Title: Scars – Chapter Three

Author: Lucky Gun

Beta: SpenChester

Summary: A trip to Asgard to keep Barton out of the Council's reach after the Battle of New York places the agent in more danger than anyone could have ever imagined. Face to face with demigods capable of reading his very soul, Hawkeye is forced to protect his teammates and himself from Loki's growing influence while on the prince's home world. Sequel to Bruises. AU. Contains whump, language, and torture.

A/N: We're jumping immediately into the thick of this thing. Why? Cause I'm the writer and I say so. Also, because my beta and I agreed that this is the best way for it to go. Also, give us a shout out if you want a bloopers bonus chapter added at the end of all this, because I swear to God we have enough material for one. And it'd be hilarious.


The sound of Odin's scepter slamming against the wooden platform echoed dully in Clint's ears, and he ignored everything around him as he soundlessly grabbed his second full quiver from the weapons bag that Natasha had brought with them. He knew she was trying to get his attention but he refused, blocking her out skillfully. He couldn't look at her or the team or the father of the man who'd completely obliterated his mind.

He couldn't look up and see the blue eyes in the walls that still stared at him, unblinking in their superiority.

He'd put an arrow through Loki's eye socket fifty times and he didn't feel different, knew he wouldn't sleep better. He flinched minutely as he stared through his tinted glasses at the dais, unseeing in the knowledge that filled him anew. Loki was still here, in the world and within himself, the entirety of the realm intending nothing but his own destruction.

But that didn't mean he had to go quietly.

Odin was saying something that he should've cared for, but instead Clint just felt wired and tense. He heard something about a group of conjured enemies that knew few falls in battle, about the physical damage restrictions the creatures would have placed upon them by their magical creator. He put his right side to Natasha and his left to Hulk, barely keeping himself from shrugging off the hand that fell lightly on his shoulder.

"Barton? You with us?"

Turning just enough to catch the sight of Steve's narrowed eyes, the agent gave the slightest nod and shifted so he could feel his finger guards tighten against his skin.

"Not hitchhiking this time, captain," the sniper murmured, and the tension on the superman's face faded a little as he responded, "Good. That'd be a long walk home."

Steve smiled at him and returned his attention to the panel of demigods before them. Beside him, Natasha brushed her hip against her partner's leg to get his attention.

"You sure about that, Clint? Seems like you're anywhere but here," she said under her breath, voice pitched to carry to him alone.

Hesitating, he found his mind flying out of the hall and down the stairs of the castle, across the rainbow bridge to the Bifrost chamber, back to Earth, to sense and reality instead of monsters and magic. His left eye twitched fractionally and he was glad she hadn't seen his tell. But he pulled his mind back to himself with a supreme effort of concentration and gave her a sideways look.

"Where else would I be?" he asked rhetorically, a muscle in his cheek twitching when a sudden image of a cave he didn't know flashed across his eyes.

She didn't answer and instead pulled her twin pistols from her holsters and checked the safeties. Clint stared at her for a second longer, forcing himself to breathe evenly through the hot air that seemed to burn his lungs and dry his throat. His view shifted to Odin, who was already focused on him, his eyes boring into the very center of his soul, silently asking the questions that Clint was desperate to answer.

No, I'm not okay.

Yes, something's wrong.

Please, let me go.

But whatever mystical abilities the king seemed to have, he didn't appear to be psychic, because his attention redirected to the far end of the hall, his scepter booming grandly against the floor of the dais. A gleefully expectant hush fell over the gathered crowd as the doors the team had entered through opened once again. Barton didn't turn to look until Tony's low whistle and appreciative sigh got his attention.

"So that's what happens when Bunnies and Angels mate..."

Frowning, Clint turned enough to see what the team would be up against, Natasha's long-suffering groan satisfying his curiosity just as his peripheral caught sight of the newcomers. Walking towards the team was a group of six extraordinarily beautiful, flawless women. Their demigod status was more than obvious in their ethereal beauty, their tall and lithe statures, and their practically luminescent skin. Inwardly, Clint agreed with his partner. Something that beautiful was bound to be doubly dangerous.

"Uh, Thor? Quick question. Fighting...it means the same thing to you as it does to us, right? I mean, we've had difficulty in communication before, so I want to make sure we're on the same page. Fighting is bang, pow, smash..." Steve murmured before trailing off, his face blushing red as he realized he was only digging the hole he was in hole deeper.

His features tight but nonetheless amused, the deity nodded and answer quietly, "Indeed, my friend. There is no error here. Do not be distracted by their beauty. No matter the length and stature of your life in battle, be duly warned: you will never face a more dangerous foe than the one before us. These, Avengers, are the commanders of the Valkyries of Valhalla."

Blinking a few times as the goddesses drew closer at a leisurely pace, Tony stammered, "You're...I mean, you're kidding, right? Yeah, Valhalla, home of the dead warriors, woohoo, but seriously? They're cream puffs, right? We're talking Lingerie League, here."

Chuckling lightly at his friend's denial, Thor assured, "I promise you, Man of Iron, they are more than a match for any of us. They are controlled by my father, to an extent, but otherwise are governed by their own sense of duty. They are not to be taken lightly. Many have underestimated their strength and fortitude in battle. Let us not join them."

Straightening his shoulders and ignoring the twinge of pain that came with the motion, Clint leveled his gaze at the threat, ignoring everything superficial and reaching for that place within him that let him see so much more. Abruptly within his mind, he quickly strode from the innermost room of himself, ignoring everything around him. He knew what he'd see if he looked.

Broken timber.

Shattered marble.

Bloody floors.

He knew he should be concerned, should be terrified beyond reason at the state of disrepair his mind was suffering. Had he more time on Earth to center himself and find the strength to fix some of his broken mentality, he wouldn't be in such a mess. But he couldn't focus on that here, not on Asgard. He could feel the presses at his outermost shields, the light tests on his defenses, the air itself tinted just slightly in a shade he hated with everything he was. Looking at that destruction, feeling the fear, would open the floodgates to everything that was trying so hard to block. So he threw on blinders and pressed forward, convicted beyond himself to a singular truth that was engraved on his heart and hemmed around the edges of his soul.

He didn't matter. His team did.

He trusted nothing other than that truth and the strength it lent him. If he could do nothing else than protect them, even from himself, then he would sacrifice anything he had to for that.

He quickly came to that place that allowed him the view into others; the path was worn into the ground, his feet leading him to that door that locked away this ability. He didn't know where it came from, but he had the feeling that it had always been there, only accessible, for a time, when he'd needed it most. But he'd tamed it, made it something that bent to his will instead of him to it, and turned it into a tool beyond measure.

It's why he had guarded Steve for all those weeks; the man lived with such conviction and belief that he couldn't do any less than protect it to a full awakening.

It's why he had yet to distrust Bruce in any manner, big guy or otherwise. The man was simply good in every way that mattered, and the ways he wasn't just fell to the wayside.

It's why he had given Coulson so many chances to call him off the snipe at that crater in New Mexico, because he'd been able to see what Thor was and could be if he was just given the chance.

It's why he had acquiesced so easily at being held back at the Hammer Expo, at Natasha's assignment to the billionaire playboy; distraction or not, the man longed to do good, burned to do better, and would always rise to the occasion.

It's why he had held his shot, held his breath during her dance, held his hand steady and his voice even when he turned his back on an assassination and turned to recruiting; Natasha had so much potential and was worth far more to the world – and to him – alive than as a blank tombstone.

This same sight let him see the Council's goals, Fury's dedication, and Coulson's sacrifices. It let him see every target before he got to them, intent and rolling through their movements and in the shift of their eyes. He could read people like a book, and even though each language was different, he knew every translation. Call it intuition, instinct, or a hunch, but he could count on one hand the number of times he'd been wrong.

Shaking himself away from the line of memories his thoughts were taking him towards, Clint reached the door that held his sight. It was strong and unmarred, solid in the power it held behind and the ability it could bring forth. He opened it with a heartbeat, the frame of the door vibrating for a moment before he was enveloped in pure white light, warm and clear and free.

When he opened his eyes again, Clint was back in the arena, his team around him, his gaze on the women still coming steadily closer. He had a microsecond to prepare himself to look beyond the beauty, beyond the surface, and see the intent beneath the skin.

And then the women weren't so beautiful to him anymore.

What he saw was a mass of grotesque goliaths stumbling towards him with saliva running down their jaws and cat eyes glowing a demon red. Tanned skin had given way to gray, craggy hide, scars and wounds festering and weeping. Their battle prowess and ability oozed from their pores in waves of golden dust that turned black as it touched the ground. They were every bit the hellish angels the history books made them out to be.

Jerking, Barton put his left shoulder against Hulk's chest, an involuntary shudder working its way down his frame, his eyes darting over the approaching threat. Beside him, Thor turned towards the archer, alarmed, as Hulk looked down at man with a grunt of confusion. It was obvious his teammates saw nothing but the women as they pretended to be.

"Are you fit, my friend?" the demigod asked quickly, taking half a step towards him.

Barton squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head hard, trying to dispel the image, and when he looked again, the same monstrous creatures were still walking towards him, their movements a little slower than they'd been. Refusing to acknowledge the slight tremble in his hand, Clint reached up and tipped his sunglasses down a bit, staring at the Valkyries over the tops of the red lenses. They glared back at him, jaws agape, maws reaching for him with so much eagerness he could almost feel their acidic breath on his skin.

Then that voice came from within, the honey sweetness flooding his senses with sapphire pain.

A gift to you, Agent Barton. Your sight could use some expanding, I thought. See the fearsome beasts we have here on Asgard. You thought I was the worst my people had to offer? Oh no, Hawk. You will long for the simple truths I can give when this world is done with you. When you are stripped to the core of yourself, your soul plucked from the bones of your heart like carrion to a vulture, you will beg for something as benevolent as I. You will plead for it. You will beg. And you will kneel.

Didn't I promise you that, Agent Barton? You will kneel.

You will always kneel.

His throat locking as his vision tinted a hazy blue, Clint blocked out his teammate's worried look and the hand at his shoulder that was so feminine yet so strong. Even his mental reply was silent, a roll of static against a wave of nauseating waves crashing against his mental barriers. He was distantly aware of the anxiety level rising throughout the group surrounding him but completely unaware of the words they spoke. Likewise, he was equally unaware of Balder and Forseti exchanging a concerned look, an unspoken conversation floating between them like a cloud between the earth and sun. The brown eyed man behind them, clothed in high finery, leveled a cold glare at the archer, the usual warmth present in humans completely absent in the demigod. His black leather clothing did nothing to hide the myriad of weaponry on his person, from the bow over his back to the sword at his side and the dagger in his belt. While many of the other deities were busy appreciating their approaching warriors, this demigod in particular was studying the struggling agent with an intensity that predators usually had for their unsuspecting prey. Whatever his concern, though, it apparently wasn't enough to voice, because he held his tongue even as Odin leaned forward on his throne, a frown on his features.

"Avengers? All is well?"

His voice overrode the freeze that had descended upon Clint's mind, the cobalt taint melting with the power in the king's voice. Coming from his unbidden stupor with a slight jolt, the agent let a breath of time pass before he assessed himself.

And he determined that he was pissed.

If he was honest with himself, he'd admit that he was beyond that point, actually. He was hovering somewhere between unhinged and insane. He could feel Loki washing against his consciousness, trying to drown him beneath the ocean of magic influence that existed somewhere between reality and mystery. The constant reminder of the shattered framing and cracked stars in his mind was sapping the rapidly draining stores of mental health he'd held in reserve.

Knowing that and subsequently finding himself uncaring, he let a slightly psychotic grin cross his face and flipped his sunglasses back onto the bridge of his nose. They weren't Loki or the Chitauri, certainly, but these ugly bitches were good enough targets for him. He'd fire his arrowheads into their skulls, use the sinew holding them together as a whetstone for his knives, and he could at least pretend to rid his mind of the chromatic colors washing out his thoughts.

Ducking his head for a moment and finding himself back in his mind for half a thought, he caught a glimpse of the central hall, bowing and bending with the red waves of anger that spread from his inner sanctum. Then he was in the arena once again, the rage still seeping from him, and he tightened his fingers around the bow in his hand, his other clenching tight against the finger guards he wore. Natasha could feel the change in him, he knew; the way she took a step physically closer while mentally distancing herself betrayed that. Hulk had a smirk that showed he had found a willing companion in fighting angry. Tony was behind Clint, but the archer could sense the worried disapproval the man was emanating, the portable version of Jarvis yammering in his master's ear about blood pressure and heart rate, no doubt. Thor looked like he was half tempted to call off the match, but Steve waved him off.

"Barton? You all right?" the captain asked, and Clint did nothing to diminish the grin that was still making him look a little less sane than usual when he turned to the team's leader and responded, "Hell yeah, sir."

For his part, Steve seemed to understand the man's need to release some anger, to feel something other than uncertainty, so he just nodded and murmured, "Don't do anything stupid, Hawkeye; that's an order."

A slight nod was all Clint gave and all the soldier expected to get, so he turned back to the dais and, ever the diplomat, gave an apologetic bow to the king and said, "We're well enough, sire. Thank you."

Thor hesitated another second before he glanced over his shoulder at his father and gave a soft smile, his own answer to the question within the question. Odin frowned slightly but nonetheless returned the gesture and raised his voice to cover the room once again.

"Thus commences the test of skill, strength, and fortitude between the Avengers of Earth and the Valkyries of Valhalla. Let this be entered into the annals of our history: humans fighting with Asgard's Son against the best of our warriors. Let it begin!"

The moment the lord's staff hit the wood of the dais, the crowds screamed, the Avengers stiffened, the world erupted in a cacophony of noise and motion, and life began to blur. Clint and Thor were the only ones who were unsurprised when the 'Angels' abruptly turned nasty and began to change; Barton already saw their true selves, and Thor had seen it before. But the team responded quickly and easily, rolling into movement and strategy as the women turned into gargoyles, their high pitched howls joining the roar of the crowds. Four of them took to the skies while the other two dropped to all four clawed feet, pressed their ragged wings to their backs, and ran towards the team like wild animals.

Thor wasted no time swinging Mjollnir in a long-familiar motion and flying into the air, tracking after one of the faster Valkyries. Tony was muttering something under his breath about reasons to remain faithful to Pepper while blasting after one of the flying creatures, his palms glowing brightly. Hulk roared something unintelligible and leapt into the sky with graceless abandon, grabbing a passing gargoyle from the air and dragging it to the ground kicking and screaming. Steve, Natasha, and Clint put their backs to each other, Clint trusting the duo to take care of the two on the ground while he tracked the last one that was determined to stay airborne.

The sound of Steve's shield ringing through the air and the report of Tasha's pistols echoed in Barton's ears as his fingers danced over the grip of his bow and his quiver whirred to life. A split second later the bolt was nocked and his eyes were tracking just ahead of his target. Had he been any less hateful and rage-filled than he was, he would have looked to disable. Instead, he was lining up his shot to the Valkyrie right in the neck. He half remembered what Odin had said about the things being unable to wound them, but he doubted the team was expected to obey the same restrictions. These things were the protectors of the souls of demigods; he seriously doubted anything he did would hurt them. Still, the fact that he was tracking the pulsing vein in the thing's throat should have sent the moral wheels of his mind into overdrive.

Instead, all he felt was a release of the heat behind his eyes as the bolt flew from his string, the fletching skimming some exposed skin on his wrist and drawing a thin wisp of blood. Perhaps sensing the attack through demigod magic, the Valkyrie banked just enough to make the Hawk miss his mark. The arrow bit through the air directly in front of the thing's face instead, making it jerk back mid-flight and hiss at him.

Grinning slightly despite the lack of accuracy, Clint muttered, "Now that I have your attention..."

He didn't let the last miss faze him as he fell into repetition, pulling another projectile and loosing another shot, the sharp fletching pulling another line of red from his skin. The rush of endorphins from the fight and the slice of pain broke through enough of his anger that he felt adequately scolded when the creature simply swatted the arrow from the air and gave a scream of anger. Tasha's repeated gunfire was a needed grounding force in his mind and he used the sound to steady himself. He was vaguely aware of Steve leaving the two agents, sprinting towards one of the grounded creatures, and Clint glanced over his shoulder to catch his partner's eye. The rest of the team was getting pinned down, and he could help. It might be the only thing he could do right anymore. She looked at him just long enough to get the message before she nodded her consent, tossed him a wry grin, and went back to tracking her own target.

Bracing himself, Clint exhaled sharply before abruptly racing out into the arena, one ear listening for the Valkyrie that was hunting him while he looked for his other teammates, taking in the status of the team in an instant. Jogging across the dirt floor, he pulled a bolt with an acidic tip and sent it singing through the air towards Tony, trusting Jarvis to alert the man to the danger. The AI did his job and Tony whirled in midair and put the monster he was grappling with in the arrow's path. The small detonation was enough to blast the Valkyrie to the ground, leaving it alternating between hissing and whimpering as its back leaked smoke.

Responding to the billionaire's light salute with a small nod, Clint continued his jagged path across the arena, steadily heading towards where Hulk and another enemy were rolling in the dust. His eyes stayed on the sky and his attention abruptly latched on Thor. The man was pressed against a column fifty feet in the air, his hammer ineffectually hanging from his wrist. The Valkyrie that had him had both clawed hands around the demigod's throat, and the man looked like he was torn between unleashing all manners of hell on the creature his father had summoned and pulling his punches. Rolling his eyes behind his glasses, Clint grabbed another bolt and let it fly, hitting the Valkyrie perfectly in the head. The force of the discharge sent the two supernatural beings flying apart, and Barton paid them no more mind.

His primary concern was getting to Hulk, who was being ganged up on by his own attacker and Steve's, who'd apparently found better game. A sound caught his ear and he loosed his arrow just as he realized what it was. Vulture-like, his own Valkyrie swung from the sky and snatched the bolt from the air, whipping around and flinging it back at him with lightning speed. Blinking and seeing the arrow's path with his inner sight, Clint fell to his knees and slid forward as he leaned backwards. The arrowhead scored a deep line under his right eye, eerily familiar to the line Natasha had left on him in the quinjet before New York. This one was deeper, though, and he could feel the flush of blood slip down his cheek. A familiar throbbing in his ear proved it had cut the edge of it, too.

Jerking to the side with the shock of the pain and rolling to his feet, Clint began sprinting in the opposite direction, taking just long enough to unleash an arrow at the two Valkyries on Hulk, the projectile slipping between his monster's fingers. The shot sufficiently distracted the two that the changed man was able to get the upper hand, and the agent turned his attention towards getting back to his partner.

As he ran, his fingers came up to his cheek and brushed at the crimson heat soaking his face, the burn reigniting with his touch. Beside him, he was abruptly aware of Captain America's sudden appearance, his face worried and his features hard as he took in the blood that was running down Clint's face and dripping from the lobe of his ear.

Shouting over the sounds of Hulk's angered roaring and Tony's suit zooming overhead, Steve said, "I thought they weren't supposed to be able to hurt us!"

Shrugging and ignoring the spiking headache that was thundering through his head, Barton drew closer to where Natasha had just finished blinding two monsters with help from a flash grenade and Thor.

"It's fine, Captain. Drop it," Hawkeye snapped as he futilely wiped at the blood, frustrated with his obvious mortality in the sea of relative immortality.

It was a testament to the preoccupation the Russian assassin felt with the fight that she said nothing about her partner's injury. Instead, she just gave him a nudge with her shoulder when he put his back to her, a 'welcome back' hidden in the motion. Steve paused with the two for a moment to take stock, the overbearing screams of the crowd making it a little difficult to concentrate.

Mentally finding no difference between the high-octane arena and a silent shooting range, the archer knelt to the ground to brace himself as he began firing arrow after arrow at every target he could track. His attention was finally redirected to the Valkyrie that had taken an intense interest in him, and he let a particularly forceful shot free of his bow. The scalpel-sharp tip sliced through the creature's wing and pulled a blob of blue blood from its veins. Frowning when the monster abruptly banked and began diving towards them, Clint reached for another arrow while turning towards his teammates.

"Scatter!" he snapped, and while Tasha jumped and immediately rolled away, Steve took a half second to look at the incoming threat.

That split second was all it took for it to be on top of them, arms reaching, jaw sagging, teeth glistening. It swooped in, legs forward, claws flashing. Seeing its intent in the arch of its back, Clint abruptly body-slammed Steve into the ground, his hand reaching for the knife under his archer's glove while the man beneath him coughed into the dust. Then there was something hot and heavy on top of them, long nails gripped his vest, and then the agent was airborne.

The world spun crazily on its axis as the sound of the thing's supersonic scream disoriented the archer for a handful of heartbeats, his eyes finally catching the view of the ground far below, the ceiling fairly close, and the shocked faces of the spectators. Grunting and reaching for his attacker with one hand, his other gripping his knife tightly, Barton abruptly made a deadly slice towards the Valkyrie's chest. There was another scream in his ear and he winced as he was abruptly dropped. He fell for ten feet before he was grabbed again by the same gargoyle; this time he was grabbed face to face. The jarring stop made Clint smash his face against the creature's exposed and sharp collarbone, busting his lip. The rush of blood down his throat almost came back up as the Valkyrie shifted and slammed him against the ceiling of the arena. They slid along the marble blocks for a few yards before the talons in the thing's wings caught on a few decorative cracks and gripped tight. They hung for a minute, Barton's wrists and knees held against the ceiling by the Valkyrie's flexible hands and feet.

Wincing against the horrific monster he was so close to, attempting to figure some way to escape, he was almost shocked to find words hidden in its guttural pants.

"You...will...kneel."

Mouth opening in a silent gasp, Clint watched a single drop of his blood slip from his lips and fall down into the thing's mouth. Then its eyes, its demon red eyes, closed for a second as it tasted his life force.

When they opened again, they were an icy blue.

There was a lifetime inside a heartbeat as a thrall of terror and fear froze Barton in his tracks. His hand loosened around the hilt of his knife to the point of ineffectualness and his bow hung idly from his fingertips, forgotten. The thing gave such a familiar smirk, such a shockingly haunting and beautifully cultured smile, that Clint couldn't breathe.

I have found you, Hawk. Stop hiding from me. It's so difficult to destroy you when you insist on running. Here is a taste of what is to come, Agent Barton. Remember that you deserve so much more.

So much more.

The creature moved with such speed that it could only be magic, but Clint saw it coming in slow motion. The Valkyrie released his right hand, his arm still held against the marble by some supernatural force, then it was grabbing at his side, directly opposite where he'd been injured in New York. Its claws sunk through vest, skin, and muscle. What passed as its thumb tore through his Kevlar like it was butter, punctured his skin with a wet pop, and sunk through his muscles with something beyond ease. Its other four fingers wrapped around his side and repeated the motion deep near the small of his back, its massive hand spanning the distance comfortably. Tissue tore, veins ruptured, and red coated everything.

Agony and pain warped through Barton's mind but he couldn't move, couldn't speak, his eyes locked on the thing's sky-colored eyes and self-satisfied smile. Its hand twitched inside him, the rush of heat telling. The hold had a sort of sick intimacy to it that reminded the archer of far too much, and then the Valkyrie wearing Loki's face pulled back its hand, coated in gore. Breaths coming faster as his body rebelled against the fresh wound, Clint watched with perverse fascination as the monster brought its stony hand to its mouth and began delicately licking the blood from its sharp nails.

Hot moisture began slipping from his side, the sensation a far old and very unwelcome friend. A steady stream pooled in his vest and then a few drops fell towards the ground, descending at a slow rate in the agent's view. When they hit the dusty floor, dirt swirling and rolling with their impact, so far below, the entire arena froze. Through whatever otherworldly sense the demigods possessed, they all hushed, Odin standing abruptly, his face upturned with horror and shock plain on his face. The rest of the royals surged to their feet, Balder and Forseti leading the way, the cold Asgardian behind them giving a slight scowl. With the hall silent and still, it was easy to hear Clint's rough and pained breathing from the ceiling to the ground. The other Valkyries stopped when it reached their flat ears, heads swiveling, a litany of words spilling from their gnashed lips. The Avengers, fighting but pausing at the strange change in the environment, followed their view. Natasha's quiet denial was loud enough to reach Barton, the level of pain in her voice matching the fear in his heart. There was a moment of silence.

Then time unfroze, and Clint could speak.

Better than that.

He could scream.

"Goddamn it, I will not kneel!"

Surging into motion, he gripped his knife tight and plunged it into the thing's right eye, its howl and a spurt of blood breaking whatever was left of the thrall it had over him. Snarling and reaching at its face, the creature grabbed Clint's wrist and spun, throwing him head over heels towards the ground. Shouting as his side burned with the motion, the agent didn't see the other Valkyries until they were abruptly on him. They swarmed the man, kicking and biting and hissing with indignation. His sunglasses protected his eyes and turned his vision far more red than his anger and pain were able to. The Valkyries' eyes, all of them blue, glared at him with outrage. Then they were gone, puffs of dust that vanished in the wind, and Clint closed his eyes against the rush of pain that emanated from every inch of skin.

Father will never tire of interfering, it seems. Rest well, Barton. I will see you again soon. I promise.

Darkness began to pour through the man and he let himself get lost in it, one thing sticking out in his mind. He'd known it then and he doubly knew it now.

He was going to die here.


End Chapter Three