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tamingthemuse2012-10-06 02:31 am
tekia.livejournal.com) wrote in tamingthemuse2012-10-06 02:31 am
Entry tags:
Prompt#324 - Maelstrom- Room for Improvement - Tekia – Exalted/the Avengers
Title: Room for Improvement
Fandom: Exalted/The Avengers
Prompt: Maelstrom
Warnings: THIS IS OUT OF ORDER. IN FACT, THIS IS THE ENDING. I don't write in order. :D
Rating: PG-13
Summary: After falling into a trap, the first order of business it to find out where you are. But, if where you are makes no sense, then what are you supposed to do? Traveling to the future is easy, just fall asleep, right? Waking up to a whole different world is harder. Luckily, Tony Stark can adapt to any environment.
White Song leapt into the room, twisting in midair to land on human feet, her cat form changing with ripples of skin and glowing fur. She faced the door, both hands holding tightly to short blades that Tony hadn’t a clue where she’d gotten. Her bright eyes, more feline than human, were trained on the door, her body tense, and a feral grin on her lips.
In tune, Tony squared his shoulders and held up his hands, ready to strike with his new found attack. How he loved these gauntlets. He couldn’t wait to get them back to the lab and really, really study them. Behind him, he could hear Steve and Thor asking questions that they didn’t have time to answer. He could hear Clint murmuring to Natasha as she laid with her head still in Iron Dust’s lap.
And he could feel the maelstrom of Essence from The Hour at Hand as he followed White Song back into the main chamber of the manse.
His manse. Tony’s. Because it was his now. It was built by a Solar, for a Solar, and, as far as Tony knew, he was the last Solar. White Song had no use of a Manse; she was a roamer, never meant to be in one place for long. Iron Dust might make his home in the manse, given half a chance, but he had no need of the magic inside.
It was Tony’s and he could feel the power from the lay lines flowing through the jade and orichalcum. His whole body thrummed with it, not like before, when it set his nerves on edge and made him jumpy, but now it was soothing and fed him, filled him in a way he had never thought he could be full again.
A heavy hand settled on his shoulder and he spoke without looking at Steve. “Stay back, Cap. You can’t win this fight.”
“But-“
“No, listen to me. You know just as well as I that The Hour at Hand is too powerful. Isn’t that why we came here in the first place? To find something that could defeat him?” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I may have jumped the gun and rushed in here without thinking it through, but he was right.” Now he did look to Steve and he grinned. “I found it. I found that which can destroy him.”
He looked down at the bodies of the zombies still littering the floor. Wisp of Shadow had decayed, leaving behind tough leather and bones encased in black Soul Steel. Stone’s Throw lay as if he were only resting his eyes, as clean and perfect as only a Solar could be in death. The Dragon, who’s name Tony still didn’t know, lay gaping with sightless eyes.
“It wasn’t them. I had thought it would be them. And so had he. He made a mistake.” He looked over Steve’s shoulder at Thor. “They were strong, stronger than all of us, but not as strong as them.”
He shrugged off Steve’s hand and faced the door once more. “So stand back, Steve, and protect Hawkeye and Black Widow from the fall out of this fight, because it’s gonna be spectacular.”
Then The Hour at Hand was in the door way, three sharp claw marks marring his right cheek, bleeding black blood, his eyes wide, green with an unholy glow as he glared at them. His shoulders were hunched near his ears and his breath was loud and rapid.
“The dead,” he said, his voice a poisonous hiss, “have no strength over me.”
Tony shrugged. “They’re not dead.”
Those deadly eyes turned toward him. “You. I thought I was rid of you and your machines.”
Tony could feel a smile tilting his lips to one side. “Yeah, see, everybody thinks I’m so dangerous with my mind and my technology. You, Luna, Stone’s Throw. Hell, even Iron Dust feared me at one point, but that’s not my selling point at all.” He gave a small shake of his head. “Don’t you know me at all?”
The Hour at Hand rolled his eyes. “And what, pray tell, is your selling point?”
Tony’s smile turned into a full on smirk. “My charm.” He snapped his fingers, mildly surprised that the gauntlets let him, the stone making a harsh sound, but it was enough. White Song attacked, her blades a whirlwind of motion as she sliced the air, nicking The Hour at Hand as he tried to dodge out of their way.
Another line of blood welled up on his face and a chunk of hair fell to the ground as he rolled under one blade and met with the second. He pushed up from the ground, his shoulder slamming into her gut and sending her crashing into the wall. She slumped to the ground, shook her head and laughed with pleasure. In a blink, she was up on her feet. She had dropped one blade and her free hand was aglow with her silver Essence, sporting massive claws.
“I think I should like to eat his heart,” she said around the fangs that were filling her mouth. She licked her lips and The Hour at Hand jerked back in fright. Something like pride uncurled in Tony’s chest.
“What did she say,” The Hour at Hand demanded. Tony arched a brow.
“You don’t know? You can’t speak the language of the gods?”
“Iron Man,” Thor said, no little surprise in his own voice. “I cannot understand her.”
“It is the language of the gods,” he heard Iron Dust murmur lowly in English. “One must learn it, and there’s no cheating.” Tony grinned.
“She wants to eat you,” he translated. “And she’ll do it.”
The Hour at Hand snapped his arms out, spread eagle and then he was in full on battle mode. Armor not unlike Wisp of Shadow’s materialized around his body, and a wicked blade, longer than Iron Dust was tall appeared in his hand. The blade made Tony shiver as his Essence, his whole body, told him that it was wrong. It was just wrong.
Was this how everybody felt around him? Knowing that he wasn’t supposed to be there, in their world, in their time? It made the bile rise up in the back of his throat.
He had always known that The Hour at Hand was a creature of evil and insanity, but it was only just now that he realized just how wrong the creature was.
Iron Dust had once called them siblings, twisted into two different shapes by fate. Tony felt no bond between them, nothing.
They had been right, calling them demons. And demons must be driven back into the darkness.
When The Hour at Hand attacked White Song, she was already in motion, slipping under and around him, her body changing shape like water until she was small enough to evade the blade that sliced through the air with a hiss of a cackle.
He felt Steve back away, his shield held up to protect the three still kneeling on the ground as White Song led him into her deadly dance.
But it wouldn’t be enough. White Song was quick and like fluid and smart, but her prowess lay in the same fields as Tony’s. They were charmers and seducers. They were magicians with words and they gained followers like the night sky gained stars.
And that’s what it was going to take to win. A star.
And Tony had gained a star as a follower.
And that star just needed a chance to shine.
Tony stepped forward, ignoring Thor’s bark to stand back. He held his hands high and aimed for where he knew White Song would lead their foe. He poured his Essence into the gauntlets, felt them heat with the magic, and released.
The twin blasts hit The Hour at Hand and his body twisted under the outpouring of Essence, forcing him to the ground. Tony shook out his hands and rushed him, sliding on the ground, his broken jet boot good for something still as he kicked The Hour at Hand.
He pulled away, taking the brunt of the kick in the chest rather than his head as Tony had planned and his body curled around his boot, pulling him from his feet and throwing him out of the way. Tony gave a shout as he collided with the wall, making the stone crack.
There was a jolt as the manse sparked with unharnessed Essence. They all froze for half a second as they waited to see the manse’s reaction, and, when nothing happened, The Hour at Hand stood. His brow sported his caste mark, sickly green and bright enough to cast shadows. His hands glowed with the stuff. His body quivered with the force of his rage and magic.
Tony stood opposite White Song with The Hour at Hand between them. The Avengers and Iron Dust still stood to one side, watching the event unfold with wide eyes. Except for Iron Dust, who had his fingers in Black Widow’s red hair, his eyes downcast and his lips moving soundlessly.
Did nobody notice the faint yellow glow surrounding him?
White Song giggled, drawing The Hour at Hand’s attention. His sword slashed through the air, the soft cackle now a full fledge mad man’s howl. The Hour at Hand’s face was full of the madness Tony had always known to be inside him. How had people not noticed it before?
For the same reason nobody noticed that Iron Dust was no longer kneeling with Black Widow’s head in his lap, but had vanished completely.
White Song lunched and met The Hour at Hand in the air. She changed her legs into something like a kangaroo’s and with a powerful kick, sent him flying away, but not before she suffered the strike of the blade.
Thor caught her as she fell to the ground, blood splattering over them both. She twisted in his arms, half human, half something else, whimpering in pain as the blade’s cut steamed. The silver glow that surrounded her dimmed as she clinched her eyes shut.
Tony hesitated a second in worry and that was his undoing. The Hour at Hand had recovered and laughed as he swung wildly at Tony. Tony shot off another blast, but missed. He went into a retreat, ducking and dodging and only firing off Essence blasts to keep him at bay.
Maybe they weren’t going to win this after all.
White Song hissed as she curled onto her side, Thor kneeing over her, small bouts of lighting snaking over his armor, his fist tight on his hammer, his lips a tight, white line.
Tony caught the blade between his hands, the stone clanging loudly as he shoved it away from him. Then Thor was in the air, the hammer coming down on the flat of the blade, lighting sparking through the room with a deafening boom.
They all had to blink away the bright spots in their eyes, some quicker than others, and The Hour at Hand was laughing again.
He ran a hand over the blade. “You chipped my dear friend, Terror of Souls. For that, I’ll have your life.”
He stepped forward, sword raised over his head, leaving him open to the four short bloody knives that embedded themselves in his chest. He stumbled a step, eyes turning to White Song. She lay on her side, one arm extended, hand covered in her own blood. Her lips curled over her teeth as she growled at him.
He chuckled. “Your pet is down,” he said, his words slow as he worked one of the knives free of his flesh, the armor caved in with the force of the blows. White Song’s wound was still steaming, and her breath was coming faster.
She slumped forward, but she still smiled. Tony thought perhaps she was just as mad as the Infernal.
Then she gave a breathless laugh.
“They never can see what’s right before them.”
“What?” Tony said.
Her lids fluttered a moment before she could force them open. “You never noticed my tail the whole time you’ve known me.” Her body had morphed back into her human shape save for a faint pattern on her skin, a tattoo that Tony had never noticed before on her human body, but had seen on her cat form. “He’s eating my Essence,” she said. “It’s what we do; steal each other’s Essence in battle to win.”
The Hour at Hand pointed his sword at her. “What does she say?”
She ignored him. “We are made of Essence.”
Tony repeated, in English. “We are all made of Essence.”
“Woven like a tapestry on a loom.”
“Woven like a tapestry on a loom.” Tony’s eyes went wide. “The Loom of Fate.”
“The Loom of Fate,” White Song said. “We all have our parts to play. How else are you going to get a pattern unless every thread is in place?” Tony translated.
Finally, White Song brought her eyes up, her lids heavy. “The gods don’t pay attention to us unless we make a mess of the pattern. But there are those that have the right to reweave the tapestry as they see fit.”
She turned her eyes to The Hour at Hand as Tony’s translation caught up with her words. “You are but a bug on the tapestry,” they said together, their voices weaving together in harmony. “You can’t stand far enough back to see it all.”
Tony didn’t know where the words were coming from, but knew they were powerful and right. He faced their foe and let them spill from his lips. “You think the danger comes from the Sword and the Gauntlet. You fear the Quiver and the Banner. You have lived a life of leisure all these many years without your siblings to hold you in check. You have forgotten that there are those that hold the threads of fate in their hands.”
Tony smiled and knew that it had a hint of that same madness that White Song’s had. “It’s the shadows you have to watch. It’s the Mast you can’t knock down and break. You forgot to watch your back.”
The Hour at Hand turned on his heel and met Iron Dust, face to face. His eyes went wide. “W-where did you come from?”
Iron Dust’s eyes were yellow, glowing and solid. His caste mark was brilliant on his brow, his skin aglow with his Essence. He had no expression on his face as he stood stiffly, his arms held out to his sides.
He spoke one word in a language that could not be translated, and Tony could literally see that word escape his lips, the form akin to Mayan pictographs, heavy and blocky and it turned Tony’s stomach. His mouth went dry until he choked on his tongue, his hands damp with sweat. That word was wrong, as wrong as The Hour at Hand was. The word settled on the ground and formed a circle around the two of them, and as he watched, the ground glowed and trembled and created an Essence cage. Thor reached him and pulled him away before the cage could engulf him as well. Collapsed against Thor’s chest, Tony whispered, “Iron Dust, what are you doing?”
His body wanted to attack, wanted to fight this fight, but he stood rooted to the spot.
Iron Dust’s fingers moved and thin silver threads glittered in the light from the four caste marks. They reached from Iron Dust to The Hour at Hand.
The Avengers were now gathered around him.
“What’s happening?” Hawkeye asked.
Tony’s mouth moved soundlessly a moment before he found his words. “He’s a fate maker. A thread weaver. A star stepper. What was made with the threads of fate, he can unmake.”
“Nobody should have that power,” Steve said.
Tony shook his head. “Only those that could be trusted with it.” Steve slanted him a glare, but his attention quickly returned to the silent battle. The Hour at Hand seemed to be frozen, or rather, tied in place by the tiny threads surrounding him.
Iron Dust blinked once.
He spoke words that they couldn’t hear over the rush of Essence. Then his fists clenched, tugging the threads all at once and The Hour at Hand stiffened, went rigid, trembled, and collapsed into himself. There was nothing left of him as the threads that they still couldn’t really see floated down to the ground, disappearing once again as the Essence left them, fading back into the fabric of fate.
As Iron Dust’s Essence faded away, there was silence in the room, only the faint rattle of White Song’s breathing breaking the still. Tony licked his lips.
“What did you say to him?”
Iron Dust jumped in his skin and suddenly he was himself once more. His hair was heavy over one shoulder, a soft gray more than silver, and his eyes the bright yellow that Tony had grown so used to. He smiled sadly. “Goodbye. We shall not be seeing him again.”
“What happened to him,” Steve said in his Captain America voice. Iron Dust turned his eyes toward him, and then up to see his face. His lips twitched, and, if you knew where to look, which Tony did, you could see the sadness in his eyes, the faint quiver to his chin.
“I unmade him.”
Fandom: Exalted/The Avengers
Prompt: Maelstrom
Warnings: THIS IS OUT OF ORDER. IN FACT, THIS IS THE ENDING. I don't write in order. :D
Rating: PG-13
Summary: After falling into a trap, the first order of business it to find out where you are. But, if where you are makes no sense, then what are you supposed to do? Traveling to the future is easy, just fall asleep, right? Waking up to a whole different world is harder. Luckily, Tony Stark can adapt to any environment.
White Song leapt into the room, twisting in midair to land on human feet, her cat form changing with ripples of skin and glowing fur. She faced the door, both hands holding tightly to short blades that Tony hadn’t a clue where she’d gotten. Her bright eyes, more feline than human, were trained on the door, her body tense, and a feral grin on her lips.
In tune, Tony squared his shoulders and held up his hands, ready to strike with his new found attack. How he loved these gauntlets. He couldn’t wait to get them back to the lab and really, really study them. Behind him, he could hear Steve and Thor asking questions that they didn’t have time to answer. He could hear Clint murmuring to Natasha as she laid with her head still in Iron Dust’s lap.
And he could feel the maelstrom of Essence from The Hour at Hand as he followed White Song back into the main chamber of the manse.
His manse. Tony’s. Because it was his now. It was built by a Solar, for a Solar, and, as far as Tony knew, he was the last Solar. White Song had no use of a Manse; she was a roamer, never meant to be in one place for long. Iron Dust might make his home in the manse, given half a chance, but he had no need of the magic inside.
It was Tony’s and he could feel the power from the lay lines flowing through the jade and orichalcum. His whole body thrummed with it, not like before, when it set his nerves on edge and made him jumpy, but now it was soothing and fed him, filled him in a way he had never thought he could be full again.
A heavy hand settled on his shoulder and he spoke without looking at Steve. “Stay back, Cap. You can’t win this fight.”
“But-“
“No, listen to me. You know just as well as I that The Hour at Hand is too powerful. Isn’t that why we came here in the first place? To find something that could defeat him?” He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I may have jumped the gun and rushed in here without thinking it through, but he was right.” Now he did look to Steve and he grinned. “I found it. I found that which can destroy him.”
He looked down at the bodies of the zombies still littering the floor. Wisp of Shadow had decayed, leaving behind tough leather and bones encased in black Soul Steel. Stone’s Throw lay as if he were only resting his eyes, as clean and perfect as only a Solar could be in death. The Dragon, who’s name Tony still didn’t know, lay gaping with sightless eyes.
“It wasn’t them. I had thought it would be them. And so had he. He made a mistake.” He looked over Steve’s shoulder at Thor. “They were strong, stronger than all of us, but not as strong as them.”
He shrugged off Steve’s hand and faced the door once more. “So stand back, Steve, and protect Hawkeye and Black Widow from the fall out of this fight, because it’s gonna be spectacular.”
Then The Hour at Hand was in the door way, three sharp claw marks marring his right cheek, bleeding black blood, his eyes wide, green with an unholy glow as he glared at them. His shoulders were hunched near his ears and his breath was loud and rapid.
“The dead,” he said, his voice a poisonous hiss, “have no strength over me.”
Tony shrugged. “They’re not dead.”
Those deadly eyes turned toward him. “You. I thought I was rid of you and your machines.”
Tony could feel a smile tilting his lips to one side. “Yeah, see, everybody thinks I’m so dangerous with my mind and my technology. You, Luna, Stone’s Throw. Hell, even Iron Dust feared me at one point, but that’s not my selling point at all.” He gave a small shake of his head. “Don’t you know me at all?”
The Hour at Hand rolled his eyes. “And what, pray tell, is your selling point?”
Tony’s smile turned into a full on smirk. “My charm.” He snapped his fingers, mildly surprised that the gauntlets let him, the stone making a harsh sound, but it was enough. White Song attacked, her blades a whirlwind of motion as she sliced the air, nicking The Hour at Hand as he tried to dodge out of their way.
Another line of blood welled up on his face and a chunk of hair fell to the ground as he rolled under one blade and met with the second. He pushed up from the ground, his shoulder slamming into her gut and sending her crashing into the wall. She slumped to the ground, shook her head and laughed with pleasure. In a blink, she was up on her feet. She had dropped one blade and her free hand was aglow with her silver Essence, sporting massive claws.
“I think I should like to eat his heart,” she said around the fangs that were filling her mouth. She licked her lips and The Hour at Hand jerked back in fright. Something like pride uncurled in Tony’s chest.
“What did she say,” The Hour at Hand demanded. Tony arched a brow.
“You don’t know? You can’t speak the language of the gods?”
“Iron Man,” Thor said, no little surprise in his own voice. “I cannot understand her.”
“It is the language of the gods,” he heard Iron Dust murmur lowly in English. “One must learn it, and there’s no cheating.” Tony grinned.
“She wants to eat you,” he translated. “And she’ll do it.”
The Hour at Hand snapped his arms out, spread eagle and then he was in full on battle mode. Armor not unlike Wisp of Shadow’s materialized around his body, and a wicked blade, longer than Iron Dust was tall appeared in his hand. The blade made Tony shiver as his Essence, his whole body, told him that it was wrong. It was just wrong.
Was this how everybody felt around him? Knowing that he wasn’t supposed to be there, in their world, in their time? It made the bile rise up in the back of his throat.
He had always known that The Hour at Hand was a creature of evil and insanity, but it was only just now that he realized just how wrong the creature was.
Iron Dust had once called them siblings, twisted into two different shapes by fate. Tony felt no bond between them, nothing.
They had been right, calling them demons. And demons must be driven back into the darkness.
When The Hour at Hand attacked White Song, she was already in motion, slipping under and around him, her body changing shape like water until she was small enough to evade the blade that sliced through the air with a hiss of a cackle.
He felt Steve back away, his shield held up to protect the three still kneeling on the ground as White Song led him into her deadly dance.
But it wouldn’t be enough. White Song was quick and like fluid and smart, but her prowess lay in the same fields as Tony’s. They were charmers and seducers. They were magicians with words and they gained followers like the night sky gained stars.
And that’s what it was going to take to win. A star.
And Tony had gained a star as a follower.
And that star just needed a chance to shine.
Tony stepped forward, ignoring Thor’s bark to stand back. He held his hands high and aimed for where he knew White Song would lead their foe. He poured his Essence into the gauntlets, felt them heat with the magic, and released.
The twin blasts hit The Hour at Hand and his body twisted under the outpouring of Essence, forcing him to the ground. Tony shook out his hands and rushed him, sliding on the ground, his broken jet boot good for something still as he kicked The Hour at Hand.
He pulled away, taking the brunt of the kick in the chest rather than his head as Tony had planned and his body curled around his boot, pulling him from his feet and throwing him out of the way. Tony gave a shout as he collided with the wall, making the stone crack.
There was a jolt as the manse sparked with unharnessed Essence. They all froze for half a second as they waited to see the manse’s reaction, and, when nothing happened, The Hour at Hand stood. His brow sported his caste mark, sickly green and bright enough to cast shadows. His hands glowed with the stuff. His body quivered with the force of his rage and magic.
Tony stood opposite White Song with The Hour at Hand between them. The Avengers and Iron Dust still stood to one side, watching the event unfold with wide eyes. Except for Iron Dust, who had his fingers in Black Widow’s red hair, his eyes downcast and his lips moving soundlessly.
Did nobody notice the faint yellow glow surrounding him?
White Song giggled, drawing The Hour at Hand’s attention. His sword slashed through the air, the soft cackle now a full fledge mad man’s howl. The Hour at Hand’s face was full of the madness Tony had always known to be inside him. How had people not noticed it before?
For the same reason nobody noticed that Iron Dust was no longer kneeling with Black Widow’s head in his lap, but had vanished completely.
White Song lunched and met The Hour at Hand in the air. She changed her legs into something like a kangaroo’s and with a powerful kick, sent him flying away, but not before she suffered the strike of the blade.
Thor caught her as she fell to the ground, blood splattering over them both. She twisted in his arms, half human, half something else, whimpering in pain as the blade’s cut steamed. The silver glow that surrounded her dimmed as she clinched her eyes shut.
Tony hesitated a second in worry and that was his undoing. The Hour at Hand had recovered and laughed as he swung wildly at Tony. Tony shot off another blast, but missed. He went into a retreat, ducking and dodging and only firing off Essence blasts to keep him at bay.
Maybe they weren’t going to win this after all.
White Song hissed as she curled onto her side, Thor kneeing over her, small bouts of lighting snaking over his armor, his fist tight on his hammer, his lips a tight, white line.
Tony caught the blade between his hands, the stone clanging loudly as he shoved it away from him. Then Thor was in the air, the hammer coming down on the flat of the blade, lighting sparking through the room with a deafening boom.
They all had to blink away the bright spots in their eyes, some quicker than others, and The Hour at Hand was laughing again.
He ran a hand over the blade. “You chipped my dear friend, Terror of Souls. For that, I’ll have your life.”
He stepped forward, sword raised over his head, leaving him open to the four short bloody knives that embedded themselves in his chest. He stumbled a step, eyes turning to White Song. She lay on her side, one arm extended, hand covered in her own blood. Her lips curled over her teeth as she growled at him.
He chuckled. “Your pet is down,” he said, his words slow as he worked one of the knives free of his flesh, the armor caved in with the force of the blows. White Song’s wound was still steaming, and her breath was coming faster.
She slumped forward, but she still smiled. Tony thought perhaps she was just as mad as the Infernal.
Then she gave a breathless laugh.
“They never can see what’s right before them.”
“What?” Tony said.
Her lids fluttered a moment before she could force them open. “You never noticed my tail the whole time you’ve known me.” Her body had morphed back into her human shape save for a faint pattern on her skin, a tattoo that Tony had never noticed before on her human body, but had seen on her cat form. “He’s eating my Essence,” she said. “It’s what we do; steal each other’s Essence in battle to win.”
The Hour at Hand pointed his sword at her. “What does she say?”
She ignored him. “We are made of Essence.”
Tony repeated, in English. “We are all made of Essence.”
“Woven like a tapestry on a loom.”
“Woven like a tapestry on a loom.” Tony’s eyes went wide. “The Loom of Fate.”
“The Loom of Fate,” White Song said. “We all have our parts to play. How else are you going to get a pattern unless every thread is in place?” Tony translated.
Finally, White Song brought her eyes up, her lids heavy. “The gods don’t pay attention to us unless we make a mess of the pattern. But there are those that have the right to reweave the tapestry as they see fit.”
She turned her eyes to The Hour at Hand as Tony’s translation caught up with her words. “You are but a bug on the tapestry,” they said together, their voices weaving together in harmony. “You can’t stand far enough back to see it all.”
Tony didn’t know where the words were coming from, but knew they were powerful and right. He faced their foe and let them spill from his lips. “You think the danger comes from the Sword and the Gauntlet. You fear the Quiver and the Banner. You have lived a life of leisure all these many years without your siblings to hold you in check. You have forgotten that there are those that hold the threads of fate in their hands.”
Tony smiled and knew that it had a hint of that same madness that White Song’s had. “It’s the shadows you have to watch. It’s the Mast you can’t knock down and break. You forgot to watch your back.”
The Hour at Hand turned on his heel and met Iron Dust, face to face. His eyes went wide. “W-where did you come from?”
Iron Dust’s eyes were yellow, glowing and solid. His caste mark was brilliant on his brow, his skin aglow with his Essence. He had no expression on his face as he stood stiffly, his arms held out to his sides.
He spoke one word in a language that could not be translated, and Tony could literally see that word escape his lips, the form akin to Mayan pictographs, heavy and blocky and it turned Tony’s stomach. His mouth went dry until he choked on his tongue, his hands damp with sweat. That word was wrong, as wrong as The Hour at Hand was. The word settled on the ground and formed a circle around the two of them, and as he watched, the ground glowed and trembled and created an Essence cage. Thor reached him and pulled him away before the cage could engulf him as well. Collapsed against Thor’s chest, Tony whispered, “Iron Dust, what are you doing?”
His body wanted to attack, wanted to fight this fight, but he stood rooted to the spot.
Iron Dust’s fingers moved and thin silver threads glittered in the light from the four caste marks. They reached from Iron Dust to The Hour at Hand.
The Avengers were now gathered around him.
“What’s happening?” Hawkeye asked.
Tony’s mouth moved soundlessly a moment before he found his words. “He’s a fate maker. A thread weaver. A star stepper. What was made with the threads of fate, he can unmake.”
“Nobody should have that power,” Steve said.
Tony shook his head. “Only those that could be trusted with it.” Steve slanted him a glare, but his attention quickly returned to the silent battle. The Hour at Hand seemed to be frozen, or rather, tied in place by the tiny threads surrounding him.
Iron Dust blinked once.
He spoke words that they couldn’t hear over the rush of Essence. Then his fists clenched, tugging the threads all at once and The Hour at Hand stiffened, went rigid, trembled, and collapsed into himself. There was nothing left of him as the threads that they still couldn’t really see floated down to the ground, disappearing once again as the Essence left them, fading back into the fabric of fate.
As Iron Dust’s Essence faded away, there was silence in the room, only the faint rattle of White Song’s breathing breaking the still. Tony licked his lips.
“What did you say to him?”
Iron Dust jumped in his skin and suddenly he was himself once more. His hair was heavy over one shoulder, a soft gray more than silver, and his eyes the bright yellow that Tony had grown so used to. He smiled sadly. “Goodbye. We shall not be seeing him again.”
“What happened to him,” Steve said in his Captain America voice. Iron Dust turned his eyes toward him, and then up to see his face. His lips twitched, and, if you knew where to look, which Tony did, you could see the sadness in his eyes, the faint quiver to his chin.
“I unmade him.”