I always seem to come back to "Mighty Max" when I'm not 'feeling fandom-y.' IDK. Here is my yearly foray into my not-fandom-y fandom.
Summary: Virgil copes with the destruction of Lemuria, and the end of his friendship with Skullmaster. Warning for occasional depressive/suicide-y thoughts. Title is from "Thank Goodness" from Wicked.
There are Bridges You Cross You Didn't Know You'd Cross Until You Cross
Death, destruction, pain. He'd seen it coming - his people were Seers, prophesiers, after all - yet the reality of it was worse, somehow, the flesh-and-blood actualization of his greatest fear leaving him numb as he surveyed, from a distance, all that had been lost. He'd known, and yet, he had hoped all the warnings of chaos and blood-shed - and there had been so very much blood - were wrong, misguided, somehow. It was not a mistake he would make twice.
He'd taken refuge in a far away land, in a hovel, really, allowing the artifact - 'the cause of all of this,' he'd think when he was especially furious, and tears would prick the corners of his eyes - to guide him to where he'd be safe. His hiding spot was a far cry from home, but perhaps that was the point. For the first days, weeks, even months, he allowed his grief to encase him like an almost impregnable shell. Guilt was often a visitor, however, an unwelcome presence that nonetheless always managed to slip inside and wrap its miserable tendrils around him. 'You knew, better than anybody else,' a small, yet unerringly pragmatic voice in his head would drone. 'You knew because he was yours, because you helped make him what he was, and you could have stopped it.'
And then he would answer aloud, because at least no one was around to hear him do it now. 'It was too much for me to stop alone. It was bigger than the both of us.' And even though this was certainly true, he could not deny the equal veracity of his inner consciousness' retort:
'He left you alive because you did nothing. He knows you do not pose a threat to him. You gave him all of the tools he needed, and he used them to slaughter your people and you did nothing.'
And at that point, the tragedy of the situation would consume him entirely for a time, and he would sit in a corner of his far away cave prison and let his subconscious rake him over hot coals again and again and again. There had been so much blood.
It got better, incrementally. Eventually, he could go entire days without collapsing into a comatose pile of feathers on the stone floor. Gradually, he was able to sort through memories - good, bad, and everything in-between - of the still-too-recent past. Slowly, he began to piece together a context for what had happened; a complicated web wherein he wasn't absolved of blame, but that recognized his role among many other factors: Chance, freewill - his and others' - and necessity.
He learned to separate visions of dead family and friends burned forever into his memory from what they had once been. Visions of his mentors, his fellow scholars, all of the people who had challenged and accepted and come to him, seeking knowledge, flooded back, mixing with the new knowledge that, of course, he would never see any of them as they were ever again. He still had comatose moments, even days, still couldn't entirely accept this awful truth as anything but a dream from which he would soon awake. On those days, he cried, and willed his heart to break, and wallowed in self-pity and shame, until he could function again.
When he began to think about Him, the man who was now called Skullmaster, he had finally stopped thinking that he could wish this away. These were by far the most painful recollections, the ones that his hissing subconscious flared up for the most vehemently. There had been moments when he could have stopped, instances where he should have said "no," when he had already said too much, gone too far. Skullmaster had been the most eager student, perhaps his greatest ever, and he'd be lying if he didn't admit how much it had excited him. Even now, knowing his former friend and now greatest enemy was out there somewhere, putting all of Lemuria's secrets to use, however dastardly, instilled in him by far the most conflicted feelings. He refused to be ashamed of knowledge, but as that niggling voice rushed to remind him, 'your people kept some of their knowledge a secret for exactly this purpose. You betrayed them.'
One particularly dark night, in every sense of the word, ended with him kneeling, panting and soaking wet, on the ground, clutching the unblemished artifact, the thing at the center of all this pain, and scowling at it. Eons later, he will recall this personal low point during a conversation with a young, human boy, in the aftermath of a similar circumstance.
"I mean, it's indestructible, yeah?"
"Yes, Mighty One. It is fabricated from the very soul of a star. It cannot be destroyed, or marred in any way. It cannot even change shape, unless the Capbearer truly wishes it to be so."
"'Kay. So then, why did you almost electrocute yourself in a lightning storm trying to get rid of it?"
"I wish I knew, Mighty One."
The old wounds had long scarred over before he and Skullmaster see one another, face-to-face, again. It had been centuries, and he had spent his time wisely, planning, watching events unfold from a distance. There was a prophecy, then, and he wielded it like a shield. His newest student, his charge, really, was young and obstinate, but he was a true warrior at heart. He hoped that that would be enough.
They were unsuccessful in absolutely thwarting Skullmaster's latest plot, though he did manage to collect the bulk of the Lemurian Arcana while Maximus fended off a glut of Skullmaster's minions. They'd almost made their exit, a portal crackling white with energy behind them, when Skullmaster stepped in front of them, his immense height casting a long, jagged shadow. Maximus brandished his sword, but Skullmaster just smirked. He was there to deliver a message, his glinting, narrowed eyes said, and they slid over Virgil with derision. "My old friend," he muttered sardonically, and Virgil stiffened. "You won't win. All of this prophesying, this gathering of strength against me: You will fail, as you have before." Next, he gazed upon Maximus, sneering at the boy's sinewy limbs and light-colored hair, at the flashing artifact on his head. "And as you have before," he added, "you will be the last to die, and watch while all of your loved ones perish before you."
"That's not true," Virgil whispered, and he wasn't scared as Skullmaster's laughter echoed in his ears, not even after the portal closed safely behind them, but even Maximus in his slight brutishness seemed to notice that his mentor was not quite as enthused about prophecies and magicked artifacts after that, as was usually the case.
Norman was not a substitute for Maximus, though the two were similarly oriented, and it was entirely because Virgil did not feel guilty, for once, for Norman's involvement in his mission, the thing that had grown entirely from a personal grudge to encompass the fate of the very cosmos. "You can leave at any time," he'd said once, "but only until you commit to the Mighty One's quest. Your agreement is irrevocable from that point on, and our fates will become unendingly intertwined."
"'Kay," Norman had shrugged. There was an easy-going manner to the Viking that meshed well with Virgil's own, albeit entirely opposite, manner, and even when he began rambling for far too long about destiny and Capbearers and explaining for the umpteenth time why Norman couldn't just go take Skullmaster on himself, Norman never judged him. They complemented one another in this way, brains and brawn, talk and action, and planned, and watched events unfold, and sometimes even played a role in them, and waited, and waited.
Max's hurt expression upon his mentor declaring allegiance to Skullmaster eventually tops the list of painful memories that Virgil will never be able to, nor allow himself to forget. He can sense the tension of their latest visit to the Underworld even weeks later, when they meet once more to tangle with Skullmaster on Dragon Island. The boy's shoulders are just a little stiffer, his jaw firmer, and he won't quite look Virgil in the eye. Later, when he brushes off a feigned attempt to give up the Cap once and for all as simply biding his time in order to spirit them back home safely, Virgil doesn't push him too hard. They eventually part, amicably and alive, and that's all he can ask for now.
It's not until later, when he's watching their latest adventure play out across the ancient stones of the Chamber of Destiny in his and Norman's now-shared home - not Lemuria, but not a prison anymore, either - that the ancient memory surfaces, gently nudging aside Max's wide-eyed visage. It's not entirely unexpected; Skullmaster's recent reminiscing about "Lemuria's golden age" and the wistful allure of a partnership between them was bound to elicit it sooner or later. Still, his body is rigid and still, and tucked into a corner of the immense stone walls of the room, as he allows it momentarily to overtake him.
He recognizes the memory with sharp clarity, experiences a sense of d j vu at seeing himself standing at the bottom of a grassy hill, green and lush, for Lemuria only ever had a mild cold season. He has to shield his eyes with a feathered hand as he cranes his neck at Skullmaster; the rays of a late afternoon sun jut out behind him, throwing him into a dazzling, terrifying display. He hasn't seen his student for several weeks; there have been rumors, awful whispers behind cupped hands, and his people have begun to take measures to ensure their longevity. 'Not enough. Not nearly enough,' his long-silent subconscious baits him, and he allows it to roll over him with a practiced mind, eventually dissipating anew.
It's odd to see Skullmaster again, though he keeps his distance, waiting for his former student to address him. "What do you plan to do?" he eventually asks, and he must sound fearful, because Skullmaster's smile is mean. His answer is just as frustrating.
"You can join me, Virgil. You can be more than you are, more than you ever were here, my dear teacher." Their eyes meet. "Come with me now."
The muscles in his foot urge him forward. He takes a step, and then undoes it. Skullmaster watches him raptly. "My friend," Virgil says, and everything they could be together rises to a silent crescendo between them, and then scatters in the wind in the span of his next brief proclamation: "I cannot."
Skullmaster's face darkens. His expression grows angry and desperate, a culmination of all of the times he asked for more than Virgil was willing to give, and was told to wait, because he always got what he wanted in the end. "You'll regret it," he finally rasps, and bears his teeth. "You'll regret it until the end of your days."
The vision lapses. From the stone wall, Skullmaster's ageless face stares at him, eyes simultaneously soulless and depthless, appraising and cruel. In an adjacent panel, Mighty Max sweeps the Cosmic Cap from his head and proffers it, his own face young and afraid. "I'd have thought of something," he'd later said, and there was so much bravery apparent even in his clipped words and guarded eyes. Just before they'd parted, he'd shuffled a little and reached up absently, fingering the magical artifact still atop his head, where it belonged. "I don't regret it some days," he'd shrugged, and Norman had clapped a proud hand on his shoulder. "I mean, I get to pal around with you guys, anyway."
And in that moment, he'd regarded Max's searching face and Norman's beaming one, and didn't regret it for once, either.