I apologize for the lack of epic-ness. For someone who started their writing career off with a lot of war stories, I don't write traditional sword-and-shield battles very well.
Also, while I'm here, I might as well give you guys my not-so-good news. Next week, I'll be at an Intervarsity retreat, so the chances of me updating are slim to none, so you might have to wait two weeks for the next update. With the off chance that I sneak in an update next week, I will probably not be able to update the week after that because there's a strong chance that I will be off on vacation for who knows how long and I really doubt I'll have any access to the internet there. I'm not even going to try to sugar-coat it: chances are you will be left with some form of a cliffhanger. Anyway, this chapter is long so it ought to make up for it, right?
I wrote a oneshot about Thor mourning after Loki's fall, as I have alluded to last chapter! It is on AO3 and on my fanfiction account. Please read!
This was war, and Tony had to remind himself that he had faced this before.
He was the birth of war for the longest time in his career. He was the one who supplied the firearms, who constructed the very tools of death that ended the families of many. And despite his determination to stray away from that past, he was here again—in the midst of war, in the fire and in the blood.
The jets of power from his suit could only take down so many Chitauri before they could retaliate. Their shots skimmed past the surface of his armor, leaving angry scorches that rattled him inside. His blood sang in his ears as he dodged, flying across the air to fight the enemy. The Asgardians around him, armored nearly as heavily as he, fought with ferocity and unprecedented power as their home was invaded.
But these Chitauri were not the weak and mindless drones that they were in New York City. These warriors were intelligent, fierce, and merciless. In the first hour of the battle, blood coated the fields of Asgard from both sides. Enough to water the trampled grass and dye the new shoots blood red.
"Cap!" Tony said. He wished Bluetooth would work in Asgard but to no avail. Even JARVIS had difficulty functioning in the foreign realm. "Cap, to your left!"
Steve spun around just in time to block the blow of incoming Chitauri with his shield. He flung his shield and bowled over the enemies.
"Thanks, Stark," said Steve.
"Less talking, more surviving."
Tony lashed out at the coming Chitauri. Two of them dodged the blow and shot at him. Tony darted up into the air as Steve dropped to the ground immediately to avoid the hit. A yell came behind Tony and he winced, realizing that the blow hit some mark.
A volley of arrows soared over their heads, sinking into the charge of Chitauri coming their way. Many fell, but still many came running. Swords clashed with metal exoskeleton—guns aimed at heavy helmets—bodies fell on both sides.
"Is this anything like your first war, Cap?" Tony said. He could barely hear himself.
"The aliens are a new touch," Steve said.
Tony laughed. "Aren't we technically the aliens here?"
Steve nearly cracked a smile before a shot barely grazed his leg. He jumped out of the way, his uniform singed and smoking. Tony immediately directed his shots against the general direction from which the shot came, not stopping until nearly ten Chitauri were shot down.
There were screams of the dying in every direction, and no one had the time to look down. There were many designated medics on the job, but Tony realized the moment he slipped from grass slick with blood that there could never be enough. There was no place for safety to keep anyone for the time being. Nowhere was safe from Thanos as he escorted his Lady Death to Asgard.
"Tony, a charge is coming from the southwest direction!" said Steve.
"Is that on my right or on my left?" said Tony.
"Just move!"
Before Tony could say anything else, Steve rushed forward, his shield already flying from his grasp to attack. Asgardians rushed forward, swords versus alien technology, and neither sides' armor was strong enough to keep away the pain of destruction.
"Shoot down the first line, Tony!" said Steve.
Tony used his jet of power to blast away the first line of Chitauri. Many fell on the spot, others wounded and stumbled onward nonetheless. But the Chitauri's rifles could reach farther distance faster than the Asgardians' swords, and many a warrior fell before the Chitauri could touch them.
"We have to disengage their weapons somehow," said Steve.
"Their weapons are powered by whatever is powering the Chitauri," said Tony. He scanned the Chitauri rifle quickly within his suit's technology, noting every tremor of power that thrummed in it.
"Is that another mothership?" said Steve.
"Doesn't look like it," Tony said. "Looks more like a—watch out!"
Steve saw the oncoming shot and immediately brought his shield up to block it. Much of the gilded metal chipped off and Steve growled.
"We need another plan of action," he said. "We need to depower them."
"Yeah, well, send me another missile and I'll shoot it at them," said Tony.
Steve barely had time to retort before an explosion beneath their feet sent the both of them flying into the air in a whirlwind of dirt and bodies. Tony hung in the air for perhaps less than a second before he came crashing down against his back, dirt and ash showering on him. Air snapped out of his lungs and he blacked out for what could have been seconds or minutes. He coughed, his bones shuddering as he pushed himself back onto his feet.
Steve—where was Steve?
"These bastards have themselves some sort of grenade," Steve's voice said.
Tony breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of Steve's voice, but he could not see him. In fact, he could hardly see anything, and he realized with a jolt that his mask had been heavily scratched to the point of useless. With a growl, he tore it off and saw Steve right before him, bleeding along the hairline but standing tall.
"Cap, your head," said Tony.
"Forget about it, I've had worse," said Steve. He turned to the others who had been affected by the explosion. Most of them were still alive albeit injured, but two had shrapnel of a foreign sort embedded in nearly every inch of their body until Tony felt sick to the stomach looking at them, and he wished he did not tear away his mask so quickly.
"We've got to take them away from here," Steve said, nodding to the wounded. He bent down, hoisting a groaning soldier onto his back.
"Take them where?" said Tony. "The medics aren't for another several miles behind us. There isn't a cubbyhole where we can store them."
"We can't leave them in the line of fire!" said Steve.
"Oh, for God's sake—"
Tony bent down and pulled an unconscious warrior over his shoulders. "Lead on, Cap. Before we get our asses burned too."
They rushed back, praying that they wouldn't take so long as to abandon their fellow soldiers in the front line. The air was hot with fire and the stench of blood, and Tony's ears rung from the sound of firing rifles and clanging metal. They could only go so far as the second line before they could set their injured comrades down behind a lilt in the field, shielded only be several inches rise of the ground, before rushing back to their posts.
But the battle was cruel, and almost unfair. The Asgardians were used to fighting in such a way that once they attacked their opponent, there was no doubt when they killed. Death was in the form of a skewered head or a heart punctured right out of the chest; the Chitauri shot into the crowd and moved on; leaving the Asgardians crumpled in the soil with a hole through their lungs or stomachs, choking in their own blood and having far too much time to fear inevitable death. Too much time to cry, too much time to say their frantic last words begging for their loved ones before their breath was choked out and gone. The Chitauri received a gruesome but immediate death; only the voices of the dying Asgardians were heard.
"We have to find a way to get to their weakness," said Steve. "The Asgardians' armor can only protect them so much; these Chitauri have the upper hand no matter how you look at it."
"We have sorcerers on our side," said Tony.
"Not that many. They're outnumbered, and swords can only go so far. Tony, find a way to locate the exact source of the Chitauri and their technology. If like in New York City they all died off because they were connected to the mothership, then there must be something like it here."
"Roger that, Rogers," said Tony. "JARVIS, scan the—oh shit."
"What is it?" said Steve.
"My face mask was broken. That's how the suit scans and studies everything. Dammit." Tony called out several shooters at his wrists and shot at incoming Chitauri. "Change of plan. See if somehow we can get ourselves a POW and bully the answer out of them."
"You condone that?" said Steve. "After the mess-up that happened last time?"
"Look, that's the best source we can get!" said Tony. "And if we keep our tempers calm, we won't have anyone stabbing the living shit out of them again, okay?"
Steve clenched his teeth.
"It's unthinkable," he said, "how I feel like it's so okay to do that to the enemy just because they don't look human."
"Well," Tony said, his voice dry, "we all cope with war somehow."
A missile of alien sorts shot through the air, burrowing itself into the dirt and sending rocks flying in every direction. It sparked a fire that grew into a monster, flames eating at the bloody grass and reaching all across the front line. Black smoke thickened and burned their eyes and noses, until their senses were muddled and pain came from the unseen.
"Put it out, put it out!" said Steve. The fire was catching on the trampled grass, and far too quickly.
"You think I have a hose in my suit?" said Tony.
And as the fire rose, Tony realized just how ironic it was: he came to put an end to destruction, and his suit—his weapon of choice—he—had no power to put a stop to this devastation, only the power to feed the flame.
In a fit of energy and anger, he shot jets of flame and a shower of bullets upon the Chitauri. Tens upon tens died before they could come close to him, and their bodies were consumed by the fire until not even the metal of their armor was left behind. His eyes and nose burned from the smell of charred bone, and he practically felt the boiled blood on his hands.
Thanos' side of the war was not the only ones that could decimate.
With handguns at her side and assassins' knives between her fingers, Natasha felt like the enemy.
To stand side-by-side with her allies who wielded swords and maces in one hand and a shield in the other while she killed with a simple pull of the trigger, she wondered if at one point the Asgardians would accidentally attack her. She only had a suit of chainmail underneath her usual uniform to match her fellow Asgardians, but that wouldn't stop the strike of a Chitauri bullet or a blade no matter what Loki did to it.
This had to be nothing, she told herself as she dodged to duck the bullets coming her way. This had to be nothing. She had faced the Chitauri before, with odds even worse than now, and yet they won. And they will win again. This had to be nothing.
So why did her heart jump at the sight of the growing number of Chitauri as her allies fell one by one? Why did she feel the frantic pain when a Chitauri shot at her thigh and burnt the skin and muscle instead of the usual numbness she had accustomed herself to when wounded? Why was she afraid?
This was war, and this was slaughter. No matter what angle she saw it, she knew: Asgard was outnumbered.
And yet they fought with no looming terror in their face, nor did they die with regret even when they were punctured and shattered. Their swords still pierced Chitauri bones and their arrows flew unbelievable lengths to keep the enemy at bay, but victory was still so far from reach.
Natasha ran forth where fallen stones piled to form a moment of safety. She pressed her back against the stones, craning her neck just enough that she could see what lay ahead on the other side from the corner of her eye. She held her gun aloft, watching as Chitauri loomed closer, before stretching out her arm and aiming her shots. One, two, three Chitauri were down in an instant, and she hid away from sight.
"Hey!" she called out to warrior running near her. She saw he had a slingshot at his waist and she gestured wildly at him to come to her. "Hey, take your shots here!"
The young warrior only gave her an incredulous look before racing forward to the Chitauri with pike in hand.
"What the hell are you all doing?" she said.
All the Asgardians were racing toward battle head-on, the cavalry leading them to the bloodbath and straight into the line of fire. They were nothing more than moving targets to the Chitauri, who only needed a machine gun to ensure their survival.
But the looks that they shot at her were not anything else but incredulous and confused as they saw her shooting at the enemy from behind a pile of rocks. Some even looked upon her with disapproval, and she could only gape back. Was this not how it was done in the battlefield, from the beaches of Iwo Jima to the skirmish in the Middle East? Was that not how it was done in a fight between—?
And then Natasha remembered. Of course, of course, of course—what did a society raised with swords and shields know about fighting a war against firearms they've never faced before?
This was a suicide mission at best—this was terror.
She needed to find whoever was in charge—Odin, Thor, whoever. Thor should know what it was like to fight the Chitauri, he ought to know this was going to fail no matter how enhanced their weapons or shields were. So long as the Chitauri had the advantage of distance, and Asgard's number of archers could not compare—Asgard could only beg for hope.
She dashed out of her place, moving fast so that nothing could touch her and aiming randomly at the crowd of Chitauri. But what could anyone do now, when the war had long run free from its leash and nothing could stop its momentum?
There! A familiar face—or as familiar as one can get in the midst of a foreign realm. Natasha picked up her speed, nearly getting hit by Chitauri bullets and mowed down by Asgardians running perpendicular to her.
"Sif!" she cried. "Sif!"
Sif must have panicked, because the head of the Chitauri she was battling flew perhaps seventy yards in her flurry of action. Natasha ducked before the head could hit her, thankful that at least one Asgardian could take care of herself in a war between past legends and technologized reality.
"Lady Natasha?" said Sif, bloodied strands of hair clinging to her face. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Asgard doesn't stand a chance if they keep it up like this," said Natasha, trying to speak over the sounds of battle. "The Chitauri are mowing them down like some gigantic deforestation project while our people run toward them with only swords and shields."
"That is battle, Lady Natasha," Sif said through gritted teeth.
"No, that's suicide," said Natasha. "Look, if you had cavalry and a battalion with only swords against an army that are practically full of archers, except their arrows are crazy fast and powerful and can pierce through your armor no problem, would this be smart to you?"
"You and Clint have the same thoughts on this," Sif said, wiping her forehead. "Then how do you propose we do this? This is no game of chess. The opponent has no time to spare to wait for our next move."
"I have no clue," said Natasha. "But we can't just throw our hands in the air and say, 'oh well' about this."
Sif breathed heavily, dirt smeared on her face and an ugly wound on her shoulder. She looked about her, at the war that burned around them.
"Have you ever been in war, Lady Natasha?" she said.
"I don't think we have the time to sit down and talk like this," said Natasha.
"Have you?" said Sif.
Natasha did not answer.
"Then you will see," said Sif, "that this is what all war looks like. Both sides—marching without hesitation or consideration—to death."
Natasha let out a yell of frustration.
"There is no honor in this," she said. "There is no such thing as an honorable death. You know what we say on Earth? You don't win a war by dying for your country—you win by making the other son of a bitch die for his." She grabbed Sif's shoulder. "And this—this—isn't how you go about it. If you were put up against even mortals, whom you probably think are weak and dishonorable, you'd all be dead in seconds."
Sif jerked away from Natasha's grip, teeth bared and fire in her eyes. Before she could let daggers fly from her tongue, a grating bang shook the ground and nearly made the both of them topple. Natasha spun around and saw the fire bloom far ahead of them, a pinprick of gold swelling into a vicious and deathly plague, stretching like a snake along the edge.
Natasha cursed in Russian before immediately ducking, pulling Sif down with her as Chitauri aimed for their heads. She raised her handgun and shot once—twice—before the Chitauri could come any closer. Their bodies jerked on impact before collapsing like precariously piled matchsticks. Natasha dived forward and wrestled the rifles from their stiff grips and returned the attack on approaching Chitauri. The heavy rifle shuddered in her arms after each shot, but she mustered her strength to keep it held aloft and aimed right until a line of Chitauri were down.
"Hey!" she shouted to Sif. "You know how to use these babies?"
"I beg your pardon?" Sif said.
Natasha held up the rifle for Sif to see. Sif blanched at the sight of the monstrous machine.
"You can strap it to your back for desperate measures, even," Natasha said. "Trust me on this—it's not going to hurt you as long as you aren't pointing it to yourself."
"I'm not worried about that," said Sif. "It's a crude weapon."
"That's rich, coming from you Vikings," said Natasha.
Another explosion wracked her head and screams punctured the air. A crowd of Asgardians were dispersed, flying into the air and disconnected from the rest of their bodies as explosives shattered them. Natasha felt her breath stop short at the catastrophe and realized that Sif may have a point about the savagery of modernized weapons.
"Bastards got themselves grenades," said Natasha through clenched teeth.
Sif was seething, her eyes wild with anger and horror.
"This is not battle," she said. "This is the manner of massacre."
"Thanos doesn't care about honor, Sif," said Natasha. "If you want to survive, you have to fight. I don't mean duel—I mean fight."
"We cannot fall back," said Sif. "Not now, else we will be crushed."
"Find Odin, or Thor, or whoever's in command. I don't even know who's in command," said Natasha.
"The All-Father," said Sif.
"Fine, go to him—you have to tell him there's got to be another way," said Natasha. "Maybe we can attack from above somehow—I doubt you guys have dragons, but the Chitauri have the advantage of not needing to come close to us in order to kill us. Unless everyone can shoot a bow and arrow well enough, we need to either find a way to close the distance to our advantage or get another tactic."
Sif swallowed hard, eyes boring into Natasha's.
"I will go to him," said Sif.
Natasha nodded stiffly, grasping Sif's shoulder supportively.
"You sure you don't want to take a rifle with you?" said Natasha.
Sif held up her shield. There were scratches along the once majestic metal, but strong and thick with power and enchantments.
"It has served me well all this time," said Sif. "I think I can protect myself from the coming blows."
"Go, then," said Natasha. "And run. Not in a straight line. They can't aim at you as easily that way."
Sif's eyes flashed and a crooked smile at Natasha.
"You are far out of Loki's league," said Sif.
And with that, she dashed into the fire.
"A fine hit!"
Loki gritted his teeth before conjuring another dagger and flinging it to the Chitauri. It lodged perfectly into one's throat and it collapsed, blood spurting from the wound.
"Now is not the time to share compliments, brother," Loki said.
Thor spun Mjölnir into a frenzy before hurling it forward. The mighty hammer shuttled through the crowd, breaking many bodies before rushing back into Thor's grasp. The two brothers fought side by side, barely able to take a breath before another threat came to them. It never made any sense to Loki how killing each other's warriors solved any diplomatic disagreement; even now, with the Nine Realms' fate at stake, he couldn't help but question how war was supposed to solve anything.
"To your left, Loki!" said Thor.
Loki conjured a ball of crackling power and shot it to his side. The Chitauri screeched as the magic burned through their armor and their skin and left fatal, gaping wounds. Loki let out a growl and ground his heel into their ribs for good measure. He lugged one of the rifles onto his shoulder and used it to bash in a Chitauri's head. It fell on impact, its skull cracked, and Loki remembered exactly why he hated getting his hands dirty in battle—this bludgeoning, stabbing, slicing was all too cruel and vulgar, like slaughtering animals for the butchers.
"Thor, lead your left flank," said Loki. "We cannot keep pushing against the Chitauri head-on. We must find a weak spot within them."
"Right you are," said Thor. "Come with me?"
"Where else would I go?" said Loki
The two brothers rallied their platoon, most who were luckily still among them. Loki let out a sigh of relief when he saw that their armor and weapons were still holding up, despite the wounds that inflicted them. He knew the charm he placed could only last through so much damage, but if it was time he could steal, then it was enough.
"Should we go over that hill?" said Loki.
"No," said Thor. "With the Chitauri's weapons, they will have the advantage. If we were archers or gunslingers such as they, we would have had a better chance."
The platoon snaked away from the Chitauri's main attention, sidling to the side. Loki felt the burn of war within him, a deadly mixture of adrenaline and indignation brewing into something terrible. He kept a firm grip on the rifle—there was no telling if he would ever need it.
"How do you all fare?" Loki called out to the men and women he led.
"We've lost some of our brothers," said Volstagg. Blood coated his left side, but Loki could tell it was not his own. "The Chitauri remain numerous, and while they do not push us back, we cannot push them away."
"You've all fought bravely and viciously," said Loki. "I pray you hold on longer, that we will drive these creatures into defeat. Does anyone need dire healing?"
"Loki, we have little time to tend to wounds now," said Thor. He was breathless at this point, looking upon the war. "The Chitauri are moving in, and fast."
"They will notice us raging toward them, even if we come from the left where we are unexpected," said Volstagg. "My princes, we will gain no better advantage."
"Good man, Volstagg," Loki said with a tired huff. It amazed Loki how fast Volstagg could move despite his girth. "I may have a plan of desperation, if we must."
"Speak quickly," said Thor.
"You and I both possess power that passes AEsir," said Loki. "We seek to weaken the enemy, not battle them. They cannot withstand your lightning and my magic."
Thor furrowed his eyebrows. "I do not produce lightning, but wield it," said Thor, "but you will be weakened if you exert so much magic, whether the Mind Gem inhibits your or not."
"It will not be to my utmost extent," said Loki. "Only enough to weaken this flank, and whomever that are left behind, let our platoon have their match. Thor, their numbers are worrying, we must do something."
Thor looked from Loki to the other warriors behind them. "Are there no drawbacks to this?" said Thor. "We are no more than half a day into battle and we are already revealing this side of us. I'm afraid that Thanos will take this to his advantage."
"And if we only wait for the opportune moment to wield our powers, perhaps there will be no time left once Thanos has already beaten us all," said Loki. "Come, Thor. Our men and women fight to the last drop of blood and we can ease their load."
Thor gritted his teeth before nodding.
"Ready the men, Loki," said Thor. "I will show the Chitauri whom they stand against."
He spun Mjölnir rapidly until the mighty hammer was nothing but a blurred pinwheel illusion, the wind picking up and tangling their hair. With a powerful swing Thor shot into the air following Mjölnir's momentum, shrinking into a sanguine speck like a drop of blood on the clouds. Loki tore his eyes from his brother and called attention to the warriors at his command.
"How many of us are there, Volstagg?" said Loki.
"Forty-five men and women, my prince," said Volstagg.
Loki could still not believe that Volstagg—or the Warriors Three, for that matter—would respect him after his return, and he made a note in his mind to be utterly thankful of it later.
"Forty-five," he said, making the mental calculation. "That should be all right. Come—I will cast a disillusion spell upon all of you and you will position yourself atop that hill. Thor will deliver his blow, and I will not be merciful either, and you all will catch them by surprise and give the last attack. This is not battle or war, my friends—this is survival."
"How will we know when to attack?" said Volstagg.
"When you deem it safe," said Loki. He shrugged. "Several strikes of lightning and a magical decimation will not be hard to miss on top of a hill. The charm may not last while you fight—it may fall away, but it may prove to be at your advantage so long as they do not see you coming down to them. It would not do well if you swung your sword too vigorously and accidentally stabbed your unseen comrade."
The clouds began to churn furiously overhead, the sky darkening considerably. Loki needed to act fast. He turned to Volstagg.
"You will lead them," he said.
"Aye, I shall," said Volstagg.
"Good man," said Loki, clapping a hand on Volstagg's broad shoulder.
When his hand met the metal armor Loki let his magic flow from him and onto his warriors until their color drained from them, melting to the background as if they were chameleons. The pink of their flesh sank into the green-gray of the grass behind them or the dark bruise of the sky at their heads until Loki could not truly see them in front of him, though he felt Volstagg's shoulder still underneath his palm. He backed away, the shadows of Thor's building storm deepening.
"Now go," said Loki.
"What of you, my prince?" said Volstagg. "What will you do?"
Loki gave a very grim smile.
"I will send them a scourge," he said.
The thunder splintered in the air and Loki took it as his cue. He turned toward the battle and took off toward it, splitting his image from his body until a perfect replica walked alongside his invisible self.
He could see Thor in the sky—a brilliant, garish red streak in the gray clouds—before lightning nearly blinded him. A bolt of lightning shuttled toward the ground teeming with Chitauri, scorching many on the spot and sending more of their numbers flying in the air from the impact. The storm churned, lightning bolts braiding within each other until they formed a massive and terrible power before hurtling into the Chitauri, melting the metal off their bodies and blackening their bones. They hadn't even enough time to scream before they beheld the full power of the god of thunder, raining destruction on the masses.
This was the power that Loki had long learned to both revere and fear in their youth, when Thor was bestowed Mjölnir. And here—this was the power that shook the earth until his own knees quaked, and for a moment he questioned his choice, questioned if mass destruction was truly war, or if it was only hypocrisy. Loki never fancied himself a master of war; he did not know if there was a difference.
"Come, Loki," he whispered to himself. His illusion remained perfectly silent, lips pressed together mutely. "They would do the same to your people—and they are."
He could barely hear himself as Thor raged his storm up ahead, whipping wind to his bidding. Loki wondered how long Thor could keep this up.
"Give them what will stop them," said Loki. "For in this war, Death can only be beaten by death. Do not fear, Loki, and fight!"
With that, he ran forward, gathering his magic at his fingertips until they itched, scratching at his fingernails and screaming to be released. He ran until the Chitauri, whoever was left among the throng, spotted his illusion and aimed their rifles to strike at him.
That they thought he would run like a savage down to them in battle!
Few saw it coming. Those that didn't only knew of the plague that shriveled their insides the moment it touched them before they knew nothing more. Those that did saw the image of Loki disappear as bullets cleanly flew through his head and the waves of green smoke billow toward their direction. Those that did felt their lungs constrict until no air would come in or out, felt the fluids in their eyes boil and burst, felt their hearts wrench and fail.
Only several had the voice left to scream as Loki sent forth his scourge, his magical holocaust, until he collapsed onto one knee as his magic became too strained from the effort. But even then his destruction felled half of the battalion, leaving nothing but mangled and diseased bodies in heaps on the field.
And Loki nearly let out a cry, for it did not matter if the Chitauri had tortured him, had relished in seeing him suffer, had intended to destroy everything he loved…in the end it was Thanos who bent them to his will, Thanos who drove them into war with promises Loki knew he would not keep—and Loki who tortured them to death.
And the roar—he had nearly forgotten. The roar of his warriors coming down the hill before mowing down whatever Chitauri was left for them, overpowering them easily. Loki felt his invisibility flicker alongside theirs, and as they came to view so did he. They ripped through the Chitauri, shattered the battalion until there was virtually none left.
He prayed that none would get hurt. That they would endure.
"Brother!"
Thor's voice arrived before he did, intermingling with the rumbling of thunder. Loki pushed himself back onto his feet before Thor landed from the sky, crashing into the hard ground and splintering stones as if they were bones under his feet.
"The clouds for now have been spent," Thor said. If I want another storm, I can only wait for the sky to rebuild it for me." He looked upon Loki and his face became grave. "You look spent."
"You try doing half of the things I have to do and look chipper afterward," said Loki. "We have no time to waste on me, Thor. Our warriors are victorious, but only for now."
Thor nodded, looking upon the waste that their platoon had bestowed on the Chitauri. Still, the Chitauri's numbers were overwhelming, and one battalion taken out could only do so much for the sake of Asgard.
"What more could we do?" said Thor. "What blows can we deal on the Chitauri? On Thanos?"
There was no visible sign of Thanos as far as Loki could see. He would not know how he would react if he saw the war titan again with his own eyes.
"Everything that we can give," said Loki. War burned around him. "Come on!"
Something beat heavily in his chest, anxious and sharp, and he realized that it was not the Mind Gem he had always blamed, but his own fevered heart.
War at night was the worst. While the darkness hid the gore and the bright splotches of blood, it strengthened its stench and touch. Blood became slippier and decay began its trek on its victims. The figure approaching—swathed in shadows—could be a foe as easily as it could be a friend. Each sound was too close and too far—the groans of comrades injured and helpless were out of reach and the footsteps and weapons of the enemy too close for comfort.
But for Bruce, who was a good two miles back from the battle in the tent of healers, darkness was a curse. The candles shed too little light, and even the lights that sorceresses cast were not enough for him to tend to the heavy wounds.
"I need more light over here, please!" he said, trying to hold steady a needle as his patient squirmed in pain underneath him. The wound on his head was gaping and still steadily bleeding, and if Bruce didn't stitch it up instantly it would only get worse, but without a proper light he couldn't stop himself from accidentally stabbing the man in the eye.
"Coming, sir." A young apprentice held another lantern above the patient's head, shedding just a little more light upon Bruce's work. Bruce grunted thanks before painstakingly stitching the large wound. Even with blood pulsating out of it, Bruce could admit that this was the milder of cases he had seen so far. And was not the night still young, with only two hours left until sunrise, for something worse to come?
"I don't know if the string will keep out an infection," said Bruce to Frigga, who oversaw the healers alongside Eir. The queen was nearly unrecognizable without her rich robes of gold, but she still had her air of power and control that demanded reverence. "I cleaned it, but the wound was left alone for a while before he came to me."
"The thread ought to keep the wound safe," said Frigga. "It is not infection I am worried of, for AEsir are hardy against it. But he has lost a good amount of blood already."
"How many healing stones do we have left?" said Bruce, tying the stitch closed.
He snipped the thread and placed the needle in a kettle of boiling water to wash away the grime. The tent was already inhabited by many wounded warriors, some preparing to return to the battle the next morning, others struggling to make it to the next hour. Healers worked tirelessly, never without a bowl of hot water and cloths or bandages and healing herbs—some were blessed with the magic of healing and worked until their energy was at a bare minimum. But Bruce could tell that this would not be enough.
"Several bushels," said Frigga. "But those are meant for the medics who run about the battlefield, and we are already running lower than we expected."
Bruce clenched his teeth, taking in a deep breath and nearly suffocating from the smell of blood and infection. The moans of pain were constant until they became as common as wind—and when he realized he was not disturbed by the choking, guttural breaths drowning in the blood of ripped throats he knew he had gone past the point of no return.
"Eir, do we have any more of that salve?" said Bruce. The next patient had terrible burns across their face and chest, rendering him unrecognizable. He could barely breathe and Bruce could not be certain that he would last the night.
The healing goddess came to him, hands promptly busy with tending the ugly burns and lips mutely murmuring chants of enchantment. Bruce could not help but feel out of place—in the midst of healing via sorcery and herbs, he was a sore thumb with his Midgardian techniques.
He swiftly bound the deep gash in a warrior's stomach, hastily treating for shock before the situation could worsen. The cavernous tent was already bustling and he wondered how the battlefield itself faired…if the dead outnumbered the living. If Thanos' dead outnumbered their living.
There was a shout, a cry of help, and Bruce looked up immediately. Two warriors entered, half-supporting half-carrying a third whose blood coated the entire left side of their head. Bruce's heart jumped at the ghastly wound and he searched the warriors' face for familiarity. It was always like this when a new person was taken to the healers'; Bruce would search for a face he knew, contorted in agony of a ghastly wound—or worse, blank and unconscious and close to death. None of his friends had been injured yet…at least, they were never in a state that required his assistance, and he could only take comfort that they were either well enough to continue fighting or had a quick death.
"Is this your first time in war?" Frigga said to him as Bruce washed the blood from his hands. Even when he washed away the stains his hands were perpetually red. It would not surprise him if it was permanent.
"Does it show?" Bruce said.
"No," said Frigga. "All healers are in battle, no matter what the ailment."
Bruce smiled in spite of himself. "I'm usually a doctor for illnesses, not battle wounds."
"You work tirelessly either way," said Frigga.
Bruce mopped the blood away from the new warrior's face. The warrior was young, no older than an adolescent, and he was whimpering in pain. Bruce forced himself to take deep breaths, clearing his mind as he cleaned the boy's blood away and worked on the wound. The young always gave up so much of themselves in war.
Frigga's eyes flashed at the sight of the grievously wounded child, but she had no time to dally. She could only roll up her sleeves and work on the next wounded man, whose arm was threatening so misshapen that it seemed like an unrecognizable appendage. Bruce was not unfamiliar to the twinge of motherly grief in Frigga at the sight of the dying child whispering for his family. But a queen could not choose favorites, and men and women were dying all around them all the same.
"This is far from your first war, is it?" Bruce said to Frigga when the child had been tended to. It had been a shrapnel to the head; it made Bruce's stomach churn, thinking of how advanced the other side was.
Frigga held a hand of glowing power over thewarrior's shattered arm. The skin was mottled and purple, nearly gray, and Bruce unconsciously searched the flesh for an entrance of gangrene. The warrior grasped with pain and jerked underneath Frigga's touch.
"Please hold him down for me," said Frigga.
Bruce nodded and placed two gentle but firm hands on the warrior's shoulders. The man breathed heavily through clenched teeth, sweat pouring from his hairline as his infected, broken arm attempted to heal.
Even without Frigga speaking to him, Bruce could read it all in the way she worked tirelessly and silently on each patient. She had seen wars—tens, hundreds, maybe thousands, one for each year she lived. And each time it would rob her of her friends, her father, her husband, or her sons and leave her feverish and uncertain that war would return her loves to her. But she was queen and could not afford time to mourn while so many needed her as both regent of the throne and healer of their sons and daughters. The proof hung heavy on her skin and in her eyes like tattered flags.
"Have we got more healing stones?" a loud voice cried as a figure rushed into the tent in a flurry. "Please hurry—I need more healing stones!"
"We must cauterize the wound, before it can do further damage—"
"Wait a little moment, a bed will free up in just a moment, please—"
"In the name of Valhalla, may the Valkyries guide the soul of Ulfr son of Regin to eternal rest—"
"Please help him, you must be able to do something—"
"Press this against the wound, quickly!"
There was never peace when it came to trying to save lives. Bruce knew why he was a doctor—there was too much worrying to do, too many sounds and the thoughts of others, to let his own mind settle into its own and find something to be angry about.
"This wound will not heal," Frigga said, her voice low. "Is it cursed?"
Bruce thought of Clint's predicament earlier. He examined the wounded arm and an unsettling fear overtook his mind when he recognized the situation.
"How did he come by this?" said Bruce. He turned to the young man squirming in unbearable pain under his hands. "How long did you have this injury?"
"I do not know," said the man—no, boy—eyes brimming with tears. "I apologize, I do not—I thought it was broken but—"
"It's not just broken," said Bruce. "I think it's getting infected by gangrene."
Frigga lifted her eyes questioningly to Bruce.
"Gangrene," said Bruce. "It's—it's vile. It's an infection that can eat you inside out. The bones are terribly broken, but the actual gangrene may have come from something earlier."
"Then what can be done for him?" said Frigga.
Bruce swallowed hard. "We have to amputate the arm. Or else it will spread to his vitals and kill him."
Frigga's jaw tensed. "Are you certain?"
"Yes," said Bruce.
Frigga's eyes hardened before she turned to Eir. "Help us, Eir. This young man cannot keep his arm."
"No," said the warrior, voice laced with panic. "No! Please, your highness—do not do this. Do not cut off my arm."
"I know you're scared," said Bruce. "I know you are, but it will be okay. This will help you—this will save you."
The young soldier flailed underneath Bruce's grip, his wounded arm flopping limply on the cot. He breathed heavily and Bruce feared he would start hyperventilating.
"You cannot—please, sir," said the young boy. "Don't do this, please don't do this. Don't cut off my arm, I beg of you!"
(You can't cut it off. I'll be useless. I'll be nothing. You can't cut off my arm, you can't cut off me, Doc. Please—please, you can't)
Bruce found it harder to breathe. There was no hope for the arm, he knew this—but he couldn't help but curse magic and sorcery and his own incapability that nothing could produce a miracle. Just once, for this young boy whose arm was to be sawed off.
Eir approached with a slim saw, a bowl of hot water, and heavy bandages. Bruce took a deep breath before preparing the material for a tourniquet. The soldier's eyes wandered to the blades and he let out a sob.
"Sir, I am a farmer," he said. "I am a farmer and I have no father anymore. I haven't for a long, long time, and my mother and siblings depend on my hand to work, to bring food to the table. My sisters and brothers are far too young to work, and my mother is weak. Please, sir—without my good hand, I will be able to do nothing. I will not be able to care for them. Please…"
Bruce was a doctor, but if anything doctors were not callous, and the young soldier broke his heart. But there was nothing—nothing he could do. Nothing that could change.
"Listen to me," said Bruce. "You are strong. I know you are. You are strong and courageous and you will get out of this alive. And you know what? You are going to grow stronger. You'll learn to live with your left hand, and you'll find yourself capable of things you never dreamed. Don't give up—you can't give up. It'll be all right. Your family will be cared for, and you will be cared for."
"Doctor, hurry," Eir said, her voice rising as the cries of the other healers and patients grew in volume.
Bruce could not bring himself to look into the young soldier's tearstained eyes. He took in a deep breath before tying the tourniquet around the boy's arm, tying tight his fate.
(Is this your first time in war?)
(No, it is not)
Clint had to admit, while he was glad of the never-ending supply of arrows for his tampered bow, there was a significant lack of explosive arrows in his stash.
This thought was much prevalent when a Chitauri grenade flew right into his post with other archers and no amount of leaping out of the way protected him from its blow. The force blew him a clear forty feet off his post, shattering the surroundings until there was no sign of his fellow archers anywhere. There was no sign of anything as dirt and rock showered down on him, nearly burying him in the earth.
His lungs hurt as he gasped for breath, tasting mud and blood on his tongue as he clambered out of the pile. He raised his head to find his fellow archers, but they were not in sight. He remembered the whizzing and airy popping of the grenade and feared the worst. The thought made his head hurt.
Clint had little time to ponder on this as more grenades landed. He threw a fistful of dirt over it before darting away as fast as he could, drawing back the string of his bow and sending Chitauri swiftly to their death. The Chitauri jerked from the impact of the arrows before falling, dying and not yet hitting the ground. Rifle shots whisked far too closely to his flesh and he felt his skin prickle from the friction.
He didn't even know where he was anymore. Pre-grenade, he was positioned with the north flank to take down the closest line of approaching Chitauri, but for all he knew, post-grenade could have sent him flying back a mile or so. In the end, it did not matter—killing Chitauri did not care at what location he did it, so long that it was done.
"Oh, dammit."
He saw the approaching gaggle of Chitauri, their guns held aimed at an unsuspecting group of Asgardians, tending to one of their wounded. Clint clenched his teeth before pulling his string back once—twice—thrice—watching as the Chitauri fell before they could even curl their long fingers around the trigger. The Asgardians did not even notice.
"Nicely done," said a voice.
Clint whipped around, pulling his string back before his eyes even landed on who was behind him. When the tip of the arrow nearly grazed the tip of Sif's nose the moment he turned around, he gulped and immediately diverted the arrow elsewhere and let it land on an unfortunate Chitauri. Sif gave him a grim smile, her lip busted and her eye swollen.
"You okay?" he said.
"I could be better," she said. "You do not look so well."
Clint had no idea what the grenade must have done to him, and figured he would be better off not knowing.
"Any news?" he said, continuing his faraway battle with the oncoming Chitauri. Sif whipped her sword to flick blood off the blade.
"The western flank has been vanquished, thanks to our insufferable princes," said Sif. "But the Chitauri are still numerous. Thanos has been spotted deeper within his ranks—I do not believe he intends to fight."
"Bastard," said Clint. Thanos must not have cared who remained victorious in this battle, so long as death claimed as many as possible and he took the credit.
"Heimdall keeps a watch on the other realms," said Sif. She took a breather to spar several Chitauri who tested their luck to step too close, and their necks were slit promptly. "Jotunheim still stands strong. The Chitauri's technology is not so effective against their ice. Vanaheim has to deal with the Kree, but she stands strong with her sorcerors. The other realms have less battle than us, as Asgard is Thanos' most anticipated show."
"And Earth?" said Clint.
Sif pulled a rifle from a dead Chitauri and cocked the weapon.
"Still safe," she said.
Clint nodded.
"How do you use this contraption?" Sif said.
"Whoa, don't hold it like that!" Clint said. Without missing a beat, he flipped the rifle over in Sif's hand so that it did not point straight to her chest and continued shooting his arrows at the enemy. "You pull the trigger. You aim and you press down on the button."
"Like this—?" She shot the rifle before she could even finish, the electric blue shot skewering a Chitauri in the knee immediately. It shrieked in pain before another shot silenced it permanently.
"Yeah, like that," Clint said breathlessly. "You're a fast learner."
"There is worth in having brains to fight with alongside brawn," said Sif. "Even if Asgard acts like it does not agree sometimes."
"Should agree to it all the time," said Clint. He took her wrist. "Come on, I don't like being out in the open like this." When she opened her mouth to protest he tugged her. "Like this, we'll be easy shots—sitting ducks. Come on!"
He pulled her away to behind an overturned stone for refuge. He heard her chuckle wryly behind him as he wiped his blood from his face and crept on all fours to look over the edge.
"Your friend did the same thing," said Sif. "The lady. You Midgardians have much trust in the backs of rocks."
"And you Asgardians have much trust in your flesh and bone," said Clint.
"I have tried to speak with the All-Father," said Sif, "about our tactics of war."
"And?" said Clint, shooting at a Chitauri. It was down before it even saw him.
"Even if we change our tactics, we have little ability to change what we fight with," said Sif. "Not everyone can bear bow and arrows or these—these firearms in a split second. Stealth is our only hope. Darkness cannot be, as the Chitauri are much accustomed to it and will be at the advantage. We are preparing catapults."
"Catapults? What are you, Middle-Earth?" said Clint. "What are you even going to launch?"
"Let's just say you and your friends may not have as many hiding spots as before."
Clint pressed himself against the stone, shooting another arrow. "Uncool."
Sif wiped her lips with the back of her gloved hand, her lips bloody and torn. Clint nodded to his hip, where a water canteen was attached.
"Take some," he said.
"Take some what?" said Sif.
"Water, come on! Take it before someone shoots right through it."
Sif hesitated before unhooking the canteen from Clint's belt and taking a sip so small that a raindrop could have had provided better sustenance.
"Don't give me that. Take as much as you want. I'm a camel."
"You are not," said Sif.
"Do you even know what a camel is around here?" said Clint.
Sif glared at him before taking a healthy swig and reattaching the canteen to his hip. She slunk near the opposite end of the stone and positioned her rifle. With a careful aim she shot at the oncoming Chitauri, turning on its machine gun mode without realizing. She gasped as the rifle spewed bullet after bullet without her control, felling as many as two Chitauri per second.
"What's it doing?" she said.
"It's going on rapid fire mode!" said Clint, pulling back his string and aiming at a Chitauri sergeant.
"How do I stop it?" she said.
"I don't know!"
She let out a yell of frustration before banging the rifle against the side of the rock. It sputtered and died in her hands.
"Better bury it barrel-first in case it acts up again," said Clint. Sif shoved it into the overturned soil and pulled her sword out of her scabbard.
"There must be something I can do," she said.
"I'll go ahead, shoot down whatever's the biggest threat, and you follow," said Clint. "Ready? Go!"
Before he could tell if Sif deigned to answer, he darted out of his place and aimed at whatever was reptilian and moved. Sif followed quickly after him, her sword finding its place through many Chitauri bodies as they moved to attack. Together, they were so opposite that they were nearly inseparable—Clint for distance and Sif for proximity, Clint for sight and Sif for sound, Clint for go and Sif for come.
He never thought of returning to his fellow archers, not when he fought with her. Battle was familiar, and frankly, less frightening with her. She took down what he missed, and he vanquished what could threaten them.
But days of endless fighting and sleepless nights wore them down, Clint more than Sif as his mortal body gave him little favors. Soon, thirst and fatigue would whittle him down, and he did not question where the water Sif fetched him came from, as she did not seem inclined to answer.
"How do mortals fight their battles?" said Sif as Clint fought to stay alert albeit his aching head.
"Foxholes or something," he said. "Except that's not the best way either."
It was difficult to see in the blackest point of night, especially when the moon was new and yet to be borne in the month and the stars, ashamed, hid their faces. All that could be seen were the magic cast by the miscellaneous sorceresses that remained in the battlefield and the lightning the Chitauri shot from their rifles, with the exception of Thor's blows. When the darkness was illuminated for that moment, Clint saw the carnage and the true horrors of battle—of bodies strewn on the fields with gaping eyes and mouths, twisted in angles unimaginable and bleeding from places unseen.
"Wanna know something?" he said under his breath, rubbing his eyes.
"What is it?" she said.
"I was never trained for war," said Clint. "This is nothing like New York City or Budapest. I'm sort of winging this as I go."
Sif chuckled. "I have absolutely no idea what you meant by the last two sentences."
Clint smiled in spite of himself, and realized he had something to smile about in the middle of a war. "I'll explain it all to you later. Midgardian slang and all."
"Clint."
"Yeah?"
Sif's voice was quiet and thin.
"Clint, I don't think we're with the others."
"The others? What others?"
"Other Asgardians," said Sif. "I think—I think we're near enemy lines."
Clint tried to ignore the creeping sensation of uneasiness in the back of his head.
"You don't know that for sure."
"I see no one."
"Hell, I can barely see you," said Clint. He felt a jolt of paranoia and turned sharply to the general direction of Sif. "Quick security question: the moment you saw Loki, what did you do?"
"What in the world are you going on about?"
"Just answer the question, please."
Sif made an impatient sound. "I spoke a word or two with him before striking him across the face, that arse of a prince. Why?"
Clint let out a sigh of relief. "Nothing."
"No, you will not keep secrets in the middle of a battle. What is it?"
"The last time I dealt firsthand with the Chitauri, they used their shapeshifting abilities to screw me over," said Clint. "I didn't want to think that they would disguise themselves as Asgardians and take us down from the inside. Or that you were—you know—actually a Chitauri."
"I'm insulted you even thought that of me," said Sif.
"Sorry," said Clint. He reached out and found her shoulder, gripping it tight. "Just…try not to leave my side right now, okay? I don't like saying I'm afraid of anything, but I'd be one hell of a liar if I said I was completely okay with the situation."
She put a hand on Clint's and squeezed it hearteningly.
"It's okay to be afraid," said Sif. "It's when your fear becomes despair do we have a problem."
There was a click, a snap, and they both stiffened. Clint only now remembered again Sif's premonition and felt his heart leap to his throat when he realized that she could very well be right. They did not know exactly where they wandered in the dark, and his sense of direction was muddled from lack of rest or food. They could be absolutely vulnerable and he still couldn't see a damn thing.
He heard Sif take a sharp intake of breath beside him and he realized that her hand had not left his.
"It came from behind us," she whispered.
He nodded even though she could not see him. They could not risk staying in the same place, especially if a scout would catch them.
"We've got to book it," said Clint. "I don't know where to though."
"Can we fight against them?" said Sif.
"Shh." The steps approached again and Clint held his breath. He silently drew back the string, feeling the arrow materialize between his fingers. He only heard one pair of footsteps—but to whom did they belong? Friend or foe?
"Let's get out of here," said Clint. "On the count of—"
But Clint had no time to answer before fire lit the night.
It was fire—but at the same time it was sound—a loud, tearing noise so condensed that it set a spark and melted. It painted the night fiery orange and the heat blasted him and Sif back, sending them sprawling on the grass. They barely had time to collect themselves onto their knees before rifle shots rained down on them, sending spurts of dirt flying around them. Clint immediately spun around and shot blindly.
"Go!" he said.
The Chitauri had not been shot—it raised its rifle at them and pulled the trigger, sending a volley of blue bullets of power toward their direction. Clint danced out of the way, trying to aim his handgun at the Chitauri. A bullet tore at his calf and he nearly fell. Another shot hit the gun out of his hand.
Before he could lift his bow, before he could even place his fingers against the string, the Chitauri's rifle was pointed straight at his chest.
And before the finishing strike could tear the life out of Clint's heart, a long and elegant sword pierced the Chitauri's stomach. The Chitauri sputtered, the rifle falling from its grasp as Sif's sword dug deep into its gut, before it fell back lifeless.
Clint let out a huge breath of relief, giddiness flooding his veins. He picked the handgun up from the ground and holstered it.
"Nice throw," he said to Sif. "Now let's—"
His eyes landed on Sif and he felt the blood drain from his face. She raised her head wearily to him, her hand over her chest drenched in her own blood. One of the Chitauri's shots landed right below her collarbones, shattering her bones and spilling her blood.
"Oh no…"
Clint fell to his knees before Sif, trying to stem the flow of blood with his own hand. She shook her head, her frame shaking uncontrollably as it began to fail to hold her upright.
"Don't, Clint," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Blood spilled from her lips.
"We've got to get you out of here," said Clint. "We've got to get you back, to a medic or a healer."
"Clint…"
Whatever Sif wanted to say, she had no strength left to tell him. She slumped to her side and Clint caught her immediately, his heart crying as he held her tight.
"Don't you give up, Sif," said Clint, his voice both firm and shaking. "I'm getting you back. I'm getting you help."
He shifted her onto his back, trying to ignore the fact that he could feel her blood already seep through his shirt. She cried out in frustration and pain, her limbs shaking around his neck, and that shook him enough to jump onto his feet and run—run to God knows where as long as it brought him somewhere and away.
"We're going to get you to a medic on the field, okay?" said Clint, running to where he could see a glimmer of light. He knew in his heart that was where the healing tent was and he ran faster, faster than his sleep-deprived body could ever move. "We'll bum a healing stone off of them and get you patched up before getting you some real help. And it'll be okay. It'll be okay."
"Clint, Clint," Sif said, and Clint could barely hear her. Her voice was so small and choked with blood. "What if I—?"
"There's no 'what if,' you hear?" he said. "There's no 'what if' and I'm going to help you. God, let me save you!"
And he ran. Ran because for once it was not his life that depended on it. He did not run to kill another, or run to finish his job. He ran because someone needed it—he ran to save Sif's life.
The battle was ceaseless, and it destroyed. He did not think to move stealthily as he made his way back across enemy lines, because stealth meant waiting and waiting meant time he could not lose—that Sif could not lose. Not after she had saved him from death by Chitauri in the knick of time, not after she had comforted him and accompanied him for so long.
He tightened his grip on her, making sure she could not fall from his back as he ran, relishing in the feeling of her breathing against his back and the sound of it in his ear, as guttural as it was. When he crossed enemy borders, he celebrated not, because help was still long ahead, and he could barely see. Soldiers fought without knowing, without stopping to breathe, and how soon it would be until they could not!
He ran until he could not feel his own legs, until he was drenched.
He ran until the wind whistled in his ear louder than the gunshots, than the screams and cries, than the explosions.
He ran until his own breath died away and he could not see the candlelights of the healing tent when he finally reached it, or feel the hands that reached out to him when he passed through the flap.
But he took in a breath of relief when he entered the warm light, its brightness making his eyes sting with tears. The healers immediately led him to a cot for Sif, albeit it was still damp with the blood of its last occupant, and Clint was near collapse.
"Told you," he said, without enough breath to even raise his voice. "Told you, Sif. Told you I could make it."
He shifted her off of his sticky back and onto the cot as gently as possible. When he stood, he saw that no one was moving yet to bind her wound.
"Come on, let's go!" he said. He turned to Bruce and Frigga, with their shadowed, weary eyes and gray faces, and saw them frozen. "She got shot in the chest, she's badly hurt, we've got to—"
"Clint," said Bruce, and that was all he could say.
Clint breathed heavily, anger flooding his veins, before he looked down to Sif.
And he felt like nothing.
Her eyes were half-lidded as if drowsy, but nothing stirred underneath—no light, no life, not a glimmer. Vacant. Like dusty marbles. Her bloody lips still parted in her last breath. The gaping wound on her chest mocking and deathly, with no beating heart underneath.
Only now did Clint realize that the sweat on his back was truly red. Only now did he remember that amid the wind whistling in his ear, he heard no breath. That those shaking limbs had become eerily calm around his neck.
He felt so, so tired.
Frigga sank to her knees beside the cot, her face full of sorrow at the sight of the young woman she had watched grow from childhood lying dead before her. She cupped Sif's wan face for a moment before gently closing her eyes. Sif did not look asleep. Sif only looked dead.
Clint barely had the strength to breathe now, much less keep standing.
"Valhalla received a beautiful soul," Frigga whispered. She pressed a kiss on Sif's forehead, of a daughter that was nearly hers, of her sons' dear companion.
Clint felt everything fall around him, even himself as his knees met the ground sharply.
Sif was dead, and he did not even notice her go.
He felt so empty, so undeservingly alone.
Sif was dead, and soon he would rise to his feet again, brush away Bruce's concerned hands, and re-enter battle. Because Sif was dead, and the war did not stop for him. It never would.