Nature's first green is gold,
Wanda learns that the world does not believe in happiness. There is always the quirked lip, the critical eye, the whisper that—well, it wasn't perfect, was it? Didn't know what you had while you still had it.
It is the same in every language. Cynicism, pain, and love. They are all the same across borders and bruises, and she hates that each earned that right.
Because Wanda was happy. She was quiet and vibrant and half of a whole, and she could have stayed that way forever.
Her hardest hue to hold.
Who are they without powers? Without parents? Without each other?
These are the things she never wanted to find out.
"You should try it on yourself," Pietro says, when he has grown tired of plotting the death of Tony Stark. And that is the tragedy of good hearts, fast-paced hearts, and revenge: it all ends in weariness.
Wanda is not tired. Wanda can want vengeance enough for both of them, and she will. "I know what's real and what is not," she says dully, even while the red light dances between her fingers. "That's the whole point."
Illusions will not work on her.
When her brother dies, she does not doubt the truth of it for a moment.
Her early leaf's a flower;
"You're not even alive, Viz." And when did she start doing that, shortening his name? Living in new ways?
"I know." He sounds bemused, but also amused, and that complexity of emotion belies the argument they're toying with.
"One second…" She slides her fingers through his; they pass, weightless.
"And the next." His hand captures hers. Firm. Solid. Even warm.
Wanda realizes she is holding her breath.
But only so an hour.
"You alright?"
"I'm fine."
She's panting, but so is Clint—they've been running a long way, a mile at least, and he swears the van is nearby but there's no sight of it.
"You're crying." He says it quietly, no judgment.
She swipes at her cheeks, embarrassed. The tears would not be shameful if they were for Lagos, or for her brother, but instead—
Paprikesh.
"It's nothing. Just the stress. Better work it out of my system now, yes?"
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
And in prison they fear her like they always do, even in this steel, sea-driven trap. Her arms are strapped helplessly against her sides; her legs bound at thigh and knee and ankle. If she lets herself think about it, she'll panic. If she panics, if she starts panicking, she will never stop.
Breathe, dear one. It is her brother's voice.
And she does, and she can see his face, she can, and—
Illusions will not work on me, but she's so tired. She waits and rocks and listens to his voice.
So Eden sank to grief,
"We can't stay here forever," he whispers. And yes, he has learned concern.
She presses her lips against his perfect ones. "We can try."
So dawn goes down to day.
They don't even triumph. They only hold on, they only reach—
And he takes that from them too.
It is strange and terrible, how much of the heart one gets back. She thought she left her heart in Sokovia, but Vision and his deep, kind eyes brought it to her again.
She sees him break and fall. And so she breaks and falls, because she was always meant to be half of a whole.
Nothing gold can stay.
Dust, she realizes. To dust. It hurts like nothing she has ever known, and she only knows it for a moment.
And because everything else is so very cruel, it feels like mercy.