DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.

Thanks to diarmour and for their reviews and to all the people who faved/followed this fic. We are well on the way towards 8k views. It's unbelievable!

But now let's get back to business and see how our favourite Kree is faring!

Warnings: this chapter contains language, angst, kind-of-suicidal thoughts, violence, gore and torture with overtones of sexual abuse.
If you feel uncomfortable with any of these themes, you might want to consider skipping this chapter.

Enjoy, and please don't shout at me!


The muscles in his arms and back ache from the strain of being suspended, feet dangling off the floor.
The flesh on his chest is littered with deep, extensive burns. Everyman is patient and precise and seems to have some pattern in mind, because at times he pauses and steps back, admiring his handiwork, a pleased expression on his flushed face, and then adds some more touches, some more agony, muttering to himself. He works lower and lower, down his torso. His shirt is completely undone, and dangles untucked, stained with blood and the fluids seeping from his burned flesh, and Everyman has started to undo the fly on his trousers, planning further atrocities.
Ronan notices all of this only vaguely.

It is not that he doesn't feel pain. His perception is flooded with it, a torment that is almost impossible to fathom, and yet it pales almost to nothing in comparison with the agony of his heart.
Everyman might have lost track of the rest of the world, absorbed as he is in his present endeavour, but he hasn't.
He could not.

Peter. Gamora.
They were his masters, his lovers, his meryw. They were kind, and brave, and beautiful, and Ma'at shone in their hearts.
They lie dead now, reduced to little more than lumps of charred, disfigured flesh.
Not two weeks before, he had promised Peter that he'd protect him, that he'd keep him safe.
He'd meant it, but he's only been able to watch him die, instead, without being able to do anything to save him.

They're gone.

This is worse than any physical pain Everyman can inflict him.
It makes him just want to give up. Why should he try and fight Thanos' will any longer? He has already won. Why shouldn't he just accept the death of all things? He has no reason to live anymore.
He has failed.

Maybe he should just get away from it all, retreat to that quiet, empty place inside his mind where he has gone on Xandar, and then deeper still, into nothingness, leaving his battered carcass to fend for itself until the time comes, and he can be reunited with his loved ones in death.
It would be easy to let go. He wouldn't even feel pain anymore.

Yes, it is tempting, but there is something... something to which it is increasingly hard to hold on to... that keeps him anchored to consciousness, that insists that there is still something he needs to do before he he can lay down in sweet oblivion.
What is it? What is he forgetting?
His thoughts become more and more blurry as his system starts to shut down and go into deep shock to spare him from the torment.
He reaches out for that something, grasps with all his remaining strength.

There were two smiling children holding hands, tan and purple skin juxtaposed.
There was a young man from his people, his arm wrapped protectively around the shoulders of an older woman, an old enemy.
There were women, standing in circle, hands joined.
There were two lovers , standing together, against all odds. There was a promise, a blessing.
There was peace, and it was Ma'at.
It was something worth living for, something worth fighting for.
And now it is in danger.

"The fire-bombs!" Ronan thinks, and suddenly he remembers everything.
He is fully conscious, fully there, in his wounded, burned flesh. The pain returns in full force, tearing a mewling whimper from his lips.
"Ah, yes! Such beautiful sounds you make, betrayer..." Everyman coos, slipping a hand inside Ronan's trousers and starting to fondle his cock. It's like having a cold, dead fish writhe against him, slimy and disgusting.
However pleasing the idea of puking on the man might be, Ronan clamps down on his surge of revulsion. He needs to keep Everyman focused on him while he finds a way of breaking out of the contention field.

"Soon you will see... soon you will understand why our master is doing this. He is saving us all, don't you understand? - Everyman pants, rubbing his crotch against Ronan's leg - Life is a lie. It has no purpose but to perpetuate itself. It is chaos and pain, and exploitment of one life-form over another. Death his the only cure. There will finally be order. There will be harmony. There will be perpetual peace. The Universe will be pristine, like at the beginning of the times." he raves, breathing hard against his face.

Ronan knows his words to be a lie. The death of everything is not peace, or harmony, it is just nothingness, the absence of anything.
It is not Ma'at.
Ma'at is Balance. It lies in the coexistence of birth and death, dark and light, chaos and order, mercy and justice, war and peace. It lies in recognising that the entire Universe is one, linked together by invisible ties and that harming one small part of it, damages it all.
If life has no meaning, it is by design, so that each sentient can create one for themselves, so that in search of answers, each one of them can find Ma'at inside themselves.
Life is not easy, it is not meant to be, but no one is truly alone, not even him, not even now.
Peter and Gamora might be gone, but he still has someone to fight for: Rocket, Drax and Little Groot, Helenai and Gladiator, and Peter's father, and the Kree warriors that used to take orders from him, everyone who is still left in the Temple, and ultimately the entire Universe, put in jeopardy by the machinations of a few heartless, stupid bastards.
He will not abandon them.

Just thinking about his lost loved ones makes tears flow down his face, and, unfortunately, Everyman is turned on by the sight of it.
"You're so pretty when you cry..." he hisses, grabbing Ronan's chin and standing on tiptoes to lick his face. His neck is forced none-too-gently at an angle, and it is quite painful, but it turns out to be a blessing in disguise.
Keenblade is lying on the floor, not three paces away, still inside the circle of whatever barrier Everyman is using to keep them isolated from the rest of the Temple. The glyphs on blade and haft burn redder than ever, as if the labyrs was sensing the wrongness, the injustice of it all and was manifesting its anger. Ronan can almost feel it thrum, just at the edge of his perception. It thirsts for Everyman's blood.
If only he could get to it, if only he could somehow reach it... he thinks, but the force-field wouldn't budge.
It is maddening, and there is nothing he can do about it. If he still had the Universal Weapon, he could have tried to activate its energy blast with his willpower, it wasn't any easy, but it had saved his life and that of his comrades a couple of times. Keenblade, however, though not less powerful, is different from his old weapon. He is impotent.

"Are you really, mary-anni? Or are you just giving yourself an excuse to give up?" a familiar voice echoes in his head. It sounds stern and steely like his grandfather. The old man had said it so many times that it must have been engraved in his memory.
And no, it isn't an excuse, Ronan thinks. He truly has no way out. Keenblade is close, but out of reach as if it was on the other side of the Universe. He can't reach out for it. It doesn't have that power.
"True power is not in your weapon, but in your hands." another snippet of memory declares, with the voice of his old, long-dead weapons-master.
"Is it?" Ronan asks himself.
He remembers his fellow Accusers gape, sometimes, at the things he could do with his old warhammer. Apparently the Universal Weapon had never worked like that before, but it did for him. He had coaxed out its power, just as the weapon had done the same to him, pushing him to be worthy of it.
He knows he hasn't delved as deep in Keenblade's secrets, he hasn't really had the time, or the same mad drive for proving himself that he had had in his youth.

Maybe there is a way.

He tries to concentrate on the call of the labyrs in his mind, but it is hard to clear away the pain, and the lustful whispers of his captor, and the disgusting touch of his filthy hands.
"I like how tears streak your face... - Everyman is saying, trailing a finger down his cheeks - Grief makes you beautiful, betrayer..." he adds sweetly.
Ronan grits his teeth and gives him his best baleful stare.
"You are isfet. You are an abomination." he thinks briefly, but keeps quiet. He doesn't want to give the bastard any clue about what he is going to do.

He focuses on the thought that he is going to kill that pervert, not for vengeance, because his death is not going to bring Peter and Gamora back, but so that he cannot harm anyone else in his selfish quest for annihilation. He is going to be a servant of Ma'at one last time before the end, and he needs Keenblade's help.
He can feel the labyrs growing closer in his mind, thrumming, almost singing in the joy of impending reunion until suddenly, there it is, quietly burning in fury, as solid as if he was holding it in his hands.
"I am Keenblade. My edge will never dull as long as I am used in justice.
I am the protector of the meek, the overthrower of tyrants.
I break the chains of the oppressed and free the just from the shackles of injustice.
" it whispers. The words flow through his mind, bypassing his hearing and, Ronan understands. He knows how to stop Everyman now.

"Oh, no! This defiant air won't do!" the man protests, slapping him hard on his face. He can taste blood in his mouth, but his mental hold on Keenblade doesn't waver.
Everyman must sense that something has changed in him, that he is no longer on the verge of breakdown anymore, and he is not pleased. His bland face scrunches into a grimace, like that of a child on the verge of a tantrum.
"You think you are in a position to defy me, eh? - he hisses - You are wrong, betrayer. There is only you and me here. No one is going to save you. You are my plaything... And I'll just have to find another way to make you beautiful again..." he threatens.

Ronan chooses to ignore him, even as Everyman pulls out the blowtorch again and his heart starts racing in panic. He holds on to the power he has found in Keenblade, and gently pushes it into wrapping around the tendrils of the contention field, looping around them like strangler vines. He can almost taste freedom again.
Everyman grabs his chin and raises the blowtorch towards his face. He can feel the heat pouring out of it, and tries to shy away from it in reflex, breathing fast and convulsively in anticipation of more pain.
"I wouldn't do this if I were you, my toy... - Everyman whispers, giving his face another lick, close to the corner of his lips - I'd stay very, very still. There is still so much I want to show you... I would hate to put out your pretty blue eyes by mistake." he continues, pressing the flame closer and closer.
Ronan closes his eyes and clenches his teeth. It is going to hurt a lot, possibly more than anything he has ever experienced before, and he can't avoid it, but he can't, he must not let go of Keenblade.
No matter what, he will prevail, he tells himself.

The flame bites into his skin, just below his left eye, cold and numbing, and then pain lances through him, blinding, sickening, and he hears himself scream.
The flame scores a path down his cheek, like tears, ending on his chin, close to his lips, and Everyman makes it slow and agonising, chuckling and cooing all the way.
Ronan holds onto the blue-red swirling power that has latched onto his soul, drawing from it the strenght he needs to keep still, to stay sane.
"Soon, soon... you'll make justice for this." the labyrs seems to be saying and he holds on, even as Everyman says: "Uhmmm... almost there..." and moves to the other side of his face, etching a symmetrical design onto his flesh and blood.

Eventually, after a time he cannot count, Everyman steps back, and Ronan hangs limply from the contention field, drained of almost all strength by the agony coursing through him. He can barely see though his pain, and blood is dripping to the floor from his ruined face.
"Ah, yes, now it's much better. - Everyman purrs excitedly, putting down the blowtorch - I like you bloody and defeated. You're still not perfect, my pet, but we'll work on it...You will beg me to burn you more before I'm finished with you..." he promises.
"Go to hell, servant of isfet!" Ronan growls, and finally releases the power of the labyrs.
The contention field is chopped apart and Ronan, finally free, drops to the ground on his hands and knees. A flex of will and Keenblade slides into his hands and he is rising, unheeding of the pain and the light-headedness, his labyrs held tightly in both hands.

Caught by surprise, Everyman tries to protect himself by throwing his hands in front of his face, but the blow is coming low, instead, rising with Ronan's movement, and catches the pervert between his legs, crushing his pelvis and destroying everything in its path. Everyman screams and falls, but to his credit, still tries to activate the switch that would trigger the fire-bombs.
Ronan kicks it out of his trembling hands and raises his labyrs once more. Even though he claimed to yearn for death, Everyman raises his hands once again in front of his face in a futile attempt at protecting himself.
Keenblade doesn't care. It chops through flesh and bone as if they were straws, and purrs in joy, drinking the blood of the torturer, spattering it all over the floor and Ronan's clothes.
Everyman's head splits open like an overripe melon. He will never harm anyone anymore.

Now that he has completed his task, Ronan feels a bout of vertigo overwhelm him. His legs fold underneath him and he finds himself on the floor, without quite knowing how he got there. All his limbs feel weak and watery and the pain... now that he has nothing else to focus on, it is so intense that he can hardly breathe.
He would like noting better than to just lie there, and wait for death to reunite him with his meryw, but something is quietly beeping not far from him, and he realises that is mission is not over.

Slowly, agonisingly, he drags himself towards the source of the noise.
It is the switch. It is quietly counting down the minutes to the destruction of the Temple and all that are in it. Only fifteen minutes are left.
Everyman must have had the time to activate it, or it might have been running from the start of the attack, as a failsafe measure.
Only fifteen minutes.
He has to find the bombs and stop them.
Fifteen bloodly minutes, he thinks, as he pushes himself to his feet, using the labyrs' long haft as a support.

The barrier that kept that corner of the Temple isolated from the main battle falls apart at the mere touch of Keenblade's blooded edge, and Ronan finds himself suddenly in the midst of the battle.
Corpses are strewn all over the flagstones, the blind creatures from the first wave, Thanos' men and some unlucky defenders, but the latter have clearly had the upper hand, and the fighting is mostly confined to the central nave, where a group of warriors is finishing off the last fire-creature.
Ronan starts to limp in that direction, but then catches a glimpse of a slightly charred red dress and of long tanned legs, barely covered by a ridiculously short and sexy colourful tunic. His heart beats faster and faster, pumping more strength in his tired limbs, and even if he has seen them die, he cannot help wanting to believe that what Everyman had shown him was just an illusion.

He runs, forgetting his injuries, he charges towards the last fire-creature, which is close, far too close to his loved ones, and as it freezes under the power of one of the other warriors, he hits it with all his might and all his rage, and it shatters in a thousand pieces.
"Ronan!" Peter and Gamora call out. Strong arms and soft hands support him as he falters, and he can even smell their scent, faintly over the stench of blood and fire of the battle. He lets them support him as his legs threathen to buckle again.
Either he is too good at deceiving himself, or they are real, and alive, and, may Pama forgive his weakness, he needs to believe that they are.