A FELLOWSHIP OF DUST

I felt Stephen disintegrate within me. One moment, my beloved was alive. The next, he was gone.

Yes, that had happened to others, all of them turned to dark, wind-blown, dust. However, Stephen was the one dear to me. Back when he was an inexperienced sorcerer, I chose him. I made him mine. And in the Sanctum Sanctorum of that dreadfully-young city, in a battle against corrupted mages, I placed myself around his shoulders and defended him to the best of my ability. Later on, when he mourned the death of his ancient mistress, I did what I could to comfort him. Perhaps that was not enough - after all, I am not a thing of words - but I tried.

I even tolerated the presence of that... that... woman - the healer who perhaps thought she could take him from me. While he spoke to her, I hovered to one side and watched suspiciously, waiting to see if she would try and steal his heart.

Actually, it really didn't matter. I knew she would fail.

I am old, and it seems as if those I serve live for only a few flickering moments. So my existence consists of brief meadows of happiness, followed by recurring wastelands of loneliness.

Now Stephen has been taken from me. Taken far too soon.

In the end, I will always experience the deaths of loved ones. And then I will find myself alone once again. Usually, after every death, I go quiescent and wait - however many centuries it takes - for my next beloved to appear.

But this time, it will be different.

I have an immediate purpose.

I am quite angry.

Of the ones who dared to face the mad god, only two are left. One is a woman-warrior who has been transformed into a machine. The other is a sage of metal and lightning who, perhaps unknowingly, is in the process of transforming himself into a machine.

The woman-who-is-a-machine staggers through the swirling black haze that is all that's left of the others. Her strange eyes are wide with shock. She hesitantly calls out names, but nobody answers her call.

The man-who-would-be-a-machine is on his knees, clad in shattered armor. He is covered with the dust of the boy who died in his arms. As he breathes, he takes the boy-dust into his lungs.

Of the two, there is no real choice. I pick the man.

He is bleeding. Settling around his back and shoulders, I wrap my lower half around his body, center myself on his wound, and then apply pressure. The warmth of his blood soaks into me, but the bleeding slows. Ignoring considerable pain, my wearer lurches to his feet. That's not a wise decision and the only reason I allow it is because restraining him might worsen his injuries.

I touch his mind and...

I recoil. Once, centuries ago, one of my wearers was possessed by a demon. For a horrified moment I think the same has happened to the one called "Stark".

Then I realize that what I'm feeling is actually the beginnings of a titanic rage, filling a soul that has been hollowed out by grief.

Stark senses my shock.

"It's okay," he tells me raggedly. His voice sounds startlingly calm considering that he is not really sane.

And, of course, the situation is far, far, from "okay".

"It's okay," he repeats. He is adjusting to my presence with remarkable speed. A gauntleted, dust-covered, hand caresses my collar. I wrap a fold of myself around his wrist and squeeze.

And then, madly enough, I feel better. I thought I would be comforting him...

"Where's your ship?" Stark asks the blue machine-woman. It's part-question and part-command.

She looks at Stark for a long moment. Then she nods her head towards a nearby range of hills.

Stark is not gentle with the ship. Her thrusters throb dangerously hot as her frame creaks from the stress. She moans in pain as he takes her out of the atmosphere.

His bleeding has stopped. The blue machine-woman - Nebula is apparently her name - used instruments she found in the ship to treat Stark's most immediate injuries.

Now Nebula is sitting next to him. She's watching Stark carefully, her hands not far from her share of the vessel's controls. She's obviously surprised at how Stark so matter-of-factly took command of the ship.

Stark is very good with the modern magic called "technology". In fact, you might even say that he is supreme with it.

"What do we do now?" Nebula asks quietly.

"Find Thanos and then kill him," Stark replies casually, his eyes straight ahead. His voice still seems startlingly calm. However, I can sense the bottomless cold within him.

Killing Stark's son was a big mistake. Thanos will regret that.

Nebula smiles at Stark's words. Her bright teeth are some kind of metal-ceramic blend. Like much of the rest of her, they look real.

She will be useful.

I hug Tony.

In the glass before us, I can see our reflection. We look well together. But then, Tony had already established that red with gold are suitable colors for him.

Aside from the grossly physical, it is difficult for me to communicate with my wearer. However, I have more subtle means. In Tony's mind, I began planting the seeds of what will become dreams. In those dreams, he will see places of power and wonder, where weapons and forces as old as galaxies wait for the right wielder.

Sometimes "right" means not caring about the consequences.

Oh, Tony and I are going to accomplish so much together.

Thanos, we would have words with thee.