A/N: Sorry for the delay, guys. I actually had a blast writing this chapter. However, I have this habit where I have to write out fanfic by hand and then type it up which kinda sucks because 1.) I can't type at speed for long without my hands cramping and 2.) it's really annoying trying to decipher my handwriting lmao. And what with work and frantically trying to get a cosplay ready in time for a con, I haven't had much free time. Anyway, enough of my rambling. I hope you enjoy chapter 7 :D

Qamar Fortress stood among the towering Himalayas, its stone façade, ramparts, and tiered roofs steadily gathering snow. The wind swooped and kicked up powder, which caught briefly in the spotlights before dancing off into the dark.

So this was it. Clint studied the fortress through a pair of binoculars, nestled safely among the rocks some distance away. Several figures moved among the battlements, probably on patrol. He removed the binoculars and glanced to the side to see that Natasha had come up to join him.

Patrol on top, he signed, glad the bright snow reflected some light at least.

Natasha looked through her own binoculars for a second before setting them aside. We should get in close. I hope you brought a grapple.

Yeah no, he wasn't going to dignify that with a response. Unfortunately, his non-response was reply enough and made Natasha grin. She was hyped up for the mission and ready to go. Clint took a deep breath, steeled himself, and headed in.

The two of them crossed the white expanse, keeping low and out of range of the giant spotlight. Both clad in winter tactical gear, the snow storm worked in their favor, filling the air with distracting flurries of snow and filling in their footsteps behind them. It wasn't without its own difficulties though. Clint's boots sank into the soft powder and the air was freezing. He pressed on until he and Natasha reached the base of the stone wall.

They'd done this countless times together and didn't even need to communicate their steps. Clint expanded his recurve bow, prepped a grappling hook, and sent it flying up the length of the wall. With a firm tug to test its grip, he attached the end of the wire to his belt, stowed the bow, and grabbed for Natasha. The press of a button sent them up the wall. It was a short trip but felt a lot longer. This was no Hydra base they were infiltrating and their enemy was no Nazi supremist. Nazis they could handle, no sweat. This, he wasn't so sure of. The patrol was walking away when Clint and Natasha crested the wall. There were four of them. They moved with the ease of belonging and the confidence of safety. How wrong they were.

Natasha drew her batons. "I'll go left," she mouthed at him.

Clint readied his bow. "Right it is."

Just like a hundred times before, they jumped into action together. Natasha's footsteps were quick and sure. Clint grabbed a pair of sleep arrows, nocked one, and aimed. Natasha swung at her target's head.

Clint loosed the arrow then immediately prepped and loosed the second in quick succession. They hit their targets dead on just as Natasha's blow landed. The last remaining guard spun as his companion crumpled, but had no time to register what was going on before Natasha's second baton jabbed him in the throat and rammed up under his jaw. She brought the first baton against the side of his head. And it was over.

"…walk in the park," Natasha said, turning to him with a little smirk.

Clint walked to the edge of the rampart and looked down into the snow-covered courtyard. "We haven't even begun yet." If they could sneak attack their way into the heart of the fortress, that would be amazing. But that just wasn't how things worked.

Natasha tapped him on the shoulder, drawing his attention. She'd tucked her batons under one arm and now signed, Look around. Something has their attention and it sure isn't us.

She was right. This place was usually crawling with the enemy. Good old T'Challa. The Wakandan king had led an army in opposition to their enemy's stronghold in Hong Kong, in the hopes of drawing attention away from Qamar Fortress. It was a gamble but looked like it had worked. Otherwise, they wouldn't stand a chance of infiltrating the place.

A door opened below and several figures emerged, illuminated by the light from within. Clint and Natasha ducked out of sight. They stayed for several seconds, waiting. The longer they remained secret, the better.

Natasha's eyes widened. The Wakandans are retreating, she signed. Heavy casualties.

Clint crossed his wrists and shaped his fingers into claws, their name sign for T'Challa.

Natasha only gave a helpless shrug.

Not good. If the Wakandans were retreating, they could expect an influx of fighters at any time. We need to hurry.

Natasha shifted and peered over the ledge. She beckoned with her arm in the universal "come on" gesture, and got to her feet.

They continued along the rampart, past one guard tower and were approaching a second when they ran into another patrol. This one didn't have its back turned.

Clint went for a smoke arrow which he launched at the patrol's feet. A cloud of thick smoke billowed up on impact, obscuring the patrol but more importantly, ruining their view. Clint ducked one way and Natasha the other so they could flank them.

Quicker than expected, the cloud of smoke swirled and blew apart. Clint went for some regular old, flesh-piercing arrows. Natasha lunged from the side, going for her target's hands with enough force to break bone.

Clint sent an arrow plunging into one man's chest but before he could take down another, his bow was wrenched from his grip by a whip of glowing energy. It clattered further along the rampart and he found himself face to face with a blond woman. Her hands snapped in intricate movements he couldn't read and a horde of flaming bats flew at his face. He unsheathed his sword and raised it to protect his face and neck, cutting down the hellish animals as they came at him but there were so many. Plus they were on fire. Heat rolled over him. They tore at his clothes with sharp talons and vampire fangs, beating their wings and sending hot ash into his eyes. Hot tar blood splashed across his face as he sliced through them. He couldn't see. He wiped fiercely at his eyes, smearing tar with the back of his free hand. When he opened his eyes again, the woman had a pair of glowing swords. She charged in to finish the job.

From Clint's left, a flash of red, white, and blue knocked the woman clean off her feet. She hit the ground hard and Natasha was on her a second later. The shield rebounded off the guard tower and returned to its wielder's hand.

"Took you long enough," Clint said.

"You're lucky I got here at all," Bucky said, securing the shield to his arm. "T'Challa…job at…but it won't last."

Natasha handed Clint back his bow, breaking his concentration. Whatever Bucky said next, he didn't see it. He retrieved his spent arrow and when he turned back, Bucky was saying, "Cleared the terrace. Target's…ground floor…window's closing."

"Then you'd better get us our exit," Clint said. He tried not to think there would be no exit. That this was a suicide mission.

"Yeah. I got it." Bucky looked down at the shield he carried. "This is starting to feel real heavy right now."

"That's how it's supposed to feel," Clint replied. "You get used to it."

Natasha gave him a worried glance. He wanted to smile at her, reassure her that it was okay but it wasn't. Truth was, they needed this mission to succeed or it was all over. They'd lost so many allies and friends to the sorcerers' tyranny. Steve had laid down his life two months ago and saved countless people. Bucky had reluctantly carried the shield ever since. They all had burdens to carry. And so they carried on the fight for those who couldn't.

Natasha checked the door to the guard tower. She nodded to Clint. The path was clear. It was time.

Bucky clapped a hand on Clint's shoulder and looked him in the face. He was a heavy mumbler at the best of times but Clint had no trouble reading the shape of his lips as he said, "Good luck."

They were going to need a lot more than luck. "You too." He turned away and followed Natasha into the dark.

Hundreds of years of history were burned into these walls. In art and in knowledge and in blood. As Clint and Natasha made their way down the stone steps, it was hard to believe Qamar Fortress had ever been anything other than what it was now. That once it had been a refuge, a place of learning and healing. A secret place overseen by the benevolent and mysterious Ancient One.

Natasha flashed a quick sign to him. Movement. The stairwell was too narrow for a ranged ambush. He drew his sword and waited, heart beating. He strained to catch a glimpse of shadow crawling up the stairs, pressed his empty palm against the wall as if booted footsteps would send ripples of vibrations through the stone.

Shadow.

Clint darted forward. His blade flashed and three fingers tumbled down the stairs. The man they belonged to screamed a scream Clint couldn't hear, grabbing his injured hand with his good one. Clint followed through with a sword thrust to the base of the throat. Blood bubbled up from the man's throat and his eyes bulged, red-shot among the violet of his corruption. As Clint lowered him carefully onto the steps, Natasha crept ahead to check for others. There were none. Clint wiped his blade on the dead sorcerer's robes and they continued on.

Everyone knew the story of this place. That one day a man arrived at Qamar Fortress, broken and desperate. The Ancient One had taken him in and taught him magic but he was proud and the knowledge she could offer him wasn't enough. Turning away from her teachings, he'd sought power and immortality from a dark entity.

Had the Wakandans returned to safety by now? Would the sorcerers even let them go or would they give chase until every soldier was dead? How much longer did they have until portals opened and the returning victors flooded the halls of Qamar Fortress?

They reached the bottom of the stairs. Natasha paused, unnaturally still. Listening. She opened the door onto something straight out of the middle ages. Wall sconces held aloft lit torches that illuminated the corridor in flickering detail. The stones were old and worn by countless touches. Bronze detailing crackled along the walls like dead ivy. A heavy wooden door stood sentry at the end of the hall.

With dark forces at his command, the sorcerer betrayed and killed the Ancient One. Other sorcerers loyal to the Ancient One rose up and fought him and one by one they perished. The Avengers took up the fight but it was a losing battle.

Clint gently set his bow against the wall and signed, This is wrong. We should have met more resistance.

A trap? Natasha signed back.

It occurred to me. Even with the bulk of their forces fighting the Wakandans, there should have been more sorcerers to hold the fort.

We're never going to get as close to ending this as we are now, Natasha replied.

Clint hated it but she was right. They didn't stand a chance against Dormammu's army in a fair fight, assuming sorcerers even fought fairly. They'd lost Bruce and Rhodes early on, before they knew the scope of what they faced. Tony had had this idea of adapting his proposed Ultron Program to deter magical threats using the Mind Stone. Before he could unveil it, Avengers Tower had been blown up, the floors that housed his lab collapsing in rubble and smoke. Neither he nor Pepper had made it. Of Carol Danvers, there was no sign but when Wanda had tried linking minds with her, she'd started screaming and couldn't stop. Clint prayed Carol's death had been quick after that.

This mission to Qamar Fortress had taken months to plan. And Natasha was right. No one had ever gotten into the fortress before. After the battle, Wakanda could not spare such forces again. It was now or never and they were down to their last fighters.

Let's end this. Clint picked up his bow. Natasha traded in her batons for a gun. They kept going.

With the armies of the world defeated, the opposing sorcerers dead, and the Avengers broken, there was nothing left but to rule the world. And that's what the new Sorcerer Supreme did. He made the laws, he enacted Dormammu's will. He had his followers out scouring the world, searching for…something.

Always, always, he targeted people with powers. He targeted Avengers. It didn't matter whether it was Thor, who could lay waist to armies, or Scott Lang, who had vanished without a trace.

Clint would never forget when they came for him. He could still feel the heat of the flames, the bone-rattling crunch of wood shattering beneath his feet. He thought of his family's terrified faces. Every night.

His breathing hitched. Blood pumped through his veins. His mouth drew into a grim line. This was it. No one knew who the Sorcerer Supreme really was, whether he had a family or a past or why he had sold his soul for power. Clint didn't care. His reign would end tonight.

They passed through the door. Natasha did a quick scan of the room. Clint drew an electric arrow from his quiver.

The room was warm, almost stifling. A pair of torches flickered on the wall opposite. The doorway was set into a nook so they had to step further into the room to get a better look at it. Around the stone corner. Expecting an ambush at any second.

He was alone.

Clint drew the bowstring taut, the fletching of his arrow tickling his cheekbone. But the Sorcerer Supreme didn't move. He appeared to be meditating within a circle of candles. That was why the room was so hot, why the air smelled like wax and sage. It had to be some kind of spell. He was…he was floating, his eyes closed and violet-streaked, his graying hair framing hollow cheeks. Thin sheets like paper floated gently in his orbit, emitting an unearthly red glow. He didn't even seem aware that he had company.

Now was their time. It shouldn't be this easy. Not to kill the world's most powerful sorcerer. But it was. He was completely defenseless, his mind far away.

Careful not to move quick enough to make a sound, Clint replaced his electric arrow in his quiver and pulled out a barbed, killing arrow. This shot was going to count. He wouldn't give the Sorcerer Supreme a chance to recover. He nocked the arrow, drew until he felt the tension in the string. He breathed out and let go. The string whacked his arm guard. The arrow spun across the room, straight on target.

It was funny, he'd thought as he gazed into Laura's eyes on their wedding day, how everything could go so right.

It was funny, he realized now, how everything could go so wrong.

The arrow sailed through the tyrant's head without leaving a mark and bounced off the wall opposite.

Clint's heart stopped. He looked at Natasha and wished he hadn't. He had seen fear in her eyes before. Fear before a mission, fear for their friends. What he saw now wasn't fear. It was terror.

The Sorcerer Supreme blinked out like a light being turned off, along with the candles and the heat and the smell of sage.

No. No no no no. Clint grabbed another arrow and urgently looked around the room, ready to meet an enemy at any second. They'd known this would happen. They'd known it. It was a trap.

A shadow moved. Without thinking, Clint loosed an arrow. He drew another before it had even landed. Of course, it never did. Sparks flew and the arrow burned to ash, leaving its target untouched. Natasha fired her gun. A wave of the hand sent the pistol flying from her grip.

The shadow moved into the light of the torches. The flame made the Sorcerer Supreme's visage look even more skeletal than it truly was. A mania like coals burned behind his eyes. His thin lips formed a smirk and when he spoke, Clint could hear him in his mind, voice hollow and cracked. Every word was like a hammer to his skull.

"Welcome to Qamar Fortress, little ants."

"Go!" Clint darted to one side and drew a cluster of exploding arrows. He didn't need to look to know Natasha was mirroring his action, going the other way and drawing the Supreme's attention with a hail of fire from her other gun. He raised a hand, erecting a glowing shield. Clint fired three arrows at once. They whizzed past him and exploded. The blasts staggered him. His shield faltered and a single bullet caught him in the shoulder.

They couldn't let up. Clint drew another arrow.

The ghost of something monstrous superimposed itself over the Sorcerer Supreme's form and a wave of light and cold slammed into Clint. He hit the ground. Ice crept along his skin and burned his fingertips. He could hardly get a breath. Natasha was down too. He couldn't even tell if she was conscious.

"Little ants, little ants," the Sorcerer Supreme said, his not-voice containing a singsong quality. "You're so easy to drown."

Sparks coalesced into rings and Clint knew it was over. The victors were returning. Portals were opening all around the room and men and women stepped through, all of them bearing their mark of corruption. One of them was dragging a body. He dropped it like a sack of potatoes and Clint found himself staring at the dead (unconscious, please just be unconscious) face of Bucky. His friend.

One of the sorcerers murmured something to the Supreme in words too inarticulate to read.

"They hardly seem worth the effort," the Supreme replied.

The other sorcerer nodded minutely. His hands moved in the beginning of a spell aimed at Natasha.

No… Clint struggled to get back up, grabbed one of his electric arrows that had spilled on the ground and fired. It hit the sorcerer in the arm, sending him into spasms as electricity coursed through his system. His hands lost their precision and the spell failed.

Clint leveled his next arrow at the Supreme's face. He took the memory of the house collapsing on top of him, of Laura's cold hand in his and he turned it into rage. He was going to die but he was going to fight all the way down. The Supreme conjured a shield just in time to catch Clint's arrow. He fired again and again. Each one dead on, each one futile. The horde watched from the sides, doing nothing. Hot tears formed in the corners of his eyes and he became aware that he was screaming.

The Supreme just looked bored. With an exaggerated sigh, he gave a twist of the hand. The shield turned perpendicular to him. A quick dance of the fingers and the shield vibrated and billowed open, sending fragments of spell crashing around the room. They slammed into Clint like bricks and shards of glass. They sliced his hands and face. His bow was wrenched from his grip and skittered away along the floor. Without skipping a beat, he drew his sword and launched his next attack. The next piece of magic hit him like a charging bull. Something broke and he screamed, collapsing. He lost the sword. He tried to get it, tried to scramble to his feet but he couldn't. The pain. His leg was broken. Still, he tried again for the sword and managed to brush his fingers along its handle before it collapsed into a pile of ashes that stained his bloody fingers.

The Supreme calmly strode forward. He looked down on Clint like a disapproving father. "This world isn't yours anymore. But don't feel bad. It was never meant to be." Then he turned his back on him. As if he couldn't be bothered to finish him off. He was toying with him like a cat does with a mouse.

Clint closed his eyes. They were never going to win this. Their hope had been a lie they'd desperately clung to because it was all they had left.

When he opened his eyes again, his gaze met Natasha's. She was down but she wasn't out yet. He saw the moment she made her decision in the slight hardening of her brow, the focus of her eyes.

"No," he mouthed at her, shaking his head. "Please no." An echo of a long-forgotten dream came to him.

Natasha launched herself off the floor, a baton in each hand.

No no no no no no. Clint tried to get up, tried to ignore the pain, tried to grab his bow, but he was too slow, too weak. He was always too weak.

Natasha attacked the Supreme from behind, her face twisted into an expression of desperation and determination. Maybe she could make it. Please, please let her make it.

An invisible force yanked Natasha off her feet, pulling her up into the air.

"No!" Clint screamed.

Stone tiles shattered and rose off the floor, shedding extra material until they resembled sharpened stakes surrounding Natasha. She grabbed at her throat as if something were choking her.

"No. No! You let her go!" Clint made a last grab for his bow. A booted foot stomped on his fingers and then delivered a kick to his face. The blow was hard enough to make him see flashes of light.

For once, the Supreme's expression seemed strangely subdued. As if, now that the mice were dying, they weren't fun to play with anymore. With a flick of the wrist, he sent the spikes home.

Clint screamed. There were no words in it. He didn't have any left. He screamed and watched through his tears as Natasha's body collapsed to the floor. His throat burned and his chest was tight. He couldn't breathe.

The Sorcerer Supreme walked up to him, shaping magic with his hands. "You can hear me perfectly, can't you," he said. "Good. I want you to tell your Stephen, all of this and more is possible because of him." Galaxies burst forth from his fingertips. "Good night, little ant."

A white light burned through Clint with the heat of a sun, enough heat to melt flesh from bone…

Clint woke in a cold sweat in his bed in the dark, in the safety of home. His heart pounded as if he'd been running. When he looked to the side, he wanted to cry in sheer relief. Laura slept soundly at his side, her hair fanned over the pillow, lost only in sleep and not in death.

But Natasha… It was like losing her all over again.

Clint needed a second to pull himself together. He put his hands over his eyes and felt the tension ease out of him. Laura was okay. The kids were okay. Everything was okay.

He was home.

A few hours later and a portal trip courtesy of Wong saw Clint in the Sanctum Sanctorum relaying the contents of his dream to Stephen. And though the nightmare had burned away with the morning sun, he found himself uneasily watching Stephen at work, casually drawing another universe's pain into his magic web.

Clint had to look away. Bats the ghost dog impatiently waved his tail on the other side of the room. America and Peter were sharing tiktok videos with each other and laughing. Wiling away the time while they waited for Stephen to take them out to breakfast, which Clint's arrival had interrupted.

He had to remind himself that things were fine and that sorcerers like Stephen and Wong were the good guys.

"That should do it," Stephen said, standing back to admire his work. He'd been silent as he worked, no doubt troubled by the things Clint had told him.

Clint eyed the spell but he wasn't really sure what he was looking at. He didn't get how this would help them find Dormammu but that's why he was the archer, not the magician.

Stephen seemed to notice something in Clint's expression because he added, "We're going out to get waffles. You want to come?"

Clint tried to pull himself together. "No. I should be getting back home, anyway."

"Maybe some other time, then."

"Yeah." He paused and looked up from the dreamcatcher. "Doc, there's something else I think you should know."

"What is it?"

Clint forced himself to meet Stephen's gaze. "The guy who killed me in my dream? It was you."