Chapter Text
You wound a ball of twine around my eyes, then pinned
the end between my fingers.
You gowned me in white tissue
like a hothouse nectarine.
The furtive door at last unbarred, I was
amazed at the garden’s suggestion
throating from vining flower-walls
in breaths that quickened with mine.
How long I lingered beneath
sun awnings and a stone-and-mortar sky,
only you know. For when I found the throne room
festooned with pelvis bones,
the twin-fingered god on whose nether lip I hung
a kiss, a crape-gartered barb,
was you—you the pursued, yours
the bull’s head draped with fragrant lash-black hair.
“The Minotaur” – by Peter Kline
The Asgardians had many signs that heralded the end of the universe, but the two they actually received were unexpected.
Lady Sif walked the royal halls to the throne room, and every step rang with purpose. That same purpose with which she wielded her weapons. Shield and sword strapped to her back, her armour glinted a burnished brushed silver in the light of braziers lining the soaring columns. Beneath her feet the ground was still gripped with tremors, little aftershocks from the great grinding and bucking of just an hour previously.
When she entered the throne room, it was empty but for a single occupant in a flowing red cape.
“Thor –” she began.
“That name belongs to me no longer.” He did not turn to greet her or acknowledge her presence in any way.
“Odinson,” she corrected herself, crossing the space to stand beside him, her footsteps striking the stone floors with more force. She hated calling him that. He was so much more than the child of the All-Father, “I bear news.”
“Can it possibly be more important than this?” he gestured with his mechanical arm at the rubble all around.
Before them lay the once grand seat of Odin Borson, the All-Father. Just an hour ago it had stood proud and majestic, created from the hilt of the Odinsword, a weapon hundreds of feet in length. Odinsword – also called Ragnarok. To draw it was to prophesy The End.
And it had moved.
Now it quivered in stone, the source of earthquakes and misgivings across all of Asgard. It was taller than Sif herself, but still able to be drawn by a hand, should it so wish.
Weapons like this had minds of their own.
“The All-Father is dying,” Odinson could not tear his eyes from the sword’s pommel, “His successor has yet to be found, and now this.”
“Odin is not yet dead. He only sleeps,” Sif moved to stand in front of him, forcing him to look at her, “And I believe I may know why the Odinsword has changed.”
At that his gaze flicked sharply to her, “How?”
“Heimdall received a message. A transmission from,” and here her face screwed up in bemusement, “Midgard, of all places.”
His expression mirrored her own, “Midgard? I was under the impression they still burned fossil fuels. Have they even travelled to space?”
“Two years ago, yes. Though the journey was brief. That is not what concerns me,” her hands clenched, and she took a step closer, voice lowering. One never knew what ears might pry in these halls, “What concerns me is that Heimdall received the message an hour ago. The same time –”
“The same time as the Odinsword’s transformation.” He spoke softly, awed, “That cannot be coincidence.”
“My thoughts exactly. I came as soon as I discovered it.”
“But what did the message say?” he pressed.
Sif raised her shoulders in a helpless shrug, “Therein lies yet another mystery. We have no idea.”
He frowned, “Not even Heimdall?”
She shook her head, “He is at as much a loss as I.”
Hefting his dwarven-forged axe, Jarnbjorn, on one broad shoulder, Odinson turned, “Come, my lady. We will unravel this mystery together.”
They strode from the throne room and through the glittering golden streets to the Bifrost. There Heimdall greeted them with a stony nod, unblinking.
“Play me the message,” Odinson demanded, and Heimdall complied.
With a tap of his sword, the message resounded throughout the portal’s walls. It was a dark unintelligible tongue, snapping and guttural all at once, like the flicker of black flame or the slap of bruised offal against cold, unfeeling stone. By the time the message finished, Odinson had a look on his face like he’d bitten into rancid fruit.
“I don’t suppose you have any idea what that meant either?” Sif nudged him with her elbow.
“No. I believe you now. That was,” he shuddered, “most foul.”
“The Bifrost is ready for your departure,” Heimdall assured them, already dragging his sword to open the portal between worlds.
“Thank you,” Odinson joined Sif on the platform, “I apologise for doubting you, old friend.”
“After all these years too,” Heimdall retorted, deadpan. It was as close to a joke Sif had ever heard him utter. She gave him a wry look, which he pretended not to see.
Difficult for the All-Seeing God to achieve, though he ignored her small smile with aplomb.
Heimdall jammed his sword downward, and the air blurred with light. That familiar swooping sensation clutched at Sif’s stomach as they rocketed between planets, her vision a glare of bright colours all blending together until there was just a blinding white. Her legs bent in anticipation of their landing, and when it came she absorbed the impact with ease.
The blazing light faded, and Sif blinked in the sudden darkness. Night had long since cast a veil of stars here. A cool breeze sloughed through the nearby trees. And they were not alone.
In one smooth motion Sif had her shield and sword drawn, dropping into a defensive crouch.
“You!” Odinson pointed with his axe, his brows drawn downward in a fierce scowl, “This was your doing? Explain yourself!”
Thor – the rightful Thor, Sif had to remind herself – rose slowly from where she knelt in the clearing. Mjolnir crackled with energy like a warning in one hand, but the other hand she raised, palm up, “Be at peace, my lord. I am merely here investigating the call. The same as you.”
Reluctant, Sif lowered her weapons, though she did not sheathe them. She never liked being unarmed when in the company of strangers. This may be Thor, but Sif did not know her. She was not sure she wanted to know her either. Sif was many things, but fast friends was not one of them, “You received the message as well?”
Thor shook her head, “No. But I heard it all the same. It brought me here.”
Where ‘here’ was however, was another question entirely. A series of small ruins built into the ground lay not far off. Old fortifications, by the looks of them, though they had not seen battle in some years. Otherwise the trees bristled tall, and hills rolled into the distance.
“How long have you been here?” Odinson asked.
“I arrived only moments before you,” Thor tilted her head, winged helm catching the bluish light from the hammer, “It was deserted then as well.”
Shifting her grip on the hilt of her sword, Sif grinned wickedly, her eyes dark, “If Ragnarok is truly upon us, then let us give chase on this Wild Hunt.”
“You speak in ill-omens, lady,” Thor replied gravely, and even Odinson seemed to agree, if his sombre expression was any indication.
He was always sombre these days. Ever since he lost that damnable hammer. Even now he glanced at it with longing.
“True,” Sif strode off into the night, not waiting to see if the others followed, and her long black hair whipped behind her in the wind, “But what better time to speak ill-omens than at the end of all things?”
On her rare days off Peggy liked to watch Angie work. It reminded her of better brighter times, when the War had ended, and they had just moved into this apartment, and Angie still couldn’t believe her luck in life, fiddling with copper pipes and other fixtures around the property. Now in 1963, Angie still couldn’t help but fidget with some latest gadget, tongue poking out in concentration as she twisted a red-handled screwdriver, her face gilded by the afternoon sunlight on their patio.
Peggy’s days off had grown only slightly more numerous after that whole Cuba fiasco a year ago. Mostly she took days off to spend more time with Angie. Though if Howard had anything to say about it, she would only be working part time.
“I’m pregnant, not dead,” she had snapped at him when he wouldn’t let the topic go one day at the office. Honestly, the man worried over her like a dog over a bone.
He had raised his hands and backed away warily, “Uh oh. You need saltines and ginger-ale or something weird like that? I’ve been reading books on pregnancy and –”
At that she had chucked a paperweight at him, which he neatly dodged.
“Sir,” Mr. Jarvis had said from his place on the side lines in Peggy’s office, “perhaps it would be more prudent to not antagonise the hormonal pregnant woman?”
“Oh, she’s always like this,” Howard had waved him away.
That being said, she had started taking a few more days off. Not because of the pregnancy – she was hardly into her first trimester, and wouldn’t start showing for weeks still – but because of…
Well. Angie, of course.
After the revelations of a year ago, suddenly their time together felt that much more tenuous. Fleeting was the word that sprang to mind.
“Milk, Ms. Carter?”
“Hmm?” Peggy tore her eyes away from the glow of sunlight caught in Angie’s hair to find Mr. Jarvis handing her a steaming cup of tea, “Yes, thank you.”
She balanced the cup on her fingertips and resumed her watching. Meanwhile Mr. Jarvis settled himself in an armchair in the shade of the apartment with his own cup of tea and a book.
It had become something of a routine, his arrival every other Saturday afternoon. Like clockwork he would rap on their front door bearing some new prize under one arm – a box of fresh-baked chocolate éclairs, or a dark devil’s food cake, tooth-ripeningly rich with a dusting of curly chocolate flakes.
At first Peggy had her suspicions that Mr. Jarvis only came on Howard’s orders, but she soon learned that was not the case. His wife, Anna, had suggested the first visit, and after that everything just sort of fell into place.
Of course when Angie had learned that he baked all the goods personally, the pair enthusiastically swapped recipes and tips, and soon the Saturdays devolved into baking sessions that actually threatened Peggy’s waistline. Something she hadn’t had to worry about since joining the British Armed Forces and introducing a work-out regime that killed lipids faster than a Panzerfaust roasted tanks.
Thankfully – for Peggy’s waistline but not necessarily for her taste buds – that all ended the day Jarvis brought them a bird-feeder.
It was a bizarre thing to act as a housewarming gift, but it had been a fast success. Immediately Angie had dropped the piping bag full of icing on the kitchen countertop, and torn into the feeder, taking it apart and putting it back together right there on the tile floors.
“Does she always do this with gifts?” Mr. Jarvis had asked Peggy aside, looking concerned for Angie’s mental well-being, “Or is it just with the ones she particularly dislikes?”
“Oh, no! It means she likes it.” Peggy had assured him with a pat to his arm.
He had given her this slow look, as though he were suddenly doubting her sanity now for her choice in life partners. In response she had just hidden a grin by sipping her tea.
As it turned out, the bird-feeder was one of those squirrel proof contraptions that the bird had to ‘solve’ like a puzzle in order to receive a tasty prize. Angie had never been able to get her hands on one, and – well. As soon as she did, it was all downhill from there.
Now every other weekend she designed and created increasingly complex puzzle box feeders for the birds that congregated on the patio railing. Their apartment had grown so popular with the local wildlife – particularly with the cleverer corvids – that from the outside it look like a parliament fringed with so many rooks and crows.
Angie irritably waved away a few ever-hopeful pigeons blocking her light, and continued working on the newest feeder. Two massive ravens swooped down and perched behind her, cocking their heads inquisitively at Angie’s persistent compulsive tinkering.
Peggy blew across the top of her tea and took a tentative sip, “Do you enjoy your job, Mr. Jarvis?”
The rustle of pages behind her, and he replied with, “Do you?’
She hummed, “I can’t really imagine myself doing anything else, to be perfectly honest.”
“It seems you already have the answer to your question, then.”
Still watching Angie tinker, Peggy continued, “I imagine being Howard’s butler would be trying on the best of days.”
“No more so than being his business partner,” Mr. Jarvis replied dryly.
Peggy snorted and shook her head, “Do you have a witty retort for everything? Or do you have to practice them in the mirror every evening?”
“The former,” he placed his own cup of tea back onto its saucer with a gentle click of porcelain, “It’s a part of my job description, I’m afraid. Can’t have Mr. Stark’s guest go unentertained, after all.”
He sounded as if he were only half-joking.
Angie had finished the latest bird feeder and set it up for a trial run. One of the two ravens stole her screwdriver when she wasn’t looking, and while she was distracted the other simply pried apart the back panel of the feeder. Seed spilled everywhere, and all of the birds dove on it like sharks in blooded water. The two ravens in question however, leapt back and ruffled their feathers smugly.
“Son of a –!” Angie waved her arms in a failed attempt to scare the birds off. The two ravens didn’t budge, though many of the other birds squawked and careened away. She pointed at the ravens with her screwdriver and threatened, “You’ll pay for that, you troublemakers!”
“Don’t talk to the birds, Angie,” Peggy called, cupping the tea’s warmth in her palms, “People think we’re odd enough as it is.”
“That they do,” Mr. Jarvis muttered under his breath.
“I heard that,” Peggy turned her head only enough to arch an eyebrow at him.
He cleared his throat and pretended to busy himself by flicking to a new page of his book.
On the other hand Angie ignored them both. She picked up the feeder and dumped all the seed with a mournful shake. Heaving a sigh she retreated out of the sunlight and back into the apartment. The two ravens tried to follow, but she shut the glass door on them so that they had to flare their wings in order to keep from crashing.
Peggy pointed with her chin to the ravens, “Friends of yours?”
“They wish,” Angie grumbled, throwing a glare over her shoulder, “Showed up two weeks ago on the patio, and have made my Saturdays hell ever since.”
“Well, if you’re looking for someone to blame, I hear that fulfils part of Mr. Jarvis’ job description,” Peggy said wryly, turning to gauge his reaction, “He did start this whole tradition after all.”
He looked up slowly from his book with a thousand yard stare. Peggy fought back a grin.
“Yeah! Thanks a lot, Mr. Fancy!” Angie played along.
“If I wanted to spend my Saturdays being unfairly berated, I would spend them with Mr. Stark’s amorous ex-admirers,” he retorted, primly re-crossing his legs.
“I’m telling him you said that,” Angie warned.
“Please do.”
With a huff of laughter Angie put down the ruined bird feeder and jerked her head to the kitchen, “C’mon. You were going to teach me how to make tarte Tatin.”
“That I was.”
Putting his book down, Mr. Jarvis stood and made to follow her into the kitchen. As he passed by the sitting-room telephone on the way though, it rang.
He answered it, “Carter residence.”
Peggy waved him down and whispered, “You don’t have to answer the phones for us!”
She didn’t chasten him for the whole ‘Carter residence’ thing either. Though she would later. ‘Carter residence,’ indeed.
Not flustered in the slightest, he held the receiver out to her, “It’s for you, Ms. Carter.”
Crossing the room, she swatted him away, “Get thee to a kitchen, man!” she scolded playfully before putting the phone to her ear, “Carter speaking.”
“Hey there, Grandma.”
Peggy froze. It had been almost a year, but that voice was unmistakable, “Natasha. I can’t say it’s a pleasure to hear from you again.”
“How’s pregnancy treating you?”
Eyes narrowing, Peggy growled, “No games. What do you want?”
For a long moment the line was quiet. Then Natasha said just one word.
“Amnesty.”