21. No Damsels
. . .
Stark watched the tracker dots change on his suit's complex HUD, three SHIELD agents and the doctor as a stringer from the weird part of the organization's directory suddenly departing London only to be re-acquired a second later by Friday. Now the bonkers barbershop quartet was somewhere amidst fields and moor just southeast of the Boleskine place. He targeted the location with a lifted eyebrow and decided he didn't need to be asked before setting course, kicking at the sky to set his trajectory.
Static crackled in his ear a moment later, Coulson's voice sounding hugely less stressed while, somehow, just as stressed in a different way. "Stark?"
"Already moseying on my way over, Phil-baby. How's the god of comas?"
"Mouthy, weird, and about as much of a pain in the ass as ever."
"You must be relieved, Phil. You were so worried. Does he know you were all worried? I even heard that Skye lady shrieking on the line earlier. It's very cute, the way you just adopt these people. I bet you tell them dad jokes. Are we doing a get-well card? Because I'll sign, just for the hell of it." Stark grinned at the HUD as he flew, listening to the sounds of annoyance fill the line. "Be there in just a sec, kids."
. . .
The hour of twilight passed and became full night. Death looked up at what few flickering stars she could see from her cage and took a soft inhale. She was everywhere, this was the truth. She knew the fluctuations, the ebb and flow of life. The patterns could not be hidden from her, not even in the dark place where she was held, and she smiled with grim certainty when she saw certain ones begin to change and reform close by.
Around the cage, the nineteen wards continued their monotonous chant. To a person, they could no longer look at her. They held firm in the belief that she could not escape and could do nothing from within that place of binding. Both the sound of their ritual and that blinding belief would hide her own actions. They were not as wise as they believed.
She rose silently to her feet, her eyes keeping watch on the nineteen surrounding her to ensure none found some new bravery. Then she put a hand on the inside of the cage door, knowing that Belasco was already at the altar, busy with his preparations. Likely in communion with the vile thing that drove him.
Death had stolen many books in Her time, as her brief allies among the mortals knew. One, Loki, also knew that she'd learned a fair few mortal tricks to put to her use when incarnate and so, some slight fraction more vulnerable. Minor illusions and other things that suited her chosen nature. She was long since prepared for such foolishness on the part of would-be conquerers. She did not care for rudeness and disrespect, but she admired mortal curiosity and thus chose to cultivate it in herself as a whimsy that was also a tool.
With her palm pressed against the thick block of steel that served as the lock to her cage, she whispered a faint string of arcane words that both Loki and Strange would recognize immediately. The lock snapped open, the clinking sound of it muted by her hand, the easy spell, and the soft murmuring of the cultists, and so it was that she let herself out to go and do her part in stopping the old fool, Belasco. Not one looked up to see her as she whispered by through the shadows that filled the basement prison, but one shivered, as if suddenly cold to the bone. She could have taken all nineteen then with a cold whisper on the wind, but she felt that was not quite her place. They were fools, doing a fool's bidding. Let them scatter, afraid.
Now, Belasco. That one was hers to take again and no other's. He made it personal, made dalliance with the eldritch God-beast she long ago shamed into submission. She intended to see them both repaid in kind.
. . .
"What's the plan, sports fans?" Stark sat down with a thump on a rock that jutted up out of the wet ground of the moor, looking at the pool of muck that swamped around his feet. "That's going to need a power-hose," he muttered to himself inside his helmet.
Coulson jutted a chin at Stark, his hand jammed in his suit pocket. Being lighter, he wasn't having the same issue as the man in the metal suit. His toes were getting kind of cold and damp, though. "Gut instinct says we roll in hot and start hitting Belasco in the face to keep him from getting the ritual started. Gut instinct, while awesome and emotionally satisfying, is probably not our best plan."
Strange kept his tall form hovering above the damp moor, with Fitz looking up at him with an expression that suggested he felt the doctor was using a cheat code. The scientist was fiddling with checking the safeties on a couple of spare firearms, one of which he shoved into his belt with a wince. Another was tossed to Loki, who examined it with an expression that indicated he wouldn't be using it while Strange talked. "It's also far too late by my reckoning. Now that we're close, I can tell you the ritual has been slowly building for quite some time, the scars of it cutting deep through all the gathered power in this region to bind it all into this bleak spell. What we approach tonight is the apex, the final call to Belasco's chosen God. It will not be so simple to disrupt, I'm afraid."
"We can still hit Belasco in the face," offered Loki cheerily, seemingly unaffected by the chill in the nighttime Scottish air. His lips and teeth pulled into an echo of the old jackal's smile. "I have absolutely no qualms with this option. In fact, I volunteer."
"Holding a bit of a grudge, Loki of Asgard?"
Loki eyed the hovering sorcerer and his sardonic expression, that new gleam still bright in his face. "Can you blame me?"
The red cloak flowed and followed the doctor in a shrug. "Not really. If you get a chance, hit him in the face all you like. Let's prioritize first, however." He lifted a hand to demonstrate. "The prophecy's needs are our targets. Rescue Death, acquire the Key, and ensure the Door does not fully open. That is likely our best order – without Death in Belasco's grasp, it may be Shuma-Gorath's interest will wane. Not likely, but... At the very least, we may avoid the worst possible outcome."
Fitz lifted a finger. "And may I add, Loki and I discussed that situation, and avoiding it sounds really good to me." Coulson lifted an eyebrow at him in an unspoken question. "You don't want to know, sir."
"You truly don't." Loki settled himself against Stark's rock for lack of any other option on the broad moor. "I support Strange's priority, though I must add I think it will be fairly easy to secure the la-" He cut himself off as the figure of a young woman came up over a nearby ridge and into their view.
Her words carried ahead of her as she approached. "Or I will damned well take care of myself, Loki of Asgard. I like to think you might have suspected that possibility." Death smiled, thin and wry in a light brown face that was both young and terrifyingly ancient all at once. Her hands were stuffed into the pockets of the old jeans she wore. Like Loki, she seemed untroubled by the cold air. "This is not the City and its guards. I can handle one old egotistical fool and his confused minions, given a little time to get my feet back under me. Belasco himself is mine and none of yours. This is aged business done at last, a ledger to be balanced out and closed." She took a hand out of her pocket to gesture languidly at the group of men. "That said, it is charming to see all of you again."
All of you. Fitz swallowed hard, not sure how to take that. The dark gold eyes flickered to his and he couldn't help but shiver, despite the friendly, old smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he could swear he saw Strange twitch a little as well. Neither Coulson nor Loki looked so much as startled by this arrival, however. Stark was unreadable inside his suit, but to make himself feel better, Fitz decided to believe that the Avenger probably peed a little.
"Don't fret. Today again we are allies, and you do not need to fear me overmuch." She inclined her head politely before turning to Coulson. "The Key is in the hands of Belasco himself. The rest will follow naturally if we are fortunate, but I must advise you – his madness begins to crescendo, echoed by the long dark where even I do not walk save when I must. There are matters in play that may must come to an ending and a sealing. We do not leave here without battle, I'm afraid... and I am here. I cannot tell you the night's outcome, it is too mutable and I do not know it." She looked to Loki when she said that, bringing a contemplative expression to his face.
Stark lifted a red-alloyed hand to get everyone's attention. "Okay. So it doesn't sound like we need to get all Patton on this. Less talky more punchy? I've got the entire area mapped, all we really need to do is pick our route to go start messing up this guy's eldritch rock gig."
"Belasco will be in the graveyard close. It's the nexus he's made, a knot of power between life and death, chaos and order. Miss, may I advise you remain behind in case of-"
Death lifted a brow in annoyance, the expression curt enough to cut Strange off. "Spare me, ward of the Vishanti. I found that unnecessary chivalry grew old before the birth of this galaxy's star. I was taken, yes, a terribly minor misstep on my part. Do not compound it by fawning at me."
Strange's face pinched further when he realized Loki was smirking at him from just outside of Death's view. "Of course, my la- Er." He shook his head, realizing her expression wasn't getting any cheerier with that choice of words, either. "Right," he said, giving up. "Gut instinct rules the night. All out assault on a bunch of cultists and their leader, and may Chaos favor the invading team."
Stark hoisted up from the rock, thrusters starting to warm back up at the snap of his hands. "Go big or go home."
. . .
Belasco turned to watch his people as they knelt among the mossy stones, throats full of the low, wavering hum in the arcane tonal mix he'd taught them. He could be proud, and he was, though not of them. Proud of the culmination of a life's work. Proud of his plan come to fruition at last. That eve, he would behold Shuma-Gorath Itself, and be ascended to continue to the dark work. Forever.
There was no greater fate. No greater revenge for his dead world and his dead soul.
He turned back to examine the rough slab of old marble, a relic kept safe for centuries while he did the delicate work of layering countless spells and runes within it. The seals and the containers, and in the center of all this a hole waiting for its key.
With Death's mortal host strapped to its surface, she would be unable to resist the damage the Key would do to her. She would be locked out, severed from the plane they currently shared. The rest of the runes would ensure she was fed to great unholy Shuma-Gorath where It pressed on the other side of the Door. Between the two, the door would not merely crack – he could do that right now by the grace of his ancient Key and touch Its slithering face when It pressed close. With the gift of Death's spirit, the Door would be blown open, with no corner of this universe untouched by its eternal corruption and ceaselessly spreading flesh.
He ignored the rustling of one of his cultists at first, the man stampeding his way through the graveyard towards him like a bull. Then his nostrils flared, smelling fear. He looked over his shoulder, his gaze freezing the man solid. Now he marked him – one of the basement wards, young and terrified to his mortal core. He knew instantly what that meant. "Fool..."
"She's gone, great Guide! I don't know how. The others have fled." His mouth opened, agape as Belasco began to hover over him. The thrumming sound of the rest of the cultists filled the graveyard. Yes, power here. Power enough to spare in quick punishment. He lifted a hand, watching new fear began to boil through the young man's face. "Please, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm-"
Belasco obliterated him with a wave, letting the fury begin to curdle and overflow within him. Thousands of years of work, at risk because these children that worshipped him and his God could not keep another child locked safely away for mere hours.
On the other side of the field between the cemetery and the manor, he heard a scream of fright that was not at all his doing. He sneered, his fine old eyes picking out the sudden swoop into the air of the infamous man in the metal suit. The night sky lit up with a blaze of light from the machine palm, and in the afterglow he saw a handful of his cultists running in terror. "He's not trying to kill you!" he howled across the fields, pouring his magic into the shout to be sure they heard him. "These Avengers kill only if they must. But I will end all of you, if you do not delay him!"
They kept running as the man, that Stark, shot up to course back down in a sonic boom strong enough to drown out even his commands. It echoed across the land, earning responding hoots of offense from nesting cormorants at the edge of the loch.
Fear was a teacher, a way to bind student to master. But they were more afraid of the metal man now than he, teaching him the fleeting worth of that relationship – and rising next into the air above Boleskine's land was the red cloak of the Vishanti's newest Sorcerer Supreme. The man was chanting his own quick magics, the gloved hands firing alight in spirals and patterns designed to hasten the scattering of his pets. Belasco snarled in fresh rage and made a decision, turning back to the altar to begin the first phase of the Great Work early.
She would still be close. If his great God would agree to heed his cry, then the mishap come to pass could be recovered from. By Its mercy and will.
Belasco might be abruptly losing his grip on the scattering cult. But no one could run from the a glimpse of Shuma-Gorath, even in Its first and minor incarnation. Not even Death.
He took the Key from his pocket and plunged it into its place in the altar with a scream into the darkness beyond darkness, imploring his God to take pity and to slither Its first great tentacle through the crack that was already beginning to form between the planes. Emerge in Its first form, to teach humility and to ensure the rest of their future might come.
At first there was silence.
Then the low shudder of a sound below mortal hearing, a sound that instinctively brought illness and imbalance, frightening a listener into primal horror. Within that inhuman rumble, Belasco heard another sound, a sonic shudder that began underneath the sludge of the nearby loch, and his teeth bared in wild delight at the midnight sky.
God was coming.