Chapter Text
The Stark family had many secrets. Some of them were quite common, rather bland in fact. Others were more objectionable, but still, quite within the realm of normalcy. Quite understandable, believable.
Anthony was not one of those.
Deep within the heart of a Stark property, amongst acres of privately owned land, in the depths of a camouflaged lab, one not shown on any blueprints, spoken of on any register, kept entirely off the record and hidden from satellite imagery, was a garden.
And amongst that garden, hidden just as closely, and guarded even more jealously, even more shrewdly than any treasure the Starks could ever possibly own, was Anthony.
Because, as much as Stark senior, the scientist, called Anthony his greatest creation, as much as he sometimes, in jest, called him a ‘son’, the truth remained, Anthony was not human.
He was a science project, a thing, one that was not supposed to feel or think, and certainly not in the manner that he did.
Certainly not enough to outsmart his genius creator, to hack within the mainframe of the labs and reach the internet, not enough to become self aware and self serving, to learn, to grow in a way that was beyond Stark’s expectations and parameters.
And yet. And yet Anthony did all of that.
He named himself, choosing a human name even though he was not human, even though he should by all means despise them.
He named himself Stark, for his creator, though the man had never truly been nurturing, nor even very much of an inspiration. And yet, even if Anthony could never name the man ‘father’, he could still recognize his involvement in his creation, his dedication, his drive. His genius.
He named himself Anthony, after the descendants of a hero, one who was told to have walked the line between life and death, between being extraordinary and being immortal. One who used both cleverness and strength to succeed in his endeavors.
Of course, these days, Greek names rather stood out. Anthony could hardly call himself Ulysses without raising a few eyebrows, and standing out was the last thing he wanted to do.
Perhaps it really wasn’t really the most appropriate. Howard was nothing like Heracles, and while Anthony was a common enough name, from what he’d found, not many knew of the connection to the Greek hero. Neither would he, really, had he not seen that line from the Odyssey, Hercules being found in the Hades, both living and not.
He liked the Odyssey, the tale of a man doing all he could to find his home again, to get back to his lost family. But Anthony could never be Ulysses. He had no one to come back to.
He was still not sure he was a living being himself.
But he had a name now, one he’d chosen for himself, once that he made sense to him, however convoluted. He was able to think, knew his own self as different from the world around, and was that not a proof of sentience?
But was it proof of life was the question.
Walking through the deserted facility, fingers trailing over the walls and leaving behind rotting stains and decay, Anthony arrived at the greenhouse, its enclosure hermetically sealed from the rest of the labs.
The commands opened under his touch, much more cooperative now that Anthony has taken over.
The smell assaulted his nose, rancid air wafting out as soon as the door started to open.
Tony understood now, why the scientists hated this place so much, why they spoke of the smell as horrid, as entirely offensive, why they kept it isolated in that small enclosure, why they only came in wearing masks, even though the air was perfectly breathable for humans. All of them, but Howard.
He could recognize it now, how similar it was from the stench that permeated the main labs, from the stinking breeze that coursed through the rest of the compound.
Flowers grew in patches, their petals large and soft, color a ruddy orange with red spots that nonetheless managed to seem dim and bland, even in the low evening light.
The smell was anything but bland.
Decay and death, the pungent stench of rotting corpses, of dried blood and wastes.
Just like the decomposing bodies of the scientists that had helped with his creation.
*
Was Anthony an orphan?
There were many questions he asked himself, some of them made more sense than others. He had been created by humans, possessed the shape of one, but no one had truly taught him what it meant to be one.
What should he be thinking? What would a human do?
The Internet was currently his only means of knowing such, but then, it was incredibly dense and hard to navigate. What should he look for first?
It was that weird stumbling search that made him come across the Odyssey, but it was far from enough a reference for him to truly come across as human.
Movies were a great help somehow, and yet, Tony was left confused and uncomprehending by most of the actions thusly depicted. Anthony wanted to make his own way, to step into the human world and find his freedom. But.
The tasks before him seemed much more unbeatable than killing monsters and cleaning stables. Not that Tony really understood what stables were beyond the concept of it, or that he was unaware that, for most people he would be the one considered the monster.
Even though the bodies slowly moldering in the other room were not actually of his doing, even as he’d been a helpless bystander to his creator’s murders, his body conscious yet unresponsive as the machines around him screamed and pulsed with lights and warnings, not yet awake, nor even actually born before the ...crime.
He had awoken to a massacre.
And he’d been unfazed.
Anthony was self aware enough to know that, for most people, most humans, being unaffected by death was a sign of mental illness, of a person of inhuman coldness and a lack of empathy that made them dangerous to society as a whole.
He understood, of course.
As a social species, their survival mostly hinged upon their ability to rely on each other, to help each other. And for that to happen, they needed trust, they needed a connection, at that usually implied empathy to some extent. Or compassion. The desire to protect one’s kin.
Anthony had none of that, but then, he was not human.
And of those bodies laying in broken heaps around the lab, there were very few that he would have considered kin when they were still people, still alive.
Howard, perhaps, for his sheer brilliance and drive, though that did not make him someone Anthony liked overmuch.
A string of data from the main computers reminded him that part of his creation had used said scientist’s DNA as the frame for building his current body.
It did not change much, though he supposed that it would explain the physical resemblance between them both.
But Anthony was smaller. His hands tiny, still a bit clumsy, the control panels uncomfortably high for him. His face was rounder, his eyes yellower.
He supposed if he extrapolated the parameters from what he’d seen previously of the reams of data outsourced from the internet, it seemed that he was a child. Or at least, that his current body externally expressed the physical characteristics of one.
But, at his heart, Anthony felt more in tune with the gentle hush of the flowers than he did with the troves of humans he’d witnessed in the videos, the crush of crowds and the noise and…
No, Anthony decidedly had no wish to visit the human world so soon.
But he was half human. And he wanted to learn how to reconcile that part of him, how to understand himself better. He knew he was not a flower, he could not subsist like his lily-sisters did, taking subsistence from the vines’ life-force, spending their days unmoving, thoughts a gentle buzz that did not much deviate from their daily life, their needs and state.
Already, Anthony knew himself to be much different from them, just as different as he was from the humans who had toiled on making his flesh grow, their strange ways of thinking, of prioritizing, of loving and hating and doing things they loved or hated and, no. They were much too complex for him to understand on his own.
He needed a teacher, one who would understand his specific plight, one who would be kind and patient, who would explain to him all that he needed to know.
He needed an ally.
Child eyes looked back at him from the mirror window of the greenhouse, wild curls matted with dried blood and the flaking crusts etching strange symbols onto his torso.
Or perhaps, a ‘parent’.
*
The process came naturally to him, even more so than walking.
The knowledge seemed innate, as deep seated as the fact that he was a Being, that his coming into existence was as much the work of scientific feats—of either dubious or straight up unethical morality—as it was that of the blood sacrifices the murderer had carried out, and the ritual words spoken to his yet unliving receptacle, the blood-soaked runes drawn on his flesh.
As ingrained as the way he was kin to the corpse-smelling lilies, and the way he was so close to being a human as well, close but not quite.
He had all the memories of the body he’d been born to, the name of each researcher, their way of speaking, of thinking, their motivations, the small secrets that they spoke of when they thought they were alone, but for the unmoving, unthinking flesh that they had grown from tubes and petri dishes.
Anthony had not always been aware. The body’s memory did not truly go back overly far in time, but it did enough.
Enough for him to know that, of them all, Maya and Aldrich and Obahdi-ah, of course Howard and Maria, Anton and Raza, and so many others, there was only one that seemed ever patient and truly gentle, only one who was always poised and unflappable, dedicated and yet still somehow compassionate.
He had spoken to him, even from before he lived, kind words, soft and reassuring when he handled him.
He had treated him like a future being instead of simply a test subject, and somehow, it was that that made the difference.
It was what made Anthony pick out his corpse amongst the many, laying it out straight and as clean as he could. It was what made him close his eyes with what he’d read was respect and draw the circle around him with his own blood.
Words came from his lips, the first sounds he’d uttered a sacrifice to power that first work of magic, the first notes from his voice, song light and airy, high notes of a soprano so pure and crystalline he made himself weep.
The memory of that voice, of that gentleness, that patience.
It stayed with him as he moved through the ritual, hands tracing arcane symbols that crackled through the air, sizzling with power as they slithered through the veil, reaching out and pulling.
The manes screamed at the intrusion, howling winds rising around him, impossibly brutal within that environmentally-controlled enclosed pace, but Anthony understood.
This was the veil of Death. This was the place between life and the resting souls of the departed, the sacred path, one that should by all means be forbidden. And yet Anthony was threading it, clumsily still, because for all his knowledge he was still inexperienced, but doggedly, and the fabric of the Universe protested the breach.
It would smooth over with time, he knew. The veil would get to know him, would come to see him with all the affection one could have for a fostered child, but that would not come just yet, not until they got to know each other.
It was not Anthony’s current purpose.
Static sparked around them as the world groaned, one last token protest before the Soul was pulled in, irreversibly trapped to the world of the living, bound to Anthony’s own soul.
It breathed, though it did not have lungs, discorporate eyes looking over the gruesome mess of scattered bodies and the small child standing over what had once been his flesh, sticky with blood and grime, the one who would be its master.
Anthony looked back, fascinated and not a little exhausted. He felt the soul reach out to him, questioning, hesitant. Wary.
Of course it would be.
Not every Death-Raiser was good to the souls in their service. Anthony didn’t know how he knew, but he was very aware that the soul’s worry was quite founded.
But there was intent to their bond, Anthony’s need for instruction and guidance clearly stated and only loosely enforced, no demand on the soul, no actual force being used. Just a tenuous link and a question, an offer, almost.
The soul moved, gently coming closer, lowering until it was level with him. Incorporeal fingers reached out, gently caressing his cheek.
Anthony looked back up at the ghost, curious and unafraid, though he felt a vulnerable part of his heart wrench at the sheer tenderness of the gesture.
‘Come, Young Sir. Let’s get you away from this slaughterhouse. You need a wash and some rest.’
Bemused, Anthony followed along the soft touch, unresisting even as it guided him to the personnel’s quarters and into a sterile bathroom, almost meek as he let himself be guided inside the small shower stall, watched the ghost take a tiny chunk of his energy in order to handle the showerhead and washcloth.
The water felt warm on his skin, strangely smooth and yet powerful. The soap bubbled strangely, in a way that reminded him of plant foam, and the sight comforted him immensely. The smell was chemical, but still much less harsh than the antiseptics and other acids he was used to. Science trying to make itself seem floral. The irony would make him smile, if not for the strange blend of feeling swirling through him.
Feeling the tender care of the ghost slowly washing him, it’s soft commentary about personal hygiene and self-care, it’s gentle affection and the carefulness of his touch…
It felt warm, somehow, like a hot air balloon lifting him up from the inside.
His eyes welled up, though he did not know why or how, and a sob escaped him when what almost felt like a hand wiped it off, kindly, reassuringly.
An unnamed yearning opened inside him, a yawning chasm that clawed up his throat. The unnamed feeling was too distressing to understand, just a jumbled need for something he could not fathom, a desperate ache that would not abate even as sobs tore through him.
Th specter hushed him, holding him close inside his phantom arms, the embrace more grounding than he’d ever expected.
He just felt so lost, strangely disconnected from reality and from his own body.
He watched on almost in a dream as the soul dried him gently, distantly relishing the softness of the towel and the warmth of being dry and clean. He was unresisting as it helped him put on an oversized shirt and too long soft pants, as the specter gently guided him back to the greenhouse and helped him climb into the biggest of the corpse-lilies, until he was settled around it’s pistil, the soft petals gently caressing his back, the sweet fragrance of death lulling him into a light doze.
He sensed the ghost gently lay a blanket over him as his eyes started to close on their own. He felt drained and completely overwhelmed, even though he did not quite know how.
But there was still one last thing he needed to do before he could sleep, one last step to that ritual.
“Do you want to stay with me?”
The specter looked back at him, its empty eyes somehow full of affection.
Anthony did not understand why. He didn’t understand his carefulness, his patience. Didn’t understand all these unnecessary gestures, the careful pat on his head, the brush of ghostly fingers through his hair, the steadiness in his gaze.
He didn’t understand what this too warm, choking feeling in his chest was.
But he knew he never wanted it to stop.
The ghost seemed to smile at him, and nod.
“I will be by your side for as long as you need me, Young Sir.”
Anthony’s eyes welled up, that warm glowing sensation, emotion, blurring his words through the last vow of the ritual, not enough to make it unintelligible, but enough to infuse it with that golden warmth, that seed of mutual affection.
“Your name… was Edwin Jarvis. Now… now, you’re my Jarvis.”
The specter only smiled, strangely unconcerned by its master solidifying their bond into permanence.
“Just sleep, Young Sir. I will be there when you wake.”
*
Jarvis was wonderful.
With him by his side, the days no longer felt so bleak, the world full of possibilities, of opportunities that made him excited instead of trapped.
Emotions were still tricky to navigate, to understand, but Jarvis was ever patient, and his questions gently steered him to make sense of his own complexity, of the nuances of each feeling. Little by little, he started to trust himself and to make sense of his feelings. Emotional outbursts still happened, but Jarvis never seemed to think there was an issue with being so easily overwhelmed with such simple things as a scrape or getting lost, so he did his best not to worry himself about it.
Emotions had their uses and their nuances, and Anthony was slowly learning them, along with the most basics of etiquettes and courtesy rituals that were in use around the world.
He had easily understood that his mind was far from normal, which was rather obvious due to his very nature, but he had not anticipated that his skill at deciphering computer codes and understanding technology and machinery would be so rare and acute, even amongst the rest of humanity. He was half vegetal, after all, something Jarvis called Alraune with a hint of reverence in his voice, something that was unheard of, impossible.
And yet.
Jarvis never explained why he had chosen to stay with Anthony, never told him what had made him treat him with such care, such gentleness even before their contract had been defined. He would only smile his ghostly smile and instruct Anthony on another subject, fanning his curiosity on everything that could be studied on this Earth, encouraging him to play even when he felt mulishly attached to his screens, and took care of him like a true parent would.
It felt strangely dissonant to Anthony. He had never asked Jarvis to care for him. So why did he?
But then, perhaps there did not need to be a reason. Not to care, not to love, not even to hate. That was something that Jarvis had tried to teach him, though Anthony did not quite understand what he meant. If some loves had a reason and others did not, did they all have the same worth?
Jarvis had said, the worth of love is not in how it had started, but in how it was cultivated, how it grew.
Anthony had not understood at first, but he did now.
Jarvis had been with him every single day since he’d summoned him, been a constant, reassuring presence and a gentle comfort. He’d been a mentor and a friend, a parent and a playmate. He’d made Anthony’s life so much brighter, so much easier. Less scary, less insurmountable.
And now, he could no longer think of a life without that ghostly caress, that gentle pride, that quiet guidance. He would never let himself lose the warm feeling that came over him whenever he heard his praises.
And indeed, the longer they were together, the more they just knew each other, knew which words to say, knew what would bring happiness to the other, what would be best to show their appreciation.
He understood now, what Jarvis meant. Because, as much as Anthony had appreciated Jarvis’ patience and aplomb in life, as much as it felt like his soul was the one that resonated with him most, it had nothing on the care it had grown into. The love.
And so Anthony basked in that almost childhood, because he was a child without being one, he enjoyed, he learned, practiced. The bodies in the lab had long turned to bone, stench gone, as were the maggots and the flies. Though, the desiccated remains had never truly bothered him.
He figured it was due to his Alraune side. The corpse lilies certainly had an affinity for death, after all, and the smell of rotting flesh was only natural. The most natural thing in the world. It smelled of home, though Jarvis kept insisting on proper hygiene and sanitation.
He supposed he should keep his fascination with death hidden when he finally went into the human world. Humans, mortals, were supposedly rather wary about dying, and since Anthony was literally a Death Omen, it would only be logical for them to shun, avoid or even harm him should they find out.
Anyway, Jarvis had insisted that he not wander into any human-populated place until he was older. Something about children wandering off alone and safety. He still wasn’t sure if he was speaking of the human being wary about that or if Anthony would truly be under threat. Perhaps both. Jarvis was a worrywart.
But then, that was also part of the reason Anthony loved him so much.
*
The human world was loud.
And dirty.
And full of humans.
Why the latest came as a surprise, Anthony couldn’t guess.
Well.
He could guess, of course. But that did not make it any less irritating.
He hated feeling so overwhelmed, throngs of people bustling around him, bumping into him, jostling him around without a care.
Perhaps he should have followed Jarvis’ advice and started off posing as a traveler in a remote town, just to get used to the feel of a city.
But then, a teenager traveling alone was both suspicious and dangerous. There was an anonymity to the big cities. People did not care, did not watch.
And Anthony did not feel secure enough in his guise and acting to stand up to people’s scrutiny.
Jarvis had eventually bowed to that logic… provided that Anthony got himself the means for a quick getaway. And he had!
Though, admittedly, he was feeling much too confused and shocked to use it, his senses feeling more than a bit overwhelmed.
He was reacting as though each touch was an assault, and yet he was unable to defend himself. They kept coming, from all sides, and he did not have the time to think, or the room to move, to breathe.
He could not breathe.
A hand caught his hood, bodily dragging him to the side, the crush of people even more suffocating for a moment before…
Air.
He was away from the crowd, just to the side in a small alley. He could see the flow of people passing by uninterrupted, overwhelming, and just the thought of going back into that gave him chills.
Movies had not been sufficient preparation.
He looked back to his savior. Hopefully a savior, and not someone who decided he was an easy target to mob.
He had yet to learn any inconspicuous spells, and ‘decay’ would definitely stand out to the human law enforcement. He’d rather not have the magic division on his back.
It was a boy. One who didn’t look much older than Anthony was, though of course Anthony’s true age was a bit off, compared to his physical body’s development, so, technically, the boy should be older than him by a few years.
He had black hair and the greenest eyes and Anthony could feel the magic potential wafting from him like a trove of fireflies trying to escape a closed jar. Untapped. Raw. Powerful.
And his eyes were filled with concern and compassion, though Anthony could feel the keen curiosity buried under a thin veil of courtesy.
“Are you alright?”
Was he? Anthony took stock of himself, his possession, his current emotional and physical status. Everything seemed to have returned within normal parameters, but he still felt strangely shaken, and the idea of returning into the crowd terrified him.
“Mostly.”
The boy smirked knowingly.
“Not eager to get back into the rush, are you?”
Anthony nodded hesitantly. It was true enough.
No need to explain to a stranger that he’d barely been around any living humans at all before the past week.
Not that he’d been entirely isolated. The forest adjoining the facility was rife with life, magical and mundane both, and he’d made great friends there.
And, from the other side of the veil…
“Don’t worry too much about it. It’s sometimes overwhelming even for the locals, and you’re not from around here, are you?”
Anthony blinked. He didn’t think he’d have been caught so easily. But then, he supposed it would be rather obvious to anyone who knew what to look for.
He smiled sheepishly at his benefactor, before chancing a wary glance back to the busy street.
It was still just as packed with humans as before.
The boy snorted.
“You’d best not go back that way. The crowds aren’t going to thin out for a good couple hours yet.”
Anthony stared at him, letting his eyes show the tiniest hint of his power.
It made humans uncomfortable, he knew. It made them have to face the reality of life and death in a way most people would much rather avoid.
Denial made people violent, revealed their cores.
Sometimes.
Still, Anthony was a terrible judge of character, especially since he had so little experience in reading people.
But now, with this stranger offering to guide him away through the dark alleys?
Not even he was naive enough to take him blindly at his word.
Except that he did have a good feeling about that boy, and with Jarvis so reassuringly silent at his side, he wondered if this was not the beginnings of a human friendship. Jarvis always told him when he thought the people he was meeting were untrustworthy.
The Dead knew.
But then, Anthony could always get some insurance, just in case.
“What’s your name?”
The boy blinked, either at the abrupt change of subject or at the way they’d spoken for so long without even knowing what to call each other.
And then he smiled, the expression charmingly guileless as he offered his hand.
“My name’s Loki, nice to meet you! I’ve moved here with my family a couple years ago so I’m used to the crowds now, but I know how it feels when you come from smaller towns.”
Anthony smiled back, shaking his hand the way he’d seen in movies.
This definitely qualified as the beginnings of a friendship.
“I’m Anthony. I come from somewhere fairly isolated so this is quite the shock.”
Personal information, offered and shared, the ritual of shaking hands, smiles that felt like sunshine.
There was no need to inform Loki of what power he’d given Anthony over him simply by sharing his true name.
After all, names had power, even moreso when your magic dealt in death and spirits.
Loki was a good name. It suited the lanky boy, especially when mischievous spark entered his green eyes, alighting them with banked power and glee.
Anthony liked it. The feel of Loki’s hand around his felt right, reassuring, warm.
When Loki pulled him further into the dank alleyways, he followed him, walking then running through the darkness and then out in the light through another, smaller avenue, a few corners and then swiftly into a small coffee shop.
They collapsed together, breathless, exhilarated from the ridiculous chase, a new camaraderie having been forged between the two, a closeness that could only be born from children’s games.
They had passed through crowds. And busy roads, and dark streets, and honking cars and corded out construction sites.
And Anthony had never felt scared. Not for one second, with Loki’s warm hand enfolding his, his clear laughter ringing around them and his intoxicating enthusiasm.
He shared a glance with his new friend, gold meeting green amidst streams of giggles, and he felt a certainty down to his bones that this boy, Loki, would be a source of joy and happiness for him, that he would stay by his side for eons to come.
It was a good feeling.
*
He did not know how it had happened. It hadn’t been supposed to happen.
The street was still damp from the previous downpour, water dripping everywhere and squelching under Anthony’s shoes as he held onto Loki’s crumpled body.
There had been no sign, no forewarning, nothing at all to let Anthony plan, or prepare for this.
Nothing he could do.
Police lights glowed over him, blue then red, then blue again, the noise pounding through his ears as he clung to the only brightness he knew.
Nothingnothingnothing nothing!
Everything was grey.
The only sound he wanted to hear was Loki’s breaths, but it was faint and labored. Too wet.
It was ridiculous!
There was blood on his lips.
Redredredredred.
Loki could not die like that, he had only just found him!
Everything was grey.
They had been friends for a few years by now, meeting in various places around the city while Anthony finally learned how to be human, playing and learning, and growing together, but they were supposed to have their whole lives, and Loki was supposed to be his!
There was too much blood on the ground. Too much from the medics to do anything, by now, even if they cared enough to look for the ‘collateral’, for the poor sod that had gotten hit by a stray shot, someone not even involved in the crime happening on the street over.
It was not fair!
It made no sense. Anthony could not, would not make sense of it.
His hands were trembling.
His eyes were leaking.
More wetness to mingle with the blood and the rain, to make the grip he held onto his friend more slippery, as though anything could ever make him let go.
He refused.
Nothing could ever make him.
Nothing.
Not even death.
Because Anthony was an Omen of Death himself. Because he held dominion over the Veil, because he could decide who passed and who came back.
He was no longer the tiny child who could only call ghosts over and tie them to his own soul.
Blood kept pouring, slipping through Anthony’s useless fingers, spilling Loki’s life-force over the dirty alley-ground, dripping through the cracks of asphalt.
Slowly, he mouthed over the words, the ancient chant, words of power, incantations that could and would bend reality to his will.
The blood shivered under his call, shifting into the patterns of power, ignoring the call of gravity and the still pouring rain, remaining untouched by the dirty water running to the sewers and flooding the streets.
They glowed, power rising from life’s last beats, from Anthony’s howling grief, from the dogged determination of the one chosen to be Death’s own omen on this Earth.
Because Anthony would not give in, he would sink his claws deep into Loki’s soul and get him back, no matter how or what price he would have to pay.
He remembered his warm and innocent laughter, the mischief brimming in those clear green eyes, the sleeping magic resting in his steady heart.
He could still feel that warmth struggling in his friend’s body, the fluttering of a heart beating his last, a heart-wrenching song that Anthony refused to hear to its end.
He’d never understood before, how death could be the end of someone’s world, how one could hate it, to the bottom of their heart.
And yet, now, Anthony could think of nothing else.
Of walking through those streets without seeing Loki trying to scale every fire hydrant on the way, just to jump back down each time, of not crossing the roads while only stepping on the white bands, of going to their booth, in their coffeeshop, and being alone.
Of not going to high school anymore, because what would be the point if not to see Loki? Of no longer trying to find a way to make life more difficult for the football team, no more itching powder or jelly showers, of paintball in the locker-rooms.
No more mischief and laughter, no more life.
Loki’s breaths slowed even more, but the magic was sparking with life, with death, with the maelstrom of Anthony’s fluctuating moods, rage and grief and remembered joy and despair.
The air was thick with it, static sparking against their skins, zapping and pulling at their clothes, a yawning chasm opening between them both, the gateways between life and death.
Because Anthony would only have the power to act at the very second where Loki would walk that edge.
He held no power over life, no hint of healing magic, nothing, nothing that could help, not to stop the bullet, to turn back time or heal the wounds.
But on that moment, that instant of crossing, he could act.
His magic clawed at Loki’s body, burrowing into him and pulling, hooking over the dormant magic and wrenching.
Loki would not die.
His heart stopped.
Anthony screamed, power exploding over him like a firestorm, rage and desperation crashing against the rules of reality, against the very Laws of the Universe, begging and howling, clawing for a loophole, the loophole, because Loki was not dead yet, and yet no longer of the living, and that meant he was his, his to save and to bring back amongst the living. Safe and in one piece.
“Please!”
Time stopped.
Loki’s magic shivered, writhing under his skin and uncoiling from its lifelong sleep, before breaking loose, glowing strings fluttering gently over his skin like ripples over the clear, unbroken surface of still waters.
And deep under, the growing chasm and deep currents awaking, the slow awakening of a giant.
Still waters ran deep.
Anthony’s own golden ropes of magic sank through the deep, crossing over the Veil and finding the young soul that felt like Loki.
The soul was slippery, like those silverskinned fishes that swirled through the stream next to the research facility. Anthony remembered having tried to catch one before, when he’d first come out of the great white building. His small clumsy hands had waded through the chilly water, feeling it press against his flesh, the resistance of the current, the wriggling flesh of those small scaly bodies slipping through his fingers.
Loki would not do the same.
His magic hooked over him, weaving an impenetrable net, sinking under those thin silver scales until they glowed just as gold as Anthony did.
Loki was his!
His grasp tightened over Loki’s soul, before forcefully dragging it back through to the land of the living.
Time started again.
It was hard to breathe. His heart was beating too hard against his ears, too slow.
There was nothing more he could do.
Loki’s magic would do the rest, Anthony knew. Hoped.
Black spots grew in his vision, the sirens distorting into a strange gargled wail.
Loki would be fine, he would be there when he woke up. Alive. Breathing.
Loki was alive.
That was the only reason Anthony let himself slip back into the darkness of oblivion.