I stare at the held shield, all Vibranium, coloured by rings of red and silver, circling a centred star set in a blue; doubt rising in mind. If this timeline followed the movies close enough, then Steve shouldn't be in possession of his shield as of this moment, having deemed himself unworthy and surrendering it to Stark. The fact that it's before me is unsettling to say the least, being the second notable change I've encountered so far; the differences starting to pile up. Hiding any unease I feel, I stand waiting, Steve gauging me.
He slightly lowers his cover as I take no action, his eyes searching the room around me, then asking, suspicion in his voice, "Who are you?" In answer, I turn to the side, tilting my head in request to the two out of sight, calling them over; Vision stepping forward to stand beside, greeting,
"Captain Rogers."
The shield is lowered fully as Steve looks upon Vision, his alertness lessening, asking in surprise, "Vision?" He glances between us, "What is this?" Wanting to expedite the moment, I take this moment to speak up, explaining,
"Right, quick rundown; I'm a sorcerer, magic and all that, who has knowledge of a coming disaster," Steve takes the admittance of magic in stride, his life interesting enough for it to fit right in, "I'm gathering the Avengers together, against your will, mind, in order to help you combat it." He doesn't exactly look happy with my words, but doesn't interrupt or protest, so I continue, "Vision here, along with," I nod to the side, "Wanda, are the first I ran into, so..." I shrug.
The brows of Steve furrow, the corner of his eyes tightening, as the reasoning becomes clear. After a slight turn and signal towards the unseen cockpit, he locks eyes with me, his seriousness conveyed through them, seeking, "What disaster?" Walking towards him, ignoring his rising caution, I stick my head through beyond the portal and look right, finding the blonde-haired Black Widow standing near, one pistol drawn. Giving her a little hello, I glance back at Steve, disclosing,
"In as far as two months, the worlds gonna end."
The audible tightening of leather sounds as I notice his gloved hand clench into a fist, the disclosure hitting him. He stares at me intently, his blue eyes hiding his thoughts, when the voice of Natasha Romanoff sounds, all professional, "Is this information verifiable?" Turning away from Steve, breaking our locked eyes, I look over to her, her pistol still in hand, and tell, assuring,
"Absolutely, if you're willing to stretch your imagination a bit." She frowns at that, unsure of my meaning, as I glance behind her, staring beyond the panes of the cockpit, the light of day visible, the plane in motion, "Given that you received Vision's message, I assume you're on your way to London?" I ask, flicking my sight over them, waiting on their answer. Steve, his thinking seemingly finished, answers,
"...Yes. We're almost an hour out." At that, I step back away from the portal and raise a hand, palm up and fingers flared, then gesture to the side, the interior of the plane sliding along, the alert form of Natasha appearing. My next move above my skill level, I turn to Stephen, requesting,
"Can you, you know," I indicate, putting my hands together and separating them, "widen it?" He stares at my portal, a thoughtful narrowing of his eyes quickly passing, then,
"...It's possible, yes." With a purposeful gesture, the portal stretches away, its shape warping and elongating, the entire interior of the plane now visible, both Avengers looking through. The channel now established, I thank Stephen as he moves back, his mastery making all this possible, then turn back to the two, clarifying,
"There, now you can join the conversation without having to land, putting you at risk of detainment from whoever." Looking to Vision, who's rejoined Wanda, I request, "Can you get them up to speed, Viz? Don't start on that purple fucker yet, though; let me gather the rest of youse first." At the sound of my voice, he breaks his examining gaze away from the display of magic, looking to me and answering my question,
"Of course." He responds, his attention falling back on his fellow Avengers when I begin to move away, giving the unsure-seeming Wanda a smile as I approach the observing sorcerers. Stephen watches me as I near, his expression curious, while Wong stares in concern, scrunched brows donning his face. Stopping before them, I reach under my disguised jumper and grasp my notebook, pulling it out and brushing it down, then holding it out to the two, asking,
"I don't yet know how to do it, so could one of you duplicate this?" I give it a little shake, "About nine or ten would be best." Stephen takes it from me and gives it a glance, then passes it off to Wong, who takes it in hand and tucks it under arm. The weight of their stares settle over me as they play off each other, their question obvious, causing me to recentre and offer, "Look, once the others are assembled, this will all start to make sense, okay? For now, I'll give over this; that book contains all that I know of a coming catastrophe."
Wong pulls the notebook further in at that information, sharing a look with Stephen, who answers, "...This is getting tedious, Sarah." I glare at him slightly, annoyed, then stop, understanding where he's coming from. Sighing, I close my eyes, replying,
"...I know, I'm sick of it myself." Opening them, I turn away and look to the reunion, finding them gathered in the in-motion Quinjet, focused on the words of Vision. Widow, perhaps sensing my gaze, shifts her attention to me and starts to evaluating what she sees, scanning up and down, running her sight over me. I don't shy away from her scrutiny, noting as she hides her reactions to my appearance, pausing ever so slightly over on my eyes and exposed hands; my superior senses catching the well-disguised surprise.
I wink at her as she looks up and locks eyes with me, my familiarity with her personality and skill-set offering me limited insight into her thoughts; of her considerations into my potential threat. She matches my attitude, challenging me with a slight smirk, whatever conclusions she's come to kept to herself, hidden with practised ease, before looking back to her team. I keep my sight on them, listening as Vision explains the circumstances of our meeting and of my revelations, then, wanting to get a move on, ask of Stephen beside me, "You still got that hair you took from Thor?"
He replies, confirming, "I couldn't exactly throw it away." I glance back to him at his answer, a note of humour in my voice as I inquire,
"Then, can you find him?"
Stephen answers, his tone conveying no doubt, "If needs must." I watch with interest as he parts the crossing of his robe and reaches in, a slight glow of orange emanating, before he pulls out a small, dark-red glassed vial, secured by what looks to be a wood stopper. He lifts it to eye level, checking it, then gives it a small shake, sparks of blue-white lightning flashing and striking the glass. He removed the stopper with a twist and pull, then tips out the contents onto his palm, a lengthy, dirty blonde hair falling out.
As he picks it up, gripping both ends and pulling it taut, I decide to play my part, moving to leave him to it as he turns away, when a... swastika forms before him. With a small prickle of worry, I adjust my position slightly, shielding him from the sight of the Avengers as I step to them, scrutinising them for any inkling of awareness. Thankfully, as I come to a stop beside Wanda, feeling the minute vibrations underfoot, I gather that it seems to have gone unnoticed, any potential fallout and questioning evaded.
Wanda glances at me as she notices me, where I blink at her, my thoughts elsewhere, thinking on the practices and symbolism used and cast by varying schools. Magic, be it old world or new, patron-given or eldritch-sourced, sorcerer or otherwise, is subject to an unseen separation from the common realms, mostly unnoticed by its own practitioners. By it's very nature, magic is the mirror of the scientific half of reality, one that warps whatever rules most believe exist, opposing the set structure of a logical universe.
Spend enough time in civilisation, and one will become to victim to a gradual realisation; the world of man is dying, is slowly losing connection to nature. Of course, there are outliers, those born with some form of greater perception, or late bloomers who experience the unease, who seek out education and learning; searching for answers and truth. But no matter the path, unless one connects with their inner spirit, realises the fading of the civil soul, of the degradation of mortal experience, they will unknowingly suffer atop the constant slope.
In the time of my home, near a thousand years back, a rapid increase in global population is underway, with rise and expansion of empires and kingdoms, each holding themself lord and master. These centres of organised life, believing themselves to be pillars of emerging thought and dominion, are steadily, and possibly inadvertently, detaching from the innate manifestations of the planet. As organised religions, defining the creation of their hosting around varying, fictitious monotheistic deities, spread over land and through species, early, defining symbols are being corrupted.
In the days of yore, before the rise of scientific thought, when humanity was young and understanding the world through godly worship, symbols were the key to answers. Each pointing to underlying formation, allowing the untaught to grow, to weather the day and survive the night, their conceptual alignments bestowing power. Overtime, many such symbols have been co-opted by the greedy and the arrogant, by the ones that wish to alter the world, to have the darkness of their mind and soul infect and blanket humanity.
One such symbol, originally associated with divinity and the spiritual, but in modern times with hate and revulsion, is the swastika. Unfortunately for Thor, that symbol has been used by humanity, mostly the early Germanic people, to identify his godly domain over thunder andthe might of Mjölnir. For spiritualists and the magical, it's use has not fallen out of favour, nor has it been cast to the wayside, its inherent power divorced from its more modern interpretations. That's not to say that many are exactly happy with its continued existence.
No matter how the blind view parts of the world, it doesn't change established reality; trained sorcerers know this better than most. The Master of the Mystic Arts have defended the Earthly Dimension for thousands, possibly even millions of years, and have first hand experience in the slow decline of the inner light. The shift in acceptance, the closing of the eyes to the actuality of reality, has been well documented, with conclusions drawn to its inevitability; of how one day, the divide will draw too far, unable to be snapped back into place.
This is evidenced in no greater expression than the distancing of the gods, their power and influence fading with time as they retreat back to their realms, their symbols losing weight. While I viewcertain symbolsin no good light, more than aware of their unsettling nature, of the numerous lives stolen by those that worship them, it's one of the things I know I'll have to adjust to. With a slight squint of my eyes, I adjust my sight over to the listening form of Captain America, the Nazi-Puncher himself, and wonder as to his opinion on matters; a man out of time.
I know this, and related subjects, need greater thought, but time is tight, with tasks requiring completion and gods to be gathered, so I exit my contemplation. Looking back to my open portal, I ponder on the possibility of creating and sustaining a second portal, but think better of it, the potential for collapse quite high; I'm no master, yet. A little sigh starts to build in my chest, but I squash it and move on, thinking on how to best play things, before realising that I'm being an idiot.
Patting Wanda on the shoulder, I step forward and lean out, finding my target, his focus on Stephen, then shout, "Wong!" He jumps slightly, looking to me with disapproval, but replies,
"Yes?"
I re-enter the Sanctum, walking on and holding a hand up, Sling Ring adorning my fingers, asking him, "Can you take control of the portal? I can't run two at once." He pulls the upper section of his robe down, adjusting its fitting, and nods decisively,
"Certainly."
I watch as he reaches it, his movement attracting the regard of our guests, and pulls his Sling Ring from his belt, slipping it on and flicking his hand out. A miniscule shift occurs in my spiritual energy at his action, the portal no longer subject to my control, allowing me to cast one anew. Looking past him, through to the Quinjet, I inform the group, raising my voice slightly so as to be clearly heard, "I'm gonna get Stark now," I tell them, then ask, "that's not a problem, I hope?"
My focus on Steve, curious as to his reaction, I watch with interest as equal amounts of resignation and resolve cross his face, the expression odd. While his feelings are certainly intriguing, and provoke my curiosity as to the nature of their conflict in this reality, I hold my tongue, now not the time. Steve relaxes, sharing a look with Natasha, then answers me, "...It shouldn't be." Natasha nudges him as he falls silent, causing him look down at her, her eyes flicking to me and prompting him, her objective unknown.
He sighs in reply, his shoulders drooping incrementally, but soon squares them, nodding at her and brushing past, entering the Sanctum with stable steps. I prepare to open the portal as he approaches, examining him as he comes to a stop beside me, his eyes not falling on me, instead staring at the wall in front. His actions part humorous and part awkward, I pay him no mind, instead bringing the appearance of Tony Stark to front of mind, then circling my hand out, the air before us starting to spark.
With a final flourish, the space connect to a distant location, a ring of eldritch sparks containing it, the figure of a surprised Stark visible, his eyes locked to Steve. I step away with grace, allowing them their space, as Steve greets him, his voice deep,
"...Tony."
…
I sip my tea with delight as I sit on the floor, off to the side, observing the play-by-play; Stark standing at the edge of the room, leaning against the windowsill, having joined us. "So, what, Glinda the Good Witch here is a prophet?" Tony asks, the sarcasm practically dripping from him, "Has the criminal lifestyle been a bit too much to your liking, Rogers? Finally figured out how to relax?" My movements are slow as I reach out to the platter beside, trying not to become a target.
Sneakily pinching two biscuits, dark chocolate digestives summoned from my homeland, a gift from Wong, I bring them in and take a nibble of one, offering the second to figure next to me. Natasha takes it between her fingers, her focus not leaving the arguing men, then bites down, munching away. I stare on as Steve replies, his arms crossed over his chest, his shield resting on his back, "You know as well as I do the reasons behind my decisions, Tony."
Short laughter greets his words as Stark rubs his mouth and pushes off the wall, contesting his opponents stance, arguing, "Oh, how Captain America of you," he counters, "sacrifice is the name of the game with you, huh?" Watching them, passing between them, a certain idea starts to take root, causing me to lean over to Natasha, getting close and whispering in her ear, asking,
"...Is this a lovers quarrel?" She snorts abruptly, my sudden question catching her off guard, before she attempts to smother her laughter, covering her mouth. The sound breaks the conflicting men from their verbal spar, their notice shifting to us, Tony taking me in for a moment, a curious flicker of recognition detectable. He looks away when I catch him, switching to the coughing Natasha, who's clearing her throat, bits of biscuit lodged, his expression softening minutely as says,
"Ms. Romanoff," then asks, "anything you want to input?"
She takes a few breaths, recovering, then looks at him straight, answering, "No. As I see it, there's no winner here. You both know why it came to this, and chose the result." She places her hands on the floor, getting to her feet, and moves forward, "There needs to be a sit down, but we need to put it off for now." Stopping before Tony, she places a hand on his arm, "...It's good to see you again." As she gives him a friendly push, I clutch my tea and stand, remembering to grab my biscuits, then walk over to Stephen, hearing her ask as I go, "How's Pepper?"
I ignore Tony's answer as I take the corner, finding Stephen standing by the shelved nook, his face buried in a leather-bound book. Coming to a stop by him, I inquire, "You ready?" He lingers on the book, not looking to me for a moment, then snaps it shut and slides it back into place, turning to me and responding,
"Almost; I'm having trouble locating him." There's a note of frustration in his voice, a tinge of interest also present, "I'm certain it has something to do with a shift I felt coming from Inner Planes near the end of November, but I can't place it." His ability to perceive the beyond impressive, I offer him potential answers,
"That would be when Asgard was destroyed by Surtur, probably." Stephen turns to me in surprise, "As to your struggle in finding him… I don't know. I know that he's with Loki, who has the Space Stone on him, so maybe that's it?" His expression turns thoughtful at my words, a few seconds of silence passing, the period experienced in comfort, when he says,
"If that is so..." He raises a hand, summoning a series of books from the shelf, even more conjuring into existence from the aether, which start to orbit him. One, bound in some form of black crystal, its cover engraved, silver lines forming the surprising image of an unnamed Celestial, lands in his upturned palm. I study it with interest, its makeup greatly differing from any tome I've perused, clearly some form of higher magic I've yet been granted access to. With a twirl of the his free wrist, the floating books arrange themselves behind him, constructing three concentric rings.
Finally, he concentrates on me, ordering, "Follow me, it's time to collect a god." I turn to shadow as he moves past, dodging the slowly rotating books, and cast a basic messaging spell in-hand, flinging it out to the side, on the search for Wong. All ambient conversation comes to a stop as we turn the corner, the gathered Avengers drawn to the magic on display. I shift in their direction, approaching and saying, my arms spread to the side,
"If you could move back, that would be most helpful." There's slight reluctance in their movements as they obey, closing in on the wall, opening up the room. Once they're settled, all lined up, I join them, coming to the side of Wanda, Vision opposite, as she asks,
"What's he doing?" I keep my sight on Stephen as he takes a seat on the floor, the books taking purposeful positions around him, their covers flicking open. From the corner of my eye, I notice as the others focus on me, Wanda speaking what they're all thinking, when I reply,
"Trying to find Thor. He's run into a bit of trouble recently, so we're experiencing difficulty in pinpointing him. As to the how, I'm uncertain of the specifics, though I can hazard a guess."
The worried voice of Steve sounds as I see the body of Wong come into view, a platter of sandwiches in hand, a collection of notebook held under arm, "What kind of trouble? Is he alright?" Breaking my sight from Wong as he places steps to Stephen, inquiring if he needs assistance, I turn to Steve, answering his second question,
"...Physically? He's seen better days. Emotionally? Mentally? Definitely not." He frowns in concern at my response, my words vague, as I add, addressing the first half, "It's not my place to tell you of his experiences; you'll see him soon enough, ask him yourself." There's a noticeable shift in the atmosphere, a certain tension in the air as I finish, leading me to cycle my Chi just in case, when Wong draws close, the platter held out, offering, breaking the strain,
"Would anyone like some refreshments?" I shake my head in reply, not in the mood, but outstretch a hand, thanking him as he passes me the duplicated notebooks. Tony, ever one to acclimate, starts, leaning towards him,
"What we got to work with? I'm a fan of tuna, but I can eat settle for ham and cheese."
I fade their conversation from my perception as they chatter, uninterested in their talk, as I see Strange start to begin, the seemingly Celestial-powered tome floating in front. He brings his hands in to his chest, crossing them over the hanging Eye of Agamotto, and closes his eyes, falling into concentration with an inhale. With a flutter, the pages of the arranged books start to flap, running through and back, their print alight, illuminating the room.
Preparations apparently complete, Stephen opens all three eyes, his own two under his own power, the one guarding Time with an uncrossing motion, a green glow emanating from his centre. His two hands rise, the crystal tome following under his command, its contents incomprehensible and hidden to me, where he intones a short chant, his delivery soft, riding the air,
"Borrowing of Bright Gods."
A subtle skip in the continuum occurs in the room, only detectable thanks to the standing of our location, the Sanctum protecting its inhabitants, making my blood stagger. All sound evacuates our dwelling, an infinite presence surrounding us, mighty but meaning no harm, as a figment of armour appears over the sitting Stephen. With visible cracks and gauges, a leaking of fiery energy, a red-coloured being suspends behind, half-visible and lacking tactility; it's six, sunken, glowing eyes staring down.
I react with a start, the identity of the entity known to me, with limited connection between us; Arishem the Judge, potential creator of the current universe. Arishem remains stationary, taking no action as he remains, then turns an incremental amount, his profound gaze falling on me, a word spoken, rumbling my soul,
"Benefactor."
My heart skips a beat, the attention from a being of such immense capability noticing me, before I gather myself, cupping my hands and bowing, my head low, "Judge." I wait for further response, keeping my position, not wanting to offend, but receive none. Taking a risk, I glance up, finding the Celestial turned back, mimicking the actions of Stephen, its hands elevated and facing the sky, the book at the centre of the ritual his focus. A word, in a language unknown to me, leaves the mouth of the Sorcerer Supreme, echoed by the Celestial behind,
"---!"
The glow of the Time Stone intensifies, a magic circle forming around it, as it shines on the book, an equally deep colour leaving its pages; blue. The heavy blue swirls out, circling the book and gaining distance, a ring of dark smoke creating, drifting slowly and flowing inwards, reaching. A low pulse of energy whirls through it, a darkening taking over its middle, before stabilising with a flash, a portal to the Statesman now open. Spell cast, Stephen starts to stand, closing the Eye with its established gesture, the green fading and spell ending.
A clap of his hands sees crystal book close, the image of Arishem leaving as it does, his presence following, calming my nerves. I take breath, wiping the sweat from my brow, as the incredulous voice of Tony Stark sounds,
"I wasn't the only one that saw that, right? Did someone spike my sandwich?" He starts to ramble, attempting to help, when Stephen moves to the portal, his wrists turning over each other, a red light forming. He thrusts out a hand, multiple bands of heated metal shooting from his palm, entering the portal at speed and pulling taut, winding on something. A grunt leaves Stephen as he begins to step back, reeling in his catch, the outline of a bound man starting be drawn out.
I go to assist, my physical strength greater than his, when he heaves, the man being flung through, dragging along the ground with a shout of protest, his long-ish black hair covering his face. A small laugh of schadenfreude leaves me as I recognise the captured fish, the indignation blaring from every inch of his body, his struggle bringing me happiness as he cries, "Unhand me, you oaf! Do you know who I am?!"
He comes to a stop in the centre of the room, splayed out on the rug, the bands retreating as he goes to stand, only to freeze as he looks up, finding himself being glared at by his once-victims. A slight widening of his eyes is the only note of concern visible, before he plasters a fake-looking smile of his face, faux-charisma trying to calm the Avengers, as he issues,
"You wouldn't hit a god on his knees now, would you?"