Death follows her everywhere.
At first, Carol thinks it's a coincidence. People die. Planets crumble. Long before she was even born, entire civilizations collapsed under the weight of their own greed, and even now- stretched out across the Universe- there are societies rising and falling, many of them blissfully and beautifully unaware of her existence.
So, when Dar-Benn chokes out, "You'll live up to your name again," as streams of emerald drip down her bottom lip, Carol tries to ignore her.
"I didn't want this," she replies, hand heavy on the shrapnel in her side. "I never wanted this."
"And yet, Death seems to follow you."
It doesn't, Carol wants to say. Death can't follow a person. Death is just a concept… it isn't a tangible item to be perceived, but thirty seconds later, Dar-Benn is exploding into fractals of light. Monica falls into another reality. Carol deserts Kamala to restart Pama, and with every pulse of photonic energy, the pit in her stomach grows. It grows and it swells until there's a bleeding, gaping hole in her chest.
"You never came back."
"Your intervention failed."
"You are emotional and impulsive… a weapon far too dangerous to control."
The tendrils of Pama's regeneration lay waste to the shadows- twenty-five years and a million lives too late- and as the flames glaze over Carol's eyes, Dar-Benn's ghost whispers, "I told you. Hala… Maria… Monica. You destroy everything and everyone you touch."
The tears float into the darkness. Wiping her eyes, Carol takes one last look at the remains of what was once the pinnacle of the Magellanic. "I'm sorry," she murmurs into the cold emptiness of space, but nobody answers.
She turns away.
I'm so sorry.
It takes Carol a week to finally come home.
New Asgard is cold, which makes sense. It's April on Earth, or at least, Carol thinks it is. Time is difficult to measure when you've been flanked by nothing but midnight for a few decades. The snow is slightly melted on the ground- gray puddles of sleet and ice coating the steps of the Embassy- and when Carol opens the main door, she gets a whiff of floor cleaner and smoke.
She walks past the guards with her hands shoved into her jacket. Most of them ignore her in professional respect, but Alfuir- never much for appearances- gives her a hasty salute.
"Glad to have you back," he says, staff firm by his side. "She's still in Court. Could probably use a recess, though." Carol tries to smile.
"Thanks, Al."
"No problem, your Highness."
She eases past him to the main hall. The corridors are long and narrow, the walls a patchwork array of fluorescent purple. Thor thinks it's regal- that the alternating squares of black and violet are indicative of Royalty- but Carol thinks it kind of looks like a bowling alley. Maybe one that hasn't been renovated since the eighties.
Brunnhilde doesn't care.
"It's an Embassy," she had said, when the possibility of remodeling came up. "Not a freaking palace. I'd rather we use our funds for something more productive."
So, New Asgard gained an ice cream shop and the blinding neon paint stayed. Luckily, the Throne Room itself is in a better state, with normal white plaster and ancient antiques lining the walls, and that's all that matters. It's where Val spends most of her time, listening to complaints and settling petty skirmishes.
After a few more paces (paired with a jumbled mess of intrusive thoughts), Carol is at her destination.
She takes a deep breath. She takes a step forward.
"Captain Danvers," the guard announces. His voice is formal and loud, something Carol still isn't used to. Brunnhilde looks up from her hunched position on the throne. Her braids are tied up on her head, the dark blue of her suit perfectly complementing her eyes.
She smiles.
Carol attempts to smile back. It isn't very convincing. Val's upturned lips immediately fall. She scans her eyes across Carol's body, searching for new injuries- something to explain why Carol has been horribly MIA- and once she's satisfied that Carol isn't actively dying, she turns to the two other individuals in the room.
"Dismissed," she says. At her words, Inga and Sai cease their bickering. Brunnhilde points to the exit.
"I'll hold an audience tomorrow. You can gripe about interdimensional taxes and international law then."
Sai is clearly unhappy with this arrangement; his fists are clenched, and his eyes are narrowed, but he obeys anyhow, and Inga is quick to follow. With a grumpy bow to Brunnhilde (followed by a slightly less grumpy bow to Carol), the two trudge out of the room. Brunnhilde dismisses the guards. "We're good," she motions with a lackluster wave of the hand, and they easily obey.
The doors close with a thud. Carol and Brunnhilde are alone.
Carol looks at her feet.
She's expecting a worried monologue, something along the lines of, "Where have you been? Fury said you restarted Pama and didn't come back," followed by a gentle rebuke. "You're supposed to be at the S.A.B.E.R. station cleaning up your mess and righting your wrongs," but Brunnhilde doesn't scold her.
She just sighs.
"Come here," she says, leaning sideways on the throne. She rests her chin on the palm of one hand and points to Carol with the other, crooking her finger in reiteration. Carol dutifully concedes. Right before she reaches the threshold, Brunnhilde stretches out her hand. Carol meets her halfway. It's just a handhold, she tells herself.
You can stay composed through a handhold.
But the instant their fingers brush together, the sadness in Carol's chest bubbles up. The tears are already welling.
"Death seems to follow you…"
"I never meant for this to happen."
"But it did."
She swallows. She tries to turn away, but Brunnhilde's grip tightens. She firmly pulls Carol forward, eyes swimming with concern, and at the warmth of her touch, Carol can't contain it anymore. With a broken, ugly sob, she's tumbling into Brunnhilde's embrace and burying her face in the crook of her neck. Brunnhilde gently redirects Carol's head to her shoulder, giving her ample space to breathe.
"I've got you," she whispers, drawing wide circles on Carol's back with her palm. Carol sinks into the faint scent of pine and cedar shampoo.
"Let it all out."
So, Carol does.
She clutches Val's shoulders and lets it all go; the shame, the guilt, the memories… Monica and Maria and Tarnax and Hala. All the death and destruction that Carol leaves in her wake; full of broken homes and shattered, agonizing dreams. After a while, she isn't sure if she's yelling… or laughing or screaming or crying. There are words, but they're muffled and distant; a solemn echo from across the room, like they're coming from somewhere else.
Like maybe Death is finally responding.
"I'm so sorry," Carol heaves. She locks eyes with the little girl on Ankara, the little boy drawing shapes into the clouds and the thousands of faces and hearts that will never move again. "I'm so-" but she's cut off mid-sob.
Her head is forced back by strong, firm hands.
"Do not apologize," Brunnhilde demands. She pulls Carol closer until they're nose and nose. Her eyes are sincere; filled with righteous irritation. She sweeps her thumb across Carol's cheek and says, "You can cry. You can scream. Yell, curse, destroy any of the artifacts in this room, but do not apologize for something that isn't your fault."
"It's all my fault-"
"It isn't."
"I should have known." Carol closes her eyes. All of those lives. I should have tried harder, should have been faster- should have been smarter- but Val interrupts.
"You are not Omniscient," she says. "You are not a god," and at her words, Carol inhales.
The tears are heavy on her face.
"You are not all-knowing," Brunnhilde continues, still caressing her cheek. "You are not a Celestial. You are not an ancient, all-powerful being with a hunger for destruction. You are a person. One, singular human."
With a sigh, she releases her hold on Carol's head. Carol resettles herself on Brunnhilde's shoulder, and as she relaxes into the embrace, warm lips press against her temple. Her hair parts in tender familiarity, Brunnhilde's fingers detangling a mess of frizzy curls.
"The fate of the Universe is not your burden to bear, Marv," Val says with a soft laugh. "Baby, you're one individual in a galaxy of billions. You aren't the deciding factor between life and death. Death, quite frankly, doesn't care about you… doesn't care about me either, and out of the two of us, I think I'm the one with the most to answer to.
"Everything you touch, dies."
"You always see death because you're always there. You're this- gods, this beautiful cosmic hero who saves everyone she can; an infuriating ball of intergalactic Sunshine who barrels into the worst parts of the galaxy because she refuses to let people suffer alone."
Carol sniffs.
Brunnhilde holds her tighter. She murmurs, still curling waves into ringlets, "You touch so much evil... really just immerse yourself in all the crap the galaxy has to offer, and yet, you still try. You're always trying; continuously running yourself heart-first into the ground because of your self-sacrificing inclination, much to my dismay... so don't go apologizing to the world for things you can't control."
"... I wish it didn't hurt so much..."
It's a selfish, juvenile thought- one steeped in decades of guilt-induced exhaustion- but Val just kisses her again and whispers,
"Me, too."
Death is complicated.
Death doesn't lag behind.
Death happens regardless of Carol, sometimes happens because of her and sometimes happens ahead of her, because dying is the final stage of life. "Everybody dies," Tony once said, and Maria- with her white curls and tired smile- had said something similar.
"I'm ready. It's time for me to go."
Someday, Carol will be gone as well; for real, this time.
She'll fall into oblivion, and after her, societies will rise and crumble. Civilizations will still bicker about taxes and laws and international trade. People will still live, and people will still perish, all blissfully and beautifully unaware of her existence, but until then, she'll keep trying.
And she'll fail.
She'll lose people to the choices she's made as well as the choices made independent of her. She'll say the wrong things, make the wrong decisions, and use her heart instead of her head, but she'll keep going- keep redirecting nuclear warheads and mediating interplanetary disputes- because that's what Carol does.
"Hey! Are we still getting ice cream or what?" Kamala calls out. She points up ahead to the new 'Infinity Conez' shop and says, "I still want to see the Pegasus before I have to leave, and we're running out of time."
With a burst of speed, she's taking off across the busy sidewalk, purple tennis shoes kicking up stray rocks.
Brunnhilde rolls her eyes.
"Odin's beard," she murmurs. "Marv and Little Marv. I can really see the resemblance," and with a small, quiet laugh, Carol takes her hand. The wind picks up; cool... quick. As it filters through Carol's hair, Dar- Benn's ghost materializes.
"You're an Annihilator," she whispers. "A beacon of pure destruction-" but this time, Carol doesn't contradict her.
She lets the words soak into her heart, but she doesn't cry. She doesn't apologize. Instead, she focuses on dark brown hair and the beauty of an excited, child-like smile. Fury, Monica, Kamala, Val. She parses through everyone she's ever saved; the smiling faces of those she's been lucky enough to love and settles the pang of grief inside her heart.
"You okay?" Brunnhilde asks, rubbing her thumb across Carol's knuckles.
Carol nods.
"Working on it," she says, and with a knowing smile, Brunnhilde tightens her grip. Together, hand in hand, they follow Kamala into the brightness of an early April afternoon.
Sometimes, Death follows Carol...
... sometimes Life does, too.