful.
“New York’s dead. This place is dead. I want to drag Stark Industries away from the carcass of fucking Coney Island, Stane,” he tried to sound like something fierce, maybe like he was doing something revolutionary or whatever, but he had just sounded like a sixteen-year-old who wanted to run away from home (which he basically was, except that he was nineteen). “I can’t do this without you.”
Something tightened in Tony’s throat when Obie stood up from his seat, then even more when he took a seat next to him on the couch.
It was that feeling. He hated that feeling. The I-think-I-want-to-break-down-on-your-shoulder feeling.
Obie’s hand fell heavily on his shoulder, but the squeeze was amicable. More than that. Reassuring. Almost.
“There’s nothing we can’t do,” Obie said, “if we stick together.”
-------------------
JUNE 1, 1991
He was in the Santa Monica Pier. There were lots people, but he was alone. He smiled, because the rides were glistening and glowing neon, and the Ferris wheel here looked like a ruota gigante. He didn’t ride it, though, he just watched the color schemes change from blue to pink, blue to pink, blue to pink, and he wondered if he would be happy right now at the helm of Stark Industries if Howard had taken him to Coney Island again on Saturday, when it was his birthday and the rides were working.
------------------
2009
“Oh, it’s beautiful.”
It was.
The arc reactor gave off a steady, blue glow. Who knew that once you miniaturized the one inside the plant it would glow like that. Well – technically, it was predictable, and Tony hadn’t been surprised when he witnessed it in the cave, but it still struck him every time he thought about it for too long. In the big reactor, there was a visible flow of energy. You could tell which way the current was going. But in the miniaturized version, everything ran so fast along the channels, so fast, that the glow was just steady. Maybe there was a measure of comfort in that, in how fast his life was spinning, like an evil merry-go-round. Maybe he was giving off a steady glow too. Maybe.
Not really.
“Tony. This is your Ninth Symphony.”
Yinsen hadn’t helped him build the new version, but Stark could still see his work in every millimeter of the self-contained star.
“What a masterpiece. Look at that.”
He was looking, Tony wanted to say. He fucking was. He got it. God damn it, he was looking, and it was beautiful, and that was the worst part. It was beautiful, it was meant to be beautiful, but now Stane would turn it into the World War III version of Trump’s luxury condos.
“This is your legacy.”
That is your legacy, Stark. Your life’s work, in the hand of those murderers. Is that how you want to go out?
I just don’t want a body count to be our only legacy. That’s it. It’s my name on the side of the building.
Is this the last act of defiance of the great Tony Stark?
No.
That’s what he should have told Yinsen. No, it’s not. It’s not how I want to go out, it’s not my last act of defiance. He hoped he’d been able to relay the same message to Yinsen in not so many words. He hoped there was a way he could say this, right here, right now.
“A new generation of weapons with this at its heart.”
His own was breaking, maybe a little.
Truth was, if he could speak, he would sound less fierce, and more pleading at this point.
No. No, Obadiah, don’t kill Coney Island.
------------------
After almost three months of tracking Ten Rings movements across Asia and Europe, Stark had seen some shit.
It was a blood trail no one even knew existed until then. Attacks to certain villages dated back to years ago, and then others were pretty new. Pretty spanking, one-week-old new. Tony had no idea the Ten Rings were so big, and so ingrained. It was like a hushed panic campaign. They were moving quick, and usually left no survivors. Until now.
When Tony saw the picture, he almost threw up inside his mouth.
The picture had been taken after the little girl had fallen asleep in the hospital. She had thick brown hair, tanned skin. An accidental witness, found hiding inside a closet her home in a Bosnian village, and then flown in to a military base hospital in the outskirts of Sarajevo, where they were now. Her grandparents had finally been located, were being brought over and would be there by morning, but, by what Stark could only assume to be top-notch SHIELD coercion, they had already granted legal permission for the girl to be questioned with the appropriate psychological backup.
She was six. Her name was Marika, that was the only thing she said. Not another word so far. She’d been found almost a week ago.
After being briefed, both Tony and Rhodey sat on plastic chairs across the hall from the room where Marika was talking, or being talked to by a child psychologist.
Tony was just staring at the door in near shock. Rhodey wasn’t much different. At least an hour passed like that until Stark said, “You remember when it was me?”
“What?”
“Debriefing. Questioning. Whatever. How long was I kept in the military hospital before coming home, like a month?”
“Three weeks.”
“So you remember.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t.”
Rhodey looked over at him. Kind of narrowly, like he was testing something.
“Seriously. I mean, I remember details.” Tossing a mug of something against a glass wall. Being frustrated that nothing shattered because the mug was plastic and the glass was bullet proof. Giving (made up) details in exchange for extra minutes on the phone with Pepper. According to his files, he’d been regularly seen by two Red Cross representatives. It had something to do with torture, so he must have shut that out completely because he didn’t remember these two people at all.
“You were drugged a lot of the time,” Rhodey added after a while. “I had convinced them not to do that in the beginning. But when you gained consciousness you pulled all the wires away so fast you hurt yourself and the nurses who tried to help.”
“Oh.”
More silence.
It was kind of fucked up that he remembered a lot about the cave, but almost nothing from the questioning that followed. Right? Was that normal? Or were SHIELD psychologists really that ludicrously bad?
Maybe it was because in the cave he’d been doing something. Active brain.
Good company.
Or whatever.
Eventually, the SHIELD agent exited the room. Both Stark and Rhodey asked about the girl at the same time, but the psychologist said he wasn’t allowed to share progress with them.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Tony groaned. “I am fucking Iron Man.”
The agent didn’t listen, or pretended he didn’t, as he walked down the hall and away.
“You need to stop using that as an argument for everything.”
Stark huffed.
“I’ll bet you there’s no progress whatsoever,” he kicked the leg of his own chair with his heel. “And you know, that’s probably a good thing. Extracting information from a six-year-old? Are they even – ”
“Tony, try to relax.”
“What’s up with all those post-trauma procedures anyway? They’re hell. They’re so hell that I didn’t even process it. Good God, she probably heard them all die. What valuable insight can a six-year-old even give you, ‘they made my big brother cry’?”
“Tony, none of that’s helping anyone.”
Stark huffed again. Then he folded his arms across his chest.
Not helping anyone.
That ticked him off.
Five SHIELD agents crawled out of the fucking woodwork the second Tony stood up and tried to head towards the door to Marika’s room. The psychologist from before was the one who physically stopped him.
“Thirty seconds. Give me thirty seconds.”
“Mr. Stark, you don’t have the clearance –”
“Mr. Iron Man, that’s my clearance.” He could feel Rhodey’s eye roll. “You didn’t get anything from her, did you? You didn’t.”
The guy tried to speak, but Tony interrupted him again.
“I’m not going to try to extract any information, I’ll just try to pull her out of whatever funk she’s under. All right? Thirty seconds.”
Someone tried to protest again.
“Just give me thirty damn seconds. If I get nowhere, you can whisk me away at your pleasure.”
“What makes you think you’re qualified –”
“I am Iron Man!”
“That does not work as clearance –”
“What he meant is –” Rhodey was the one who spoke up. “He’s been in similar shoes as Marika’s. That’s what he meant by ‘I am Iron Man’ here.”
Stark would have lashed out of Rhodey, at least a little, for speaking on his behalf, if the argument hadn’t seemed to sway the agents.
People let go of him. He got his thirty seconds.
No fucking idea of what to do with them, but all right.
Tony hesitated by the door. He didn’t open it. Instead, he took a few steps further down, where Marika’s room had a clear glass window overlooking the hallway, probably for monitoring purposes.
Marika was awake, but not doing anything in particular. Just sitting cross legged on top of the bed, with her hands running slowly up and down her thighs. Tony suspected she must have been like that since the last agent left the room.
The sight stressed him out for some reason. Maybe his own experiences with the Ten Rings were too fresh. It had been less than six months.
He rapped lightly against the glass.
The sound startled her. The second she looked toward the window, Tony smiled the most disgustingly sweet smile he could possibly muster under those circumstances. She just looked at him, not much of an expression in her face. He felt kind of cheated, because it took some effort to put a smile up for her and make it look genuine.
He remembered the first time he smiled – really smiled – after coming back home from captivity. His first flight. He flew over the Ferris wheel at the Santa Monica Pier. His heart had been beating so viciously hard, he’d been near delirious with adrenaline.
Tony leaned forward, and fogged up some of the glass with his breath. Exhaling that much air at once felt harder than it should have been, even considering the arc reactor, and Tony had to control some light but dry coughing. God, that hurt.
“What are you doing?” Someone asked behind him.
Using his index finger, Tony drew a heart on the fogged up glass.
“I’m asking permission.”
He looked over at Marika. She was still just staring.
Tony tossed a smiley face inside the heart.
Then he exhaled to fog the glass up again so that the drawing would show better. That got him to start coughing again, for a beat longer than last time, long enough for Rhodey to ask something.
“She smiled.”
Someone said that behind him, so Tony completely ignored Rhodey’s question, looking up and feeling better all of the sudden (except for the fact that he didn’t).
It was a tiny smile. But somehow it warmed Tony up enough to draw a real one out of him.
Marika got up from bed, then pushed a chair against the wall so she could stand on it and be tall enough to reach the window. From the way people stirred behind him, this was probably the most Marika had done so far.
Stark wasn’t even paying attention to people behind him anymore, he was still smiling at the young girl.
The smile grew wider and evolved into a chuckle as Marika fogged up her side of the window and drew a corresponding smiling heart on it with her index finger.
--------------------
After that, he was trusted to stay in the bedroom alone with Marika, but he could tell that people watched them through the windows.
Stark came and went during the next couple of days. Marika still hadn’t talked, and she didn’t want to leave her room, but every now and then she would sit by the window and wave at him.
Her grandparents wouldn’t be allowed to see her until she’d talked to someone from SHIELD, or if it was otherwise proven that she was unable to. Which was some overwhelming load of bullshit.
Stark hopped in the suit the previous night to have his vitals checked. The scans indicated that there was an excess of palladium in his system.
“You ever think about making friends with other people?” Tony asked Marika. They were sitting on a table drawing with crayons.
She didn’t look up or acknowledge him in any way. A lot of times she didn’t. She didn’t speak English at all, actually, according to her grandparents, but people hoped that Tony’s one-sided chatter would loosen her up enough for her to talk in presence of a translator.
“It’s hard, right? I know. I only have three friends.” Tony wasn’t drawing anything in particular. He was just doodling. He looked over at Marika’s paper, she was drawing circles and spirals of different colors. “Jim is my best friend. He’s the one who came here with me. Then there’s Hogan. We call him ‘Happy’ because he’s always frowning.” There was a light smile on Tony’s face. “Pepper saved my life.”
He paused.
“Do you have any friends?”
Marika slid her paper over to him so he could see her drawing.
Tony nodded and smiled at her. “It’s very cool.”
But Marika didn’t smile. Instead, she dropped the crayon and pressed both hands to the side of her head.
“Is your head hurting?” Tony asked as she snatched the paper from his hands.
She pressed the drawing against her face, a little playfully, and at the same time not so much, then she let go and blew it away. Then she put her elbows on the table and held her head between her hands again. She looked bored, except in the eyes.
Tony looked at the spirals on her drawing.
“Is your head spinning? Is that what it feels like?”
She tilted her head to the side.
Good God, this language barrier.
Tony assumed yes. But then, there wasn’t much he could do about it.
He grabbed another paper and quickly drew a merry-go-round on it before sliding it over to Marika. Her eyes lit up in recognition, but Stark didn’t know if she had recognized the entire thing or just the horses. Probably the horses.
“It spins too.” He made circular motions with his finger across the paper. “It’s called a merry-go-round. Have you ever ridden one of those?”
Of course, no answer.
“Yup. Me neither.” He folded his arm over the table, leaning forward slightly. Marika looked up, like they were about to exchange a secret. “You know, in Italiano that’s called a giostra. Can you say that? It’s less syllables than merry-go-round. No?” He waited. Nothing.
He leaned back on his chair. Marika returned to her next drawing, and Stark tossed his crayon down in frustration, running a hand over his hair.
This wasn’t working. And he’d die – literally die, whither to death, with fucking palladium – before he ever had the guts to ride a giostra or a ruota gigante.
“What about songs?” Tony asked eventually. “They always play happy tunes in merry-go-rounds. They usually have no lyrics. So you can just hum. Can you do that?”
She looked up at the question. Tony hummed a little tuneless song. Marika smiled, but that was all.
“I had a friend who hummed. He was always humming, when he shaved.”
First time he referred to Yinsen out loud. His stomach twisted, and yet he smiled, and it wasn’t fake.
“It was this song from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It’s called ‘Moon River.’ It goes like this.”
By the time Tony had finished humming the first verse, Marika had pushed her chair closer to his, and he could see what she was drawing. It was a Ferris wheel to go with the merry-go-round. He pushed her hair away from her forhead.
That was probably when Stark realized that Marika could go the rest of her life without saying a single thing or understanding a single thing he said, and he would just keep loving her more and more and more.
He sang her to sleep, sitting by her bed. She fell asleep lying on her side, looking at him.
Then that night, he saw her nightmares for the first time. He had no idea what gave him the heart or the strength or the stability to keep singing without showing any sign that he might have wanted to break. Maybe that’s what parents felt.
“Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker… wherever you’re going, I’m going your way.”
------------------
Eventually, Stark got her to nod ‘yes’ or ‘no.’
Tony watched her from outside, through the window, because he wasn’t allowed to be in there while the questioning was taking place, and Marika was more likely to cooperate if he was in sight. It wasn’t much of a questioning though, more of a check up as far as Tony could tell, they’d got new leads on the Ten Rings, he and Rhodey would be off in a few hours, so trying to draw anything specific out of Marika became superfluous.
Still, Tony watched. Every once in a while, when Marika seemed to have stopped listening, he rapped against the window and drew her another picture on fogged up glass.
He had to turn his back to the window to catch his breath at one point. Rhodey was with him. Tony straightened himself up and turned around to face the window again as soon as he felt Rhodey’s hand on his shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Tony said before Rhodey could ask anything. This was probably lack of his daily dose of chlorophyll. He had been “on the road,” so to speak, for months now.
Stark tried to focus on Marika again in order to distract himself.
“You know,” he started. His voice was a little scratchy before he cleared his throat. “I’d adopt her.”
Rhodey laughed a little, but Tony didn’t join him. That’s probably how Rhodey knew he was serious.
“What?”
“I’d take her home with me. If she didn’t have anywhere else to go. I’d take care of her.”
Rhodey didn’t say anything, he just looked. Tony scoffed.
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not anything extraordinary. It’s like – I want to adopt her the same way I want world peace, or… to date Pepper, or whatever.”
“Date Pepper?”
“Wacky, Twilight Zone dream scenario type of thing, that’s never really gonna happen.”
He’d never taken anyone to the Santa Monica Pier with him. That was his spot. But he’d take Marika. They could go on the Ferris wheel together.
She gave him some drawings when they were saying goodbye, along with a kiss on the cheek.
And then a hug. That one hit Tony like a brick, somehow, when she had her head resting against his shoulder. Their one hug was their goodbye hug. For Marika’s sake, he kept smiling and didn’t allow himself to tear up.
It was better this way, anyway. She still had some family left, and he had an expiration date. Tony couldn’t allow himself to even dream of becoming something active in her life, take her just to leave her behind.
"Don't be scared. All right, lovely?" He said, tapping Marika's chin with his index finger. It made her smile. "I'll come see you again one day, and we'll sing another song."
Fuck me.
He needed to be careful. About the things he was leaving behind.
“That’s it, you know,” Tony told Rhodey, his tone surprisingly casual, as he waved his last goodbye when Marika drew a heart on the inside of the foggy backseat window of the car she was in, just before it drove away. “That's just. What I did.”
Rhodey smiled.
“She did look happier.”
Stark was at a loss for a second.
“No, not that,” he said, turning to Rhodey. “I mean the whole orphaned child thing, heard her family being slaughtered. So traumatized she can’t even vocalize it. That part. That’s what I did.”
“You can’t blame yourself like that.”
“It’s not about me.”
It was that whole system, the war, that vicious thing that fed off of itself and kept spinning and winding and going and never ending; the only thing was, he’d fed off it too. He had made that choice. And if he died tomorrow, that’s what he’d be leaving behind. A demolished Coney Island.
“It’s not even about us. It’s just – what we leave behind. What’s ahead of us. It’s about legacy.”
He wouldn’t die tomorrow.
-------------------
It’s about legacy.
It’s about what we choose to leave behind for future generations.
And that’s why for the next year, and for the first time since 1974, the best and brightest men and women of nations and corporations the world over will pool their resources, share their collected vision, to leave behind a brighter future. It’s not about us.
Therefore what I’m saying, if I’m saying anything, is welcome back –
