Tony tasted blood. It coated his fingers, warm and thick, as he kneeled to watch life leave yet another set of eyes. He'd always been familiar with death, but the extent of this new carnage made Afghanistan and the first Chitauri invasion pale in comparison. With a wheezing sigh, he trailed a finger down a pale cheek, contemplating the cruel play of time and ambition.
So many had died. Friends he'd never expected to lose, allies he'd grown fond of in spite of healthy reservations, strangers and innocents... and now the last enemy he would ever take down.
When death claimed him tonight, at least his personal revenge would have been exacted...
The sight that greeted him first thing that evening amazed him beyond words... and puzzled him quite a bit as well.
"What the..."
Luxurious green leaves sprouting out of transparent trunks? Tall black birds unfolding wings that spanned his entire body? What about those red and gold butterflies singing over his head?
"... hell?" He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, blinked a few times, but the landscape remained unchanged.
He pushed himself into a sitting position, eyes surveying the exotic meadow. With that kind of lush vegetation, the air should have been more humid, but it was almost dry, and pleasantly warm. What was this place? Where was he?
His throat, he realized a tad belatedly, was very dry, and his whole body felt heavier than it should, as if part of the sky was resting on his shoulders, like a... burden. He licked his crackled lips. A sense of purpose registered vaguely in-between the sensation of thirst and weariness, but his mind latched on his physical needs, discarding the flicker of something for more tangible resources. Like water.
All of a sudden, a pool of clear water materialized in the ground nearby, as if it was what pools did, answering silent pleas. He shivered. The song of the red and gold butterflies lost its soothing quality, and the water, no matter how perfectly clear and palatable it appeared, left a sour taste in his throat, a wrongness that was only there in his mind, because why was he here, he had to know, had to...
There came that sense of purpose, again.
He pulled at his goatee, perplexity morphing into fear. He's gone to bed in the penthouse last night, and last time he checked, jungles in parallel universes weren't hunting geniuses, playboys and… and… He massaged his temples, trying to extract the word from his brain, but a headache was building up between his temples, and the sudden urge to scream forced a panicked gasp out of his mouth. A moment later, he found himself on all four, heaving and panting as if he'd just run for his life. He took a handful of his shirt and squeezed. Underneath, he could sense a circular contraption, embedded between his pectoral muscles. Horrified, he pulled up his shirt (what did Black Sabbath mean?) and brushed a thumb on the glowing thing over his heart. An arc...
Fuck, he thought, pushing down his shirt and looking away as a wave of nausea hit him. There was a strangely friendly butterfly that seemed to study him from its blade of grass. Butterflies were shy creatures, but this gold and red marvel, its wings shining like metal blades under the sun, decided to climb up his arm, its six antenna twirling as it studied him. Metal... Iron… He was...
The hair on his neck rose to attention. An arc, he was thinking about an arc. He had a sudden vision of a room in a tower (what tower?), and then he'd forgotten all about the arc, the tower, and the words woven into his shirt.
His head swam, not pleasantly, but the nausea abated. Now was not the time to question his path of life. What he should be doing was looking around, exploring this interesting meadow and find its inhabitants. He would realize where he was when it became relevant, because he was brilliant… right?
He felt as though his mind was slowly drifting into two different parts, one of which ordered his body to stay there and wonder at itself, and the other intent on sending it on a quest for something. The latter won, because how could it not? This place was amazing. Every scent, every living creature… It commanded attention, and he was there, so why not give it? He didn't matter here; everything else did.
Still, his own mind had never been good (how did he know that?) at following orders, even from within itself, so he narrowed his eyes as he watched his hands and wondered at his calloused palms. What was he? Surely not an office worker, not with hands like his. How frustrating, really, to fail to remember what he did for a living. What if it explained his presence here? Perhaps he was an explorer. Perhaps…
He felt like lying down in the tall grass and so he did, eyes turning to the wide expand of purple sky stretching far over him. He still felt dizzy, from all the questions he should ignore, but couldn't, not entirely. Maybe if he slept, it wouldn't bother him so much next time he woke up.
Maybe resting wasn't the way to go about it. Shouldn't he devote every second of consciousness to the mystery of his presence, of his very identity? What if he was someone important? What if there was someone important waiting for him, back home?
Where was home?
Damn, but his head hurt. A sob trickled out of his mouth at the growing sense the emptiness in his head, the gaping hole in his chest, always expending like a black hole. Acres of empty space, where his identity had faded into nothingness. His chest ached, his heart thundered in the confines of its cage, and he wanted to dig it out of there, to hold it, look at it, and know once and for all if…
He fell asleep.
When he woke up next, night had long since fallen, and bright stars stretched in every corner of the sky. Buzzing and screeching sounds filled the meadow, unfamiliar to him. Unfamiliar was good, he decided. He could feel how he'd needed a change in his life, whatever that life had entailed before. This place would give him that change. That chance.
His stomach growled. He was hungry, he realized with a pleasant shock. Wondering if he would have to hunt his dinner before he found any trace of civilization, he started to walk. It was so dark; where was the moon? It might have been a good idea to build a fire, but he could find no stones appropriate for the job.
When he found water next, he didn't protest its sudden apparition and disappearance. He drank until his belly was full, grateful for the small mercy nature so seldom bestowed upon its creatures. He didn't question that thought and kept on walking, led by a peculiar feeling that whatever it was he should look for, it wasn't here. Wasn't yet.
He walked all night. He had no watch, no cell phone (he only got to think about cellphones once before he forgot everything about its concept), and thus couldn't say how long that was, or should be. He walked until his legs couldn't support his weight anymore, until hunger became so fierce he started to crawl between the trees searching for edible roots and leaves. He found none that he felt like trying in the strange forest.
How strange, that he didn't remember anything for long, except that he shouldn't die. Shouldn't die. It was branded in his skin like an invisible suit, and for a moment, he couldn't unsee the butterflies from earlier, gold and red, gold and red, blood and money and a fall far, far below…
He threw up so violently new stars shone beneath his eyelids.
"Fuck." His voice didn't sound like his own. He wiped his mouth clean and tried to stand. "Fuck."
He had to get out of the woods.
His throat was parched, his lips bleeding and his temples throbbing by the time he left the forest behind. He longed for proper rest, for a soft bed and a good meal, but the sight of a city in the distance beckoned him forwards, pulled at his limbs like a magnet. He felt so small, but also protected, in a way he couldn't begin to understand.
So he walked some more. Purposefully.
He decided on a break halfway to the city. Those tall towers and impressive buildings, even the bridge which, from where he stood, showed more similarities to a rainbow than an actual bridge, appealed to him like home. But this wasn't home, of that he was sure.
He sank to the ground and exhaled heavily. Now might be a good time to try on the local vegetation.
He had a mouthful of (very sour) grass in his mouth when a man appeared out of thin air.
What the hell? Part of his brain noted a propensity to swearing. He quickly shut it up, more interested in the lithe figure coming his way.
The man was taller than him, and slender. He wore leather boots, leather pants, and a leather tunic; a fan of leather, no doubt. His dark hair floated freely past his shoulders. He too walked with purpose, his back straight and his chin held high, as if he considered the man crouched on the ground not even worthy of cleaning his black-leather boots. But he was looking at him, oh yes: staring, even.
And he, well... He froze for a moment, uncertain of the best way to go about addressing this individual, but then sprang to his feet. The vastness of the sky and the land did spin a little, but soon enough the man in leather was standing right in front of him, regal and very obviously angry.
He had one second to admit to himself that the figure clad in black and green leather, with his long mane of dark hair and those wild, green eyes, was a sight to behold, before a dagger was held to his throat.
"What is a Midgardian doing on Asgard?"
"I'm not sure." He tried not to panic, and failed. "Do you know who I am?"
"Even if I knew, I couldn't care less, stranger."
Time seemed to come to a full stop as they studied each other. His breath caught at their proximity, at the scent of leather, so familiar and yet so foreign. He wanted to laugh and to scream, to take quite a few steps back and yet to touch the man so close to him, so close. This man of the curious, suspicious gaze felt more real than anything else here did.
"Who…" He wasn't sure what he'd meant to say, because he'd just spied specks of gold in those green eyes, and was instantly reminded of a pain so excruciating he had to touch his back to convince himself it wasn't bleeding down his legs.
Why would he think that? And why would that man grab his arm and look at him like that, with raw intensity like he, too, wished to know what lay beyond his physical presence, and his mental absence? More than he himself did?
"Midgardian?" the man whispered.
By the time he collapsed like a string-less puppet into the strong arms outstretched to catch him, he couldn't say why pain flared up his spine, or why it was accompanied by a sensation of cold, cold dread, and...
Darkness swallowed him.
