SHADOW OF DEATH
Chapter 52: Event Horizon
"You nuked Manhattan!" Tony Stark shouted, his fingers pointed at Fury as if they were a firing squad with a condemned prisoner. "Who the hell thought that was a good idea!"
Stark's voice reverberated off the walls of the pristinely decorated office and through the collection of former team mates gathered in the SHIELD headquarters. Fury's face fell into as impassive a mask as he could muster, but by the quivering of his jaw and the downcast turn of his eyes, his emotion leaked through the edges.
"Stark, you know I had no control over that. You were there. You helped stop one of them. The World Security Council only thought about preventing the invasion of the entire planet. They thought that if they contained the problem in New York, the rest of the planet would be spared."
"That's a bit like burning down a house to get rid of a nest of cockroaches, ain't it?" Barton retorted. His blue-eyed glare was cold and hard. He perched on the edge of a desk with his large arms crossed over his chest in defiance.
"How bad? What was the damage?" came the quiet voice of Dr. Banner. By the way he opened and closed his fists and faced away from the center of the room, it was obvious he was struggling to control his temper.
"Midtown Manhattan was vaporized for three miles in each direction," answered Maria Hill. She emerged from the corner of the office to command their attention. Noting Fury's expression and the rising tension in the room, she stepped from her observation perch in the shadows and into the tense space between the scowls and accusatory glares. Her voice and manner were authoritative and matter-of-face as she continued, "Once you get past Queens and the Bronx, the buildings still stand with only the windows blown out. The firestorm blew clear through Brooklyn, Harlem, and Jersey City. Two million died within the first five minutes and another million died within the next few days. Last I heard, there's another half-million or so of the injured that were lost within a year. They can only estimate what the long-range death toll will be from the effects of the exposure to the radiation."
Tony Stark's stunned silence soon gave way to a profuse explosion of curses and his fist slammed clear through a nearby cupboard. That same fist would have swung straight for Fury's jaw if Clint Barton hadn't caught him first and held him in a bear hug.
"That's not gonna fix nothing," Clint said, his massive arms holding the smaller, struggling man in his grip. "Nick tried. We tried. There's nothing we can do about it now."
"That was my home!" Tony shouted back. "My tower, my parents' house, my Stark cousins, my old neighbor with the spotted dog, my shawarma place… What do you expect me to do? Rejoice and pretend like it's ok? I can't do that, ok?"
"No one is telling you not to be upset," Natasha answered, as imploringly as possible. "We should all be upset. No, we should all be furious and devastated. However, taking it out on Director Fury won't bring any of it back. Right now, we don't have time to mourn. We do have an outlet for our anger. It's those alien bastards still hanging out on the edge of our planet with their weapons fixed on us. You wanna punch something, then punch another hole through those donut ships."
Tony faced away from the room, his chest still heaving. His voice, when it came, was stilted. "Tell me Yankee Stadium is still standing?"
"Mostly… with a few scorch marks and twisted out bleachers," Maria said. "It might be a few years before the radiation levels are low enough to hold games there again, but yes. Technically, it still stands."
"SEE! THAT RIGHT THERE! How am I supposed to be ok with that?" Stark roared. This time, he didn't lunge for Fury but by the expression on his face, it was obvious he was still considering it. "Cap, this is your neck of the woods too. Tell me you aren't furious!"
Steve Rogers, until this point, had remained entirely silent with his eyes focused on a point outside the window of the SHIELD facility. His head snapped around at the sound of his name and it was only then that the rest of the inhabitants of the room could see the twin track of tears running down his cheeks. He stared at Stark but he did not speak. He shook his head once and lowered his gaze back to the floor.
"You think I wouldn't do anything to go back and change that stupid-ass decision?" Nick responded. "You think this whole fiasco doesn't haunt me day and night? What do you want me to do, Stark?"
"I don't know. Act like you care?"
"Stark, I've had the past two years… I repeat… years… to come to terms with this. I've been to Ground Zero more times than I can count and I've dug through that wreckage month after month- starting when it was still warm and until it froze right over. I can tell you, I wasn't so calm about it all those first few months and the worst thing I've ever done is pack away the remains of the team – my team – the team I sent to their deaths. I can tell you, seeing the eyes of your friends and family at your memorial still gives me nightmares. I don't know what else you want me to do." Fury sighed and he lifted his hands before him. He forced himself to meet the faces of each of his hand-picked team, even those who tried to avoid his eye. "I can't apologize enough for what happened to you. I sent you into a fight and then our own firing squad took you out. It was a poor reward for the sacrifices you made to defend our planet."
"Can we call them?" Barton asked, his earnest stare meeting Fury's downcast face. "Can we contact our friends and family to let them know we are here?"
"Of course," Fury answered. "At least one good thing can come outta all this mess. There's a whole lotta people who are gonna be overjoyed to get a call from y'all."
"It doesn't seem fair, does it?" Natasha mused. Her face had remained staunchly stoic, though she refused to meet anybody's eyes. "That all the innocent civilians in New York are dead but we are somehow alive again."
"Or that Loki survived it. They dropped that bomb to stop him and still he wanders the universe at will, masquerading as king of a good chunk of it," Barton said.
"We'll be sure to remind future World Security Councils to test atomic bombs on their alien targets before using them in combat," Fury responded.
"FUTURE! FUTURE! Tell me the World Security Council members have been fired or placed on administrative leave! Tell me where they are so I can go and find them myself and make sure they have no future!" Stark said, swinging around to face them all with his eyes blazing.
"The only one still alive is Pierce and he's in SHIELD custody for involvement with Hydra. The others, well, let's just say they each mysteriously turned up dead through covert assassination plots. Since Pierce disclaims any involvement in those plots, I can only assume we have the wrath of an angry Asgardian world-conqueror to blame," Fury answered wryly.
"For once, I applaud the super-villain for his nefarious, underhanded dealings. I hope he made them kneel before he took their lives," Tony spat.
"I think you will have to ask him for the details."
"Oh, don't worry. I will."
Maria looked at each of the former Avengers, spreading her right arm in a circle towards them. "I don't understand. If it was possible to resurrect each of you, can't we bring back those we lost in New York?"
"Fraid not, Fancy Pants," Stark quipped. "Reindeer Games said it took a magic Rock to bring back the dead… a magic Rock he's just so happened to hand over to his former 'enemy' and left in her hands… a former enemy who just so happens to be hanging out with our other enemy… who also just so happens to have the other magic Rock."
"Pretty suspicious and arbitrary 'rules' for resurrection," Fury remarked. "Almost as suspicious as the would-be conqueror of Asgard and Earth now suddenly claiming to control the fates of both."
"By-the-by, where are the pair of Super Alien Bros?" Stark asked, looking around as if he could find them hiding in Fury's office.
"Arguing with Wakanda," Fury answered. "Once Medical cleared their little sidekicks as being 'mostly' human – not as human as I woulda liked but not under the control of an alien mind stick - they went straight to the other bane of my existence to argue over buying nukes. Since SHIELD won't hand them any nukes, they are trying to convince Killmonger to get some – as if they can be bought on Ebay."
"Well… they kinda can..," Stark began, until he caught Fury's glare and then he fell into a wide grin and held out his hands. "Former Merchant of Death. I'm just saying, nukes might not be as hard to find as you seem to think."
"Stark, you aren't helping," Fury said with a roll of his eyes. "As far as it's within my power, I will not hand over enough firepower to destroy a planet into the hands of the self-proclaimed 'Deliverer of Earth' who wants to 'free us from freedom.' No matter how many ghosts he resurrects, I refuse to give him the power to steal more lives."
"Ironic, ain't it? Reindeer Games bringing an entirely new alien army into New York to occupy the exact same spot he already tried to conquer?" Stark said. "I gotta hand it to him. Fail to conquer New York once? Resurrect Napoleon from the dead and try again."
"It's not like they can do any more damage to Mid-town Manhattan than's already been done," Barton said.
"I gotta say those giant smurfs with their Elsa hands are pretty impressive. I wouldn't wanna cross them," Stark said. "Still, how long's that gonna hold and what'da we do with them if this whole situation doesn't clear up quick?"
"We have some of the greatest military masterminds of all time brought back to life and idling away their time in a prison of ice and in the shadow of a nuclear blast," Banner mused, more to himself than the room. "It sounds entirely unbelievable."
"This from the guy who turns into a giant green rage monster and who was dead a few days ago," Stark said.
Banner shrugged.
Natasha gave a half-smile and arched one eyebrow. "Maybe France will take Napoleon back?"
"What's left of France," Fury muttered darkly.
"Speaking of which, I gotta say I'm still a little lost about just how Hydra ended up taking over countries as if they were a kid playing dominoes. We've had the Asgardian cliff-notes version of what happened after. Can you bring us up to speed on your side of things?" Stark asked. The rest of the team nodded in assent.
"I'm afraid it's gonna be a long story," Fury said. Then he began.
Oooo
Violet. Everything was violet.
For so long, her world was forged of shades of charcoal grey and onyx. She struggled to comprehend the dawning of color back into her vision.
Between the interminable grey, it had all been crimson. So much crimson, she could hardly remember any other shade of light.
Crimson capes and rivulets of blood over torn flesh, crimson leers, and hearts. Each beating heart she held in her palms soaked her own veins with life. Each extinguished soul before her became an elixir of strength to her own. She felt herself become More with each wave of offerings poured out on her personal alter. Their spirits entangled with hers, going to her head like the strongest of meads. Their deaths entwined her Fate to those of the throngs around her in an ever-strengthening gallows rope and spread the bridge to her own immortality.
Then, one day, it all changed. He changed. The Lord of War and Death went half-blind and full mad and he laid down his sword for a scepter. The war ships tarried and grew moss while the warriors waited in vain for their lord to summon them again. Asgard held its breath and its eyes turned to its fickle one-eyed king.
She was the Daughter of War. She had always known her place, her role, her reason for existing. Now, she felt lost. Her strength evaporated with each lingering day that passed. She felt her own swords grow cobwebs and the iron in her soul slowly rusted, leaving piles of red dust behind. She had never known such thirst, such wasted time, and her very veins longed for the blessed reprieve of the battlefield.
She tried in vain to wake him. She laid her nets wide and scented them with the essence of violence, a scent all but irresistible to her progenitor in days Before. His eye blinked open and she saw crimson taint his vision, but only for a moment. Like a roused bear from hibernation, he struck once and returned to his impenetrable slumber. No matter how she roared and prodded, he refused to wake from his lethargy again. Instead, he cast her from his sight and threw her from the realm of her birth.
Hela Odindóttir, Goddess of Death, was banished from the field of war and sentenced to the indignity of a foreign throne room. Her armor was exchanged for a gilded gown and her swords for a fur lap robe. Her entire world became washed with cerulean blue and a stark glacial white which tore at her eyes and froze the breath in her lungs. She was trapped by hearths and etiquette, kings and courtiers, and her fist felt bereft of its familiar swords. Day by day her strength dripped from her like sap from the punctured heart of a tree. She was diminished, contained, imprisoned by crowns and gilded halls.
Day by day, she stared out the panes of translucent ice and into the glacial fields beyond. They were infinite in their reach to the speckled heavens above them. She could see neither their end nor their beginning and she knew she would never be satisfied until she broke through the walls of the palace and sprinted to the place where the horizon met the end of the icy plain.
Who could penetrate the heart of such ice or reach the farthest glittering star in the galaxies overhead? She belonged there, outside the palace, outside the city, outside of Jotunheim, and in the midst of the numinous heavens beyond. Jotunheim could not restrict her. Asgard would not fulfill her. The entire universe could not defy her. She was the Goddess of Death and everything the darkness touched belonged to her.
Death was the one truth shared by every created universe. What realm continued into perpetuity? What being could truly grasp immortality? What mind contained the infinite? Even the stars overhead sank into the beautiful oblivion of Death and each and every creature that drew breath would someday surrender to her one true power. She wielded Death as a saber and drank from its springs like a flask. She wore Death as a garment and left footprints of oblivion in her path.
So, Hela Odindóttir broke free from her chains and painted the frosted world crimson. She felt the heat of battle, the fire of a multitude of flashing blades, and the explosion of lives poured out in a final glorious end. It fed her soul and grew her till she held her head as tall as Yggdrasil and as strong as the gallows once presided over by Asgard's king.
Yet, even the greatest inferno must cool. Once the roaring swells and cataracts of crimson war were dammed, she found herself wrapped in chains again. These were new chains, dark chains forged without light and far from the realms she had ever travelled before.
Deep within Yggdrasil's branches, suspended by Asgard's strength lay the realm created by the All-Father himself. Helheim, Asgard's sister realm, was a closely guarded secret of Yggdrasil. There was only one path into Helheim – the ignominious path of the inglorious fallen. The worst of all traitors and most brazen of cowards walked across the dark path tethering Helheim to Asgard. There gathered all those unworthy of the Realm Eternal's light.
There they stayed.
In a world with neither sun nor moon, in a realm devoted only to darkness and captivity, Helheim's children would be forced to tally, halfway between life and death. They had no purpose, no reason to exist and yet very little impetus to die.
For, it was the dead on Helheim who were truly to be pitied. The children of Yggdrasil who were barred from Valhalla and died a death without glory, those, too, were sent to Helheim. Rather than laid to rest on a gilded ship and sent over the Great Falls of Asgard in a cascade of fire and light, these unworthy dead were shrouded in the course white shroud of fool's cloth. Then, without pomp or ceremony, without the honor of mourners and glow of firelight, they would be cast through the dark portal into Helheim.
There, they would remain.
In the charcoal grey horizon, interrupted only by the light of the galaxies overhead and the dim flicker of the green lanterns that never went out. For thousands of years, their bones would lay in half-hazard heaps and piles along the stench of the River Gjöll,. No tears were shed for them. No prayers were spoken for their souls. Their names were banished from the lips of the living.
Those unfortunate enough to be cast to Helheim with breath still in their chests found nothing to drink but the putrid water of the River Gjöll. No rain fell. No breeze ever stirred the stagnant sky. No sustenance fell from Yggdrasil's table but the rotting flesh of their dead… or the fresher flesh of those still clinging to life. Those ruthless enough to keep on living built fortresses of bones and pyres of skulls as testimonies to their prowess and to keep out those who wished to topple their little dominions and consumed their lives to sustain their own.
Perhaps this Realm of Death was the most fitting throne of all for its new mistress. It was into this domain that she found herself thrust, her lips still caked with the blood of battle and her hands encrusted with the entrails of her enemies. When she stumbled, wheezing and cursing, into the darkness, it only took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the landscape before her. For as far as her eyes could see, there was nothing but the dead and dying.
Hela found herself bound to the darkness, but free to live in a way she never had before. It was as if the very air and corrupted soil was made only for her. With a single breath, she inhaled millennia of decay into her lungs and her entire soul expanded with the multitude of dead and dying around her. She had never experienced such a rush of strength or power before. The darkness, itself, teemed with half-rotted souls of the damned and she felt herself grow like an acorn planted by a stream of water, strong and firm and ever-taller.
The children of Hel soon found themselves beholden to a single indomitable ruler and even the inhabitants without life were soon summoned to obey her biddings. The fortress Hela built rivalled any that had been built before and its gates of femurs and tibias were guarded by only strongest of her guard. All new initiates from Yggdrasil first must past through her courts and it was she and she alone who determined which would serve her best as living and which would serve her best as corpses.
From here, in the heart of the Realm of Death, Hela grew to be the queen she always longed to be. She expanded like a blooming flower before the sun but it was not enough. When she looked out of her palace and away from her army, she could still see the light of the stars above and they mocked her in their frigid, unyielding brilliance. They knew her rule was as impermanent as the existence of all Yggdrasil.
It was only a matter of time before Helheim itself imploded - for this was an artificial purgatory, one created by a single mage and bound to his own magic. When true Lord and Creator of Helheim breathed his last, it was then that the gates of Helheim would burst open and overflow onto the rest of Yggdrasil.
When that happened, she would be ready.
Yet, as often occurs in such uncontrolled chaos as the universe, there were more paths to Hel than even Odin All-Father knew about. Behind the visible, tangible world, strung between the mystic and metaphysical pathways, Helheim had a secret window. While not large enough to escape through, it was just wide enough to see into and one day, a towering Titan stumbled upon it. There, through the smallest of peepholes, this ancient being caught a glimpse of the Goddess of Death. He was immediately captivated. Such an aura of dark power, such a fierce fury in her eyes – the Lady of Hel gained a new devotee – more ardent than any who had gone before him.
He combed through the galaxies for mages who could forge a means to contact his Lady and he left no stone unturned to reach her courts. Then the gifts and offerings began. They poured through the cracks and crevices of Helheim in droves. The Mad Titan lay them all at her feet in homage to his beloved Lady Death.
"It is only when Lady Death is given her due that the Universe can be brought back into balance. Too many turn their backs on our dear Lady and refuse to stare into her glorious face. When she is given her fair share of the souls, when her heart is pleased, it is then that life may truly thrive," her suitor claimed.
She had never been as delighted with an admirer before. Her power only grew with his offerings and she became stronger than she had ever been before. She only need wait until the gates of Hel were thrown open before she could drink from the bounty of the universe beyond. It was only a matter of time and time she had in abundance.
Then came the day that Hel bubbled over. The old king was dead, his spells lost their potency and Asgard lay in wait for its Daughter to return.
Now, the Realm Eternal had been flooded with the armies of the Dead, a tangible reminder of their own mortality, and she had presided over the end of Asgard as the Queen of Death she was meant to be. Asgard's hall of kings was hers. Its Great Falls and Rainbow Bridge would be hers. Its sun and moon would be hers. Yggdrasil's courts of billions upon billions would be hers. Then, she would turn her eyes to the heavens above and call each and every star down as her own possession, one by one.
For she was Death and none were exempt from her hand.
Until she felt the bite of a new set of chains fall upon her outstretched hands.
These new chains were violet. And they were forged of brilliant, impenetrable, relentless light.
It sank into her soul like magma on a glacial plain. It burned through her heart like fire through fresh cotton. It devoured her entire being like maggots on a corpse. She could do nothing but scream.
As Mistress of the Stones, she thought she could wield the Power of the very essence of the universe. She had worked so hard, come so far, only to have the Stones betray her in the end. The Soul Stone decided her final vehicle would be one of flesh rather than metal, bone instead of stone. Then, it was the Stone herself who remained in control, overwriting all of Hela's autonomy and determining the very movements of her body. She was but a conduit for the Stone's wishes, bound completely to the Power of the Stone.
Hela thought she had tasted true Power, that her innate control over Death was the greatest act of supremacy. Then, she was overridden by the Power of the Soul. The Soul Stone wielded both Death and Life, Ends and Beginnings. She was entirely overruled with a compunction to preserve, to create life, to sustain and protect. It was a fragile, subtle Power, one entirely foreign to her and less of a flush of immediate strength and more a steady crescendo of ever-growing potency.
She hated it. She loved it. She was entirely overwhelmed and intoxicated until she nearly despaired.
Yet, there was nothing she could do but submit for her body, her mind, her strength, were all no longer her own. She was a vessel for a power greater than she had ever known before.
For once in her life, she had no idea what to do next. She gawked at the expanse of the fields of Iðavöllr around her, the flickering heavens of Asgard overhead, and the ocean of violet within her that drowned it all in its light, and she did not know whether she was lost or found.
Before her, the Mad Titan stared, his blade carefully balanced in his hand and the sole remaining Stone in his gauntlet. It glowed crimson, as crimson as the stained blood from the battle around her, the field marred with lost armor, footprints, and indents of battle. These mirrored the constellations overhead, both patterned testaments to the glory of kings now gone. The spires of the Golden City could just be seen in the distance, the place of her birth, the audience of her banishment, now empty of all it once held.
Only two living creatures remained on Asgard. There was Thanos and there was Hela.
There was Power. There was Soul.
The pair warily watched each other, one wielding an Infinity Stone and one wielded by her sister Stone. She could feel the hum of the Power Stone, her siren song as loud as a warrior's cry. The Stone poked and prodded at the Stone on her head, tentatively calling to her sister and reaching tentacles of Power to captivate the Soul.
Thanos' wide brow furrowed as he stared at his Mistress. Blood still dripped from each edge of his well-sharpened blade and teetered from the tips of his fingers.
"Lady Death, what has been done to you?" he asked, his voice low from both fear and wonder. He drew nearer to her, his gaze moving from her face to the Stone set in a crown of vines on her head and a flicker of violet light reflected against his dark armor.
"I have been bound," she answered. "Whereas the All-Father saw fit to bind me in the Land of the Dead, his successor has bound me to that of the Living."
"We have acquired two Infinity Stones, my Lady. Who can stop us from our purpose? Our victory is now inevitable," he said, his sharp teeth exposed by the growing width of his grin. He bowed his head in deference to her, delicately offering her his dual-edged blade, held in perfect balance before her.
The Soul Stone, the new mistress of Lady Death, revolted against the being before her. The Stone hissed within her mind, her fiery lavender light exploding and reaching for the Mad Titan. Hela could feel the Stone's fury as she clamored to reach her sister Stone and release the Stone from her captivity to the Titan.
"Release the Stone," Hela commanded, her eyes growing bright from the grip of the Stone upon her.
Thanos slowly stood up and gave her a tentative, impassive stare. Then, his hand fell to the Stone on his knuckles. His large fingers rolled over each setting, a memorial to a destroyed Stone beyond the reach of any one being. The Power Stone boiled against her harness, channeled by the whims and wishes of the Titan and yet still longing to be freed.
For thousands of years, Thanos had sought to please his Lady. For thousands of years, their purposes had neatly aligned together. Death and her servant, Lady Hela and the Mad Titan who worked to honor his Mistress. He drank from Death as surely as she had and he was just as intoxicated by its mead.
Yet, how could their goals align now? She watched the conflict in his eyes and war through his chest. Then, his fists clenched against his blade and he spread his feet apart to balance himself before her.
In his eyes, she saw his answer. Her world became drenched in crimson light once again.