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Chapter Text

“Tony?” 

Tony Stark jerked awake.

He had been hunched over the pilot seat before Steve’s voice interrupted blessed slumber, prying sweet relief out of his grasp. His “Jarvis Is My Copilot” sticker swam into focus as he rubbed his eyes to rid himself of his ever present exhaustion. The exhaustion from what, he had no idea. Tony had found himself in a permanent state of tiredness in the last month—the kind of tired sleep couldn’t fix.

Stuck in the loop, Tony forced himself to go about his daily tasks, all the while longing for the blissful escape of slumber. But as per usual, whenever he laid his head down to rest, sleep fled from him like a gazelle from the hunter. 

Tony ran a hand over his face, his growing stubble rough beneath his chin. He had not eaten in almost two days, his sleep schedule was a nightmare, and Steve was talking to him. 

Could this day get any worse?

“Tony?” Steve laid a gloved hand on his shoulder. Tony shook him off with enough force to cause Steve to back up with hands raised. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m sorry,” The Captain’s words were soft but they fell upon Tony’s ears like knives. Personally, Tony found that the presence of pity in Steve’s voice infuriated him far more than if Steve raised his voice. Being caught in a vulnerable position, beyond exhaustion and with mental stability hanging on like a thread, the last thing Tony needed was for someone to notice the fragments. 

“Tony?” Steve pressed, brows furrowed in infuriating concern.

“Don’t mention it,” Tony fumbled with the controls, occupying his mind with other things besides his own suffering. For instance: had he really forgotten to put the jet on autopilot again?

Gosh, he couldn’t do anything right!

Tony’s self critical monologue screeched to a halt as his senses overcame him, reminding him gently that he had to have remembered such an important decision since the jet wasn’t currently diving nose first into the ground. 

“How far is the Compound? We’ve been airborne for almost an hour. Shouldn’t it be twenty minutes?” Steve asked, cutting into Tony’s thoughts.

Tony blinked.

Right…Steve’s still here.

“How long have I been out?” Tony’s hands shook despite his best efforts to contain the shivers as he reached for his now empty coffee mug. The cartoon figure of himself stared back at him with soulful brown eyes, marred by sad stains of old coffee.

Tony ran his hand through his mussed hair, realizing too late that Steve was in the middle of speaking.

The Captain’s mouth moved but words remained lost to the haze of Tony’s mind. Only with extensive effort was Tony able to pull himself out of the sludge and by then he caught the last sentence as Steve turned to leave. 

“...forty five minutes. You passed out not long after we took off,” 

Steve exited the cockpit, holding onto a ledge as he checked on the other members of the team. Tony’s mental, physical, and emotional state bothered him but he resolved to wait until they returned to the Compound to confront him in private.

Perhaps then, maybe, Tony would open up and reveal what was so troubling to him these last few weeks and why he had fallen asleep in the middle of a mission. Shoving the anxiety concerning the billionaire aside, Steve watched his closest friends and companions—the Avengers, mill about the interior of the jet.  

Bruce’s head had fallen to his chest. He was huddled in one of Tony’s favorite purple blankets after a particularly nasty bout with the Big Guy. Soft snores from the scientist suggested he had long since fallen unconscious as was typical after a mission. Natasha sat with her usual unreadable expression as Clint’s voice droned into her ear. The only indication she heard him came from the light squeeze she gave his thigh when he neared the end of whatever tale he was spinning. Sam had his pocketknife out, fiddling with the edge of the blade, spinning the weapon with an expert twist. Never once did the blade catch his skin. He tossed the blade up, caught it by the handle, and pointed it with steely purpose at Bucky. Bucky had been in the middle of cussing him out when Steve’s footsteps sounded from the cockpit. 

The Winter Soldier’s metal arm rested idly across the container holding a synthetic humanoid.

Their mission.

Ultron’s new body traveled with the most elite security team imaginable– nine enhanced individuals on its way to the Compound. Under the Avenger’s surveillance, they expected no harm to come to the robotic shell nor did they imagine anyone would be ignorant enough to attack a plane carrying the world’s mightiest heroes. After a nearly unsuccessful mission, the team were more than ready to return home, put on a movie, order takeout, and relax for the rest of the evening. The humanoid robot problem could be solved in the morning. 

Steve ignored his two closest friends now on the verge of blows. Crossing opposite of Bucky, he knelt down to the level of the newest member of their team, Wanda. The girl couldn’t have been much older than eighteen and with her twin brother back at the Compound, solitude left her with no choice but to cope with her recent encounter with Ultron.

Wanda remained understandably quiet after going through so much in such a short time. 

“You alright, kid?” Steve asked. 

Wanda unfastened the clasp on one of her wrist bands. Nodding, she wiped the smudged mascara off out of her hooded eyes. She only succeeded in smearing it across her pale face. 

A loud vibration sounded above their heads.

Sam and Bucky broke up from their fight just as Bucky had wrestled the knife away from Sam. The entire team froze in surprise at the sudden clamor of footsteps nearing the back of the jet. 

“Thor! Knock it off!” Clint shouted, banging his fists on the roof of the jet.

Steve let his muscles relax. Of course it was Thor.

Steve’s throat still ached where Ultron had grabbed him and slammed him to the ground only a couple hours before. The Captain’s hand rubbed the faded bruises subconsciously as he shook off the unpleasant thought.

It was only Thor.

“Open the hatch,” Steve ordered. 

Wanda jumped at the gush of wind entering the cabin. It swirled around her hair, tangling it in knots. Bruce jolted up, shivering from the plummeting temperature. Thor bounded inside, his long hair flowing after him and his smile lighting up the entire jet. 

“My friends! You are going the wrong way!” He enveloped Steve in a bear hug, crushing the Captain’s chest with his strength. 

“What do you mean ‘the wrong way?’” Tony snapped, swiveling around in his chair. 

“I mean you should have arrived home,” Thor announced, his booming voice drawing rapt attention. “I set out to find you. But never mind. We need to turn around now.”

Thor’s countenance dropped, losing all humor in favor of a serious, almost stern expression. In response to Tony’s exasperated questioning, Thor explained how an anomaly appeared not far from where they currently flew. Whatever had taken control of the jet was pulling the craft into the wake of the hole. Whether it was a portal or some other form of alien mystery, Thor was not sure. What he did know was that the jet was on a direct collision for the anomaly. 

“You need to turn around before it’s too late,” Thor tossed Mjolnir to the floor, making his way to the cockpit. Tony’s coffee mug tumbled as Thor’s muscled arm knocked it onto the floor by mistake. Tony let out an indignant shout. Thor didn’t notice. His brows remained knit together in concern. Frustrated, he ran a hand through his windswept hair. 

“Hands off, Point Break!” Tony slapped the God of Thunder's hands away from the controls. 

Steve balanced on the edge of the cockpit beside the case holding the synthetic body. He grasped a ledge above as the jet took a nosedive. It was Clint’s turn to scream obscenities at Tony’s lack of piloting skills. The jet spun out of control, spiraling towards the ground. 

Steve flew backwards, hitting the edge of the case holding the robot. His vision went black as his head struck the metal corner.

Wanda screamed, the sound high pitched and desperate as she threw her powers around the cabin. Catching her teammates with her chaos magic, she prevented them from further injury.

“Stop the plane!” Thor turned toward Wanda, his eyes alight with terror. She had never seen the Asgardian look so frightened even after learning of Ultron’s ultimate plan. His jovial expression had vanished, his arm gripping the back of Tony’s chair until the leather ripped. The desperation in his face caused Wanda to regain her feet and throw another blast of magic around the plane in a protective shield. 

Wanda had just enough time to catch a glimpse outside the window. They were fast approaching the ground. Blue and gray clouds obscured the landscape but the plumes of smoke from the center continued to rise.They passed through the haze, plummeting faster and faster towards impact. Wanda let out a cry as her chaos magic almost failed her. She sank to the floor, the pressure on her skull too much to bear. 

The portal enveloped everything. The strikes of blue and purple lighting crashed across the skies. The atmosphere hovered, suffocating, as they careened into immediate darkness. Like a tentacle reaching up for its prey, the clouds coiled around the jet and pulled it into its belly. 

Amidst the chaos and Wanda’s scream of terror, Tony and Thor exchanged a look. Thor had Tony by the shoulder, holding onto his friend as they passed through the unknown mist. The look on Stark’s face sent shivers down Thor's spine. Even if Thor himself wasn’t as terrified as the rest– he had faced down many a portal leading to unknown waters in his day– he feared the fate of his friends more than himself. And yet, the expression on Tony’s face kept Thor awake many nights afterwards. 

Tony was ready to die.

His brown eyes lay closed in acceptance of his fate. What almost looked like a smile crossed his lips as the billionaire relaxed his hands on the motherboard and let the wind override his control. 

A crack appeared in the windshield before the entire jet went dark. Thor flew forward, striking his head on the pane of glass. It wasn’t near strong enough to knock him cold but his vision all but vanished. Thor twisted in his uncomfortable position to adjust his weight from digging into his shoulder.

The hum of Wanda’s chaos magic rang in his ears as the Asgardian felt a wave of vertigo overtake him. His legs gave way, his heavy chest slamming into the cockpit’s controls before he collapsed completely.

Chapter Text

Maedhros, the High King and eldest son of Feanor turned his steed to face the dawning sun. With a swift flick of his hand, he guided the animal down the woodland path.
His family crest clanked uncomfortably against his chest, stirring up bitter memories stained with blood. Maedhros shook his head, his long red hair cascading down his shoulders in a swell of liquid fire.

The Elf never grew weary of this solitude. With his kin squabbling like children, and trying to gain the advantage over Morgoth who was fast gathering his troops in the east, the dawn was his only escape. Maedhros knew it was unwise to ride alone in such times as these. The rate of elves who faded into the woods, never to return, grew as the years progressed.

He was no exception.

The stump where his hand used to be rested as a cruel and permanent reminder of Morgoth’s brutal methods of torture. As if summoned, the King’s old injury flared up, a dull ache spreading up his arm. It was strange– feeling pain in the absence of flesh. Lost in his thoughts, the King rode on, his sword clinking at his side with every stride. At the edge of the forest he halted, watching the great depths of the trees from a safe distance. They moved in and out like they were alive, twisting and curling in on themselves, an ever present mass of green.

Were they dying? Or was it just his imagination warping the pleasant color of life and transforming it into a twisted version of itself?

Maedhros shook the thought off and pulled at his steed’s reins. The horse followed its Master’s lead, turning from the yawning threat of the forest and toward the hills that led back home. Maedhros took the return journey slowly, enjoying the sights and sounds of the birds and meadow creatures. With his horse rounding the hill, Maedhros did not notice his scouts until they were almost upon him. 

“My Lord! There are intruders!” one of the Elves called out.

“Has the Black Enemy finally decided to strike?” Maedhros’ heart leapt into his throat, his hand clenching on the reins.

Oh to face his enemy in battle!

How Morgoth deserved to pay for all the lives he had destroyed, especially Maedhros’ own father! 

“Nay. A ship coated with starlight lies beyond the meadow. We have reason to believe the Men mean no harm but they carry weapons and refuse to surrender them.”
 
Maedhros took after the scout, curiosity at war with apprehension. 

Men? What were such mortals doing on his lands? Had they come with tides of Angband? Had Morgoth indeed decided to release his force onto the world of Arda?

The Elven King arrived at the scene, dismounting with the grace of someone with long years of practice. His robes billowed out behind him in the fresh air as he waved a hand at Celegorm, his younger brother. Sharing the abrasive nature of their father, Celegorm had almost unsheathed his sword as he stood with jaw clenched. Maedhros, meanwhile, stood with rapt attention, his sharp gaze raking over the intruder’s vessel.

A ship was the only word that came to Elf’s mind as he stared at the remarkable feat of craftsmanship. A ship it was indeed but instead of resting on the waters of the sea, it lay on dry ground with one side dipping towards the earth. Debris littered the ground, a testament to the fact that the ship had no doubt descended from the air like the Valar themselves. 

Maedhros gasped in admiration at the sight before him. How his father, Feanor, would have marveled at such feats of ingenuity. Curufin would sell one of the Silmaril's itself to stand in his brother’s place. The Elf composed himself for, as a King, he had to put his brother in his place. Celegorm’s hand had reached for his weapon. The Man facing him held his arms out in a gesture of annoyance. Clearly the situation had escalated and Maedhros did not relish the idea of burying another brother. He stepped in between the foes, resting his hand against Celegorm’s chest as a warning. 

For the first time, the King took in the fair haired stranger before them. He was tall, taller than Men, with thick locks of braided hair and an imposing figure. No Man carried such a build. The stranger’s gait betrayed his royal status, as did that red cloak draped around him. He clasped in his hand a hammer, much like the Dwarves’ craftsmanship, only this one was larger, stronger, and shone of unfamiliar metal. 

“Your Highness?” Celegorm asked in the Elvish tongue. The fair-haired Elf’s question fell upon deaf ears as the Man spoke. 

“What realm is this? Midgard? Vanaheim?” The stranger asked, using the common tongue. His voice echoed with richness and elegance.

Maedhros’ brows furrowed in confusion. 

“Realm? Pray I do not understand,” Maedhros raised his hand, ordering the Elves surrounding the party to lay aside their weapons. The rustle of bows returning to sides and arrows sliding off strings echoed in the gathering silence.

“Thor?” A unfamiliar voice sounded.

“Barton."

“Stark’s hurt pretty bad.” 

Sets of keen eyes turned to behold another stranger, this one clearly descended from the race of Men. His features bore the exhaustion of a weary soldier. With his face a pale hue and hands trying to hide their tremors, the Man stumbled out of the underbelly of the ship. Thor, for that was the name the other answered to, hurried to his companion’s side. Laying his arm across the other’s shoulder with a gentle tenderness that reminded Maedhros of him and his kin, Thor began to speak in a low and urgent voice. 

Maedhros signaled for the Elves to stand down. His cape swayed back and forth against the upcoming breeze as he crossed the small stretch of grass to where Thor, Barton, and another Man conversed. Maedhros overheard little of the conversation, the words and phrases of the strangers known only to themselves.

“Where the hell are we, Thor?”

“Is this Ultron’s doing? Are the Chitauri back? What’s going on? Who the hell sent us here!”

“No, this land is old. I feel it in the air, my friends. We might do some good in befriending the locals,”

“Are you crazy? We don’t know them! Let’s just keep our distance till we fix the engine and maybe the psycho alien race with a medieval fetish won’t burn us at the stake!” The third Man, Banner, pulled on Thor’s cape to emphasize his point. 

Thor’s position must not be so highly as Maedhros previously thought for no Man could speak to royalty in such fashion without expecting grave consequences. What surprised Maedhros even more than the disregard for royal status was the response that Thor gave his friend. Rather than turn on him in righteous anger, the Man simply rested his hand on his companion's shoulder. 

“It’ll be alright, Banner. They don’t seem hostile and trust me, I’ve dealt with worse. Remember Loki?”

“Screw it! I’d rather deal with your psychotic schemer of a brother than end up some alien’s hostage!”

Maedhros took this chance to speak aloud.

“Is your party in need of assistance? Speak plainly. Do you mean to threaten us or do you come in peace?”

The High King laid his hand on his blade in an act that clearly stated that violence on his lands would not be tolerated. His fist closed over the ornate crest bearing his family’s line and a sudden pride in his lineage stirred in his heart. The sounds of metal scraping against metal caused Maedhros’ party of Elves to redraw their bows and aim them with deadly intent at the intruders. The tension cracked in the air as the Elves were wary of the craft that had carried the intruders to their lands.

Thor simply raised his hand.

“We are not your enemies, Highness,” Thor explained. “We mean you no harm. We are simply stranded, I fear. My companions are in urgent need of rest and care.”

The jet’s hydraulics slowly lowered the craft to the ground. Doing so exposed the internal area of the ship, causing Maedhros to wonder where in Arda these Men had originated from to craft such a beautiful vessel. 

Another figure emerged from the ship’s depths. A maiden appeared, clad in cloth that stretched so tight across her skin that Maedhros had to avert his eyes. Her beauty was that of the elven maidens of old, her hair red and wavy, her lips soft. She emerged with a confident gait, albeit wary of the Elves positioned in a half circle around her ship. 

“Where are we?”

Banner shrugged. 

“I do not know,” Thor answered the woman. 

“Come with me. Your party is welcome in my halls.” Maedhros felt himself struck with a sudden urge to invite the foreigners into his bosom. 

“What is your number so that I may prepare a place for you?” Maedhros inquired as he ordered a nearby Elf to return to his palace, prepare for a feast, and await the arrival of the visitors. The guard nodded before mounting a horse and vanishing over the hill. 

“There are nine of us but some need medical attention,” The woman spoke for Thor who had accepted Maedhros’ offer with a grateful nod. 

“We will dine in your halls tonight if it pleases you,” The fair-haired Man spoke up. “I am Thor, Son of Odin and Prince of Asgard. This is Doctor Banner and The Black Widow,”

“Natasha Romanoff,” Natasha corrected Thor, giving Maedhros a brief glance. 

“You said there were nine of you,” Maedhros pressed. 

The bowels of the ship had not yet emptied. Out of the blackness that flickered with lantern light, limped more of the strange company. Wounds shown fresh on their faces and the daze of battle still dulled many of their eyes. Amidst the rest of the company, Maedhros took note of a strange sight. One of the men, a soldier by the way he carried himself, stood out from the rest. Like the descendants of Beor, his hair hung limp in front of his face, his eyes fixed permanently to the ground as if accustomed to tracking prey. What caught the King’s attention wasn’t his familiar mannerisms however, but his left arm. His left arm was coated in metal, the plates sliding in and out of each other like pieces of armor. A mechanical sound emanated from the false limb every time the Man shifted. 

The party was unlike anything the Elves were familiar with. As they made their way back across the landscape and toward Maedhros’ palace, Maedhros took special note of the rest of the company. Years of war and treachery had taught him to pay close attention to any member of his party who appeared off, for they could be hiding traitorous thoughts in their heart with intentions to act upon them. 
 
The Man with the missing arm– Bucky as he heard another address him, walked in stride with the other carrying a star embroidered on his chest. The natural closeness the two shared reminded Maedhros with a pang of sadness of his and Fingon’s close relationship. Maedhros discovered that Bucky’s companion held the rank of leader of the company. What position he could hold that was above the rank of Prince, Maedhros had little idea. Perhaps the “Captain” as the others preferred to call him, was a King of a race of Men whose hair they kept short and whose shoulders stood broader than his own. 

Another man with skin as rich as the bark of the forest, kept in close proximity with the former. He strode alongside the Captain but there was a tension between him and Bucky that even Maedhros caught wind of. The two shared the same animosity that Curufin and Caranthir carried. The thinly veiled threats and vague dislike emanating from them both was enough to make Maedhros almost smile at the fond memories of him and his brothers. 

Natasha was not the only maiden present. Another fair lady walked among them, this one far younger and with eyes smeared with a strange substance which darkened her complexion. She wore an elaborate array of jewelry such as the maidens in Fingon’s territory but upon closer inspection, Maedhros could tell the jewels held little value. 

Two more Men Maedhros counted.

Barton, an archer much like the Elves themselves, only this his bow was overlaid with metal and foreign works of machinery. He carried his weapon strapped to his back with a full quiver of arrows and refused to part with them no matter how hard The Captain begged him to leave them behind. The last member was the one Banner had spoken of earlier. Out of all the party, each showed visible signs of a recent battle but none were more prevalent than the last Man. Tony– for that was what The Captain referred to him as, lay unconscious in Thor’s arms as the Prince carried him on a seemingly difficult journey without physical strain.

Tony’s head was wrapped in a cloth but that didn’t stop the blood from leaking into his hair. The way the party treated their Tony reminded Maedhros too much of his youngest brother, Amrod, who had perished in the burning of the ships. This uncomfortable reminder kept the King from speaking to Thor even as questions about the territory of Asgard and if Thor’s allegiances probed his mind. 

“Are you the leader of this realm?” Maedhros’ attempts to avoid Thor due to the unpleasant memories were futile as the golden haired Man seemed eager to converse. 

“That position is unfortunately delegated to the Black Enemy of the East who I am sure none of you harbor sympathies for,” Maedhros narrowed his eyes at the company as Celegorm shifted beside him, eager for conflict. 

“Do they not look like spies? Sent out from the towers of Angband to scout out our lands?”

“Stand down, brother. I do agree they are strange, but spies are hardly the conclusion to draw without further evidence. Besides, no creature of Morgoth cares for their own. That is not their way.”

“All the same, keep an eye on them.”

“Have you forgotten who is in authority over these lands? In case it slipped your feeble mind, Celegorm, it is I who decides who is fit to reside in my halls. Let me lead my own people and if I need your guidance, I will ask.”

Celegorm lowered his gaze, ashamed at being ridiculed by the king in front of his own men. Thor watched the interaction unfold, his head tilted to the side as if he were trying to recall something that fled his mind. 

“The Black Enemy?” The Captain spoke up. 

“Yes. The Foe that wages war on our lands without end. The one who smote my father and the one who is responsible for much, if not all, of the suffering in Beleriand.”

“Beleriand? Thor, does that ring a bell?” The Captain asked.

“It does not.”

“Pray tell, Thor, Prince of Asgard, are you descended from the race of Men?”

Thor chuckled heartily, his behavior growing more and more similar to the Dwarves in the Iron Hills rather than the Children of Illuvatar. He shifted Tony, now beginning to wake in the great Man’s arms, and handed his limp form to The Captain. 

“No, I am no Man. The eldest Son of Odin, Prince of Asgard, and God of Thunder is at your service,” He looked at Maedhros, expecting to receive an answer or perhaps an exchange of his own title. 

“Neylafinwe Maitimo Russandol, ruler over the Territory of the Sons of Feanor at your service,” Maedhros ignored the snort from Sam at the mention of his full title. Sam and Bucky, the Captain’s closest companions, walked behind the Elven King, snickering to each other.

Curious as to what language these men used, Maedhros focused on the exchange of words between the two rather than Thor's inquiry of the Black Enemy. There would be more than enough time to discuss Morgoth and his plans. 

“What the hell kinda name is that?”

“He’s a King, you asshole.”

“Yeah, I know, but I don’t go around calling myself,” — here Bucky struck a dramatic pose — “James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th Battalion, formerly the Winter Soldier and now stranded in the Stone Age,”

Sam guffawed and shoved Bucky aside. Maedhros caught sight of Steve attempting to repress a smile but there was one member of the company who found the pair’s antics to be anything but amusing. 

“Shut it you two!” Natasha snapped with venom strong enough to fell a Balrog. Sam and Bucky fell silent, subdued at the woman’s harsh voice. 

Soon the strong towers of Maedhros’ abode appeared. They rose out of the natural fields, not overtaking them with harsh metal and iron, but complimenting them in ways that only an Elvish craftsman could achieve. The villa stretched high, offering protection from the darker parts of the forest but the fortress could not shield them forever. As they entered to the sound of the trumpet and lyre, signaling the King’s return, a messenger approached the King. 

“The tables are set and the guests’ quarters are prepared. Anything else for you, my Lord?”

“Take a company with you and ride to the land of Fingolfin and inform him of our guests. Do not mention this to anyone else, not even Lord Fingon. Go. I expect you to return by tomorrow's eve.”

Maedhros turned to Steve who still held Tony in his arms. 

“Take your friend to the healers. No doubt he will be confused when he awakes so I suggest one of you stay. If you do not mind, there is a feast prepared where we can drink, be merry, and I can see you have quite a tale to tell."

Steve took the Elven King’s advice, following one of his servants with Natasha and Banner on his heels. Before he departed, Steve whispered to Thor in hushed tones, so low the King remained ignorant of the conversation. In response, Thor gave his Captain a grave nod before clapping Steve on the shoulder.

“Now, Let us feast.”

Chapter Text

“Another!” Thor threw down a goblet of fine wine, smashing it into bits of fragments. The Elves flinched at the sudden noise but Thor’s company merrily laughed the incident off.
Clint, the archer and the one whom Natasha seemed especially close to, threw a grape at Thor. It bounced off the Thor’s spaulder, causing the Prince to guffaw loudly. 

“This beats your Midgardian pizza, doesn’t it, Barton?” 

“It’s not bad,” Clint tapped his temple. “Soon as we get the engine up and running, it’s homeward bound. But in the meantime, I could get used to this.”

“Feet off the table, Clint. Now. We are guests, not savages,” 

“Sorry, Tasha,”

“Have you forgotten about Ultron? We need to find a way home and find it fast,” Natasha set her wine glass down. "He’s causing all manner of chaos and if we do not hurry, then I fear there will be no home to return to.” 

“What land do you heir from?” Maedhros asked the company. “I have never seen attire like your own and forgive me, if I do not recognize your family crest.”

With the King seated at the head of the table, he was fully aware of Natasha kicking Clint hard beneath the elegant furniture. He wondered at the behavior of the men so unlike the Sons of Beor. The behaviors of the women puzzled him even more as he continued to watch them throughout the feast. He found himself drawn to Natasha’s rough nature, similar to that of his own cousin, Adrehel. Caught up in thought, Maedhros struggled to discern her role in the company. Maedhros blinked, returning the present as Thor grabbed another piece of meat— he had already consumed far more than even the Dwarves could handle. The fair-haired Prince set aside his hammer from which he had still to part with, and began their tale.

Maedhros listened in wonder as Thor explained his lineage. Thor was no Man. He was indeed an heir to the throne of Asgard. Passing over the subject briefly, the Prince explained in great detail the circumstances which landed the Avengers in Beleriand. Maedhros understood little of Ultron, the Chitari, and various other threats that sounded far too similar to the looming presence of Morgoth, but the King found that he and the Avengers were not that different. 

“To what do you avenge?” The High King asked. 

“Our home. To defend those who cannot defend themselves and protect the world from outside threats and those inside,” Thor responded, ignoring Sam and Bucky’s amused chuckles.
 
“That is a noble cause,” Maedhros nodded assent.

“Which is why we need to return home as soon as possible. Ultron– the latest in a long line of threats– is growing more dangerous by the day. We are the suit of armor around the world as Stark likes to put it and the longer we are gone, the more Midgard is in danger,”

“Your ship? Is that your only means of escape?”

“Yes. Hiemdall cannot reach this far out or otherwise we would be long gone. But the engine is down and from what I can tell, there is no access to electricity or means to power the jet. Then again, I am not well versed in the technology of Midgard. Stark is however, although he is with the Healers at the moment.”

The Captain, Steve, cast a worried glance over his shoulder, locking eyes with Banner. Both shared unspoken concern over Stark.

Maedhros, meanwhile, continued conversing with Thor.

“I can offer assistance if need be but forgive me if I am unable to help at this time. We are no more closer to defeating Morgoth than we were three hundreds years ago but we cannot abandon the quest to see evil driven from these lands.”

“Morgoth? I’ve heard you mention him before. Who is he?” Natasha spoke up. 

Maedhros let out a small laugh of disbelief. Even if the Avengers lived far beyond the borders of his territory, perhaps even in the wild and untamed East, word of Morgoth had spread far beyond the boundaries of space and time. Knowing the imminent threat of the fallen Valar came as natural as breathing for every living creature. Since the ignorance of the Avengers ran deeper than he imagined, Maedhros spun a tale that could rival even Thor’s. Thor listened, nodding with understanding as if he had dealt with some similar force in his home country.

By the time Maedhros finished recounting the death of his father the sun had traveled east, perching above the restless company’s heads. Natasha elbowed Clint in the ribs, earning a grunt and sudden twitch from the preciously dozing archer. Sam’s head leaned back, his features relaxed from either slumber or his third glass of wine.

Of course they are impatient. Men seldom understand the length of an Elf’s attention span, especially when stories were concerned. How my brothers and I used to spend hours every night, recounting the adventures shared with our kin.
Before the dark times.
Before the kinslaying.

Maedhros placed his elegant hands on the table’s edge, a universal signal.

“I have detained you for far too long. Come, you will learn all there is to know about Morgoth in due time. For now, rest and make yourselves at home. I must attend to pressing matters.” 

Maedhros glided out the dining hall, his robes billowing behind him in the high noon air. The Avengers may have been an unexpected presence, but he was still a king with an awaiting kingdom. 

“Your Highness?” 

Maedhros half turned to see a servant flying down the nearest hall. He stopped in front of his king, countenance determined. Whatever plagued the servant’s eyes rendered him speechless even as Maedhros questioned him. 

“Did Fingon send word? Is the Enemy approaching? Speak!” 

The servant composed himself enough to manage a nod.

“Fingon has heeded your call to arms. He will fight.”

Chapter Text

The following morning, Thor and Wanda approached the fallen aircraft, eager to ensure their cargo’s safety. The team had mutually agreed that the ones with innate powers should, in fact, be the ones venturing beyond Maedhros’ Elven haven. Entering before the Prince, Wanda rushed to the synthetic humanoid, laying her bejeweled hands upon its containment. She already felt a strange connection to the lifeless form but the sooner they destroyed it, the better. As a matter of fact, the sooner they returned to Earth, the better. 

She froze. 

A figure stood, features barely discernible in wake of the yawning shadow. 

“What is it?” Thor pushed by her, throwing Wanda off balance with his larger frame. In another situation, Thor would have spent the rest of the week profusely apologizing for his clumsiness. Yet now, he went rigid, holding his arm out protectively to shield Wanda from their unwanted visitor.

“By Odin’s beard! How?”

Wanda’s fingers tensed, predicting what her body failed to respond to. The intruder reacted instantly, striking Wanda with a red rippling blast, similar to her own. Wanda flew out of the ship and crashed to the ground, rolling over in the grass. Her head spun, her palm pressing against bruised ribs. She lay at an awkward angle, her hair obscuring her face as she fought to catch her breath.

The ground rumbled with Thor’s bellowed shout. A shattering of glass accompanied Thor’s booming voice. Someone else, someone with a sleek and calmer tone retaliated in response. Jagged peaks of lightning split the sky, thunder booming in its wake. 

Wanda pushed herself off the ground, her knees skinned to bloody bits. She let her hand fall from her side, her ribs aching. Shaking the tangled locks of hair out of her face, Wanda staggered to her feet and called out for the Prince of Asgard. Thor tumbled to the ground, nearly falling out of the jet. He leaped up almost immediately despite the fact that his head had smashed into one of the metal controls. A blow like that on a lesser being would have rendered them unconscious, possibly dead. 

A blue glow emanated from deep within the jet. Wanda rushed up to Thor, letting out a blast of chaos magic that pulled the cargo from its resting place. It tumbled out with a resounding clang onto the soft earth. Wanda threw her legs over the synthetic’s container and joined Thor in facing down whoever had tried to steal Ultron’s vibranium body. 

“Loki! Stand down! It’s me!” Thor shouted.

“Loki?” Wanda grabbed Thor’s arm. Thor’s brother, Loki, the one responsible for the raid on New York and the one who had inadvertently gifted her her powers.

Loki was here? In Beleriand? But how?
 
“How are you still alive, brother? I saw you die!” Thor’s voice hitched with pain and Wanda saw etched in his face the same affection she shared with her twin, Pietro.  

“Yes, I died. Defending you and that woman. You should know me by now, brother. The God of Mischief? How did you not see it coming?”

“Loki, Loki listen to me,” Thor began, holding his hands out in a gesture of hesitant, yet hopeful peace. 

Wanda looked between the two Asgardians, feeling a sense of dread rise in her chest. Something wasn’t right. She had little knowledge of who Loki truly was, besides the fact that he had unleashed the Chitaru onto New York. She barely knew of his relationship with Thor. Somehow, the man with the slick black hair and shrewd expression shouldn’t be related to the jovial prince she was so well acquainted with. 

Loki shouldn’t be here.

None of them should, but him least of all.

Hadn’t he returned to Asgard to face punishment? If so, then why was he here on this strange land, coincidentally the same land the Avengers had crashed into not a day before? 

“Thor?”

Wanda tried to get his attention but the Prince was focused solely on his brother. Gripping his hammer in his right hand, Thor held the other up in a defensive position as he walked toward Loki. The other man slipped further into the shadows, only the glint of his eyes signaling he still remained in the ship’s belly. The creak of metal sounded as Thor stepped onto the landing pad, calling out to Loki once more.

This time his voice carried a hint of worry. 

“Loki, what happened to you, brother?” 

Loki chuckled, the laugh tapering off into a wheeze. Wanda watched, wide eyed and struggling to decide whether she should use her powers to rescue Thor or turn her magic on the God of Mischief. Something whispered to her deep in her mind that she would stand no chance against Loki, no matter how weakened he was.

She refused to bow to the doubts. Just as Thor cried out in pain and she heard the echo of a large body striking the metal deck, Wanda unleashed her chaos magic. She threw the red flames into the ship, coiling them around Loki, forcing him away from Thor. 

Wanda’s bravery was her mistake.

Barely able to grasp the beginning of what Hydra had infused her with, Wanda carried little knowledge of her ability. She also had little understanding of the level of strength Loki carried or how well versed he was in the arts of magic. 

Loki broke away from her bonds with little effort. From out of his hands shot green fire, entangling Wanda in its grip. She cried out in shock, as the spells pinned her arms to her sides. Loki towered over her but as Wanda neared his face, she caught sight of a faint ripple of pain scouring his features.

Something was hurting him. 

“So this is the little witch?” Wanda had never heard Loki’s voice up until a few minutes ago. His pitch was deep and guttural, a snarl more than the voice of royalty.

She found herself trembling, wishing he would speak to her in the same likeness he had to Thor. The green flames flickered, highlighting her face with its sickly hue. With the added light, Wanda was finally able to stare her captor in the face. Loki’s eyes were sunken deep holes where no light penetrated. His hair, unwashed and slicked with grease, fell down his forehead in tangled curls. He looked beyond exhausted. 

Wanda’s gaze flicked from Loki whose hand twisted in the folds of her jacket, to Thor. Thor had extracted himself from the ship, limping down the hydraulic bridge. He winced while pulling a blade out from between his ribs. It clattered to the floor, letting out a soft clang as metal hit metal. Thor pressed a hand to his side, blood dripping from the folds of his armor. 

“Loki, let her go. Your quarrel is with me.” 

“I cannot. He calls for her. I must not offend him. Not this time.” 

Loki’s voice shook. Whether from fear or exhaustion, Wanda could not tell. As he spoke, he turned his head toward Thor, almost in slow motion. Thor stumbled the rest of his way to the ground. 

“Who do you speak of? Thanos? Loki, you need not do his bidding!” 

Loki laughed dryly. 

“I wish that were so, brother,”

“We’ll figure a way out of this, we always have. Come home, we need you. I—” 

“Enough!” 

Loki screamed, finally snapping. 

As Thor continued to speak, Wanda felt Loki growing more and more tense. She tried to wriggle free, to signal to Thor to tell him to stop— anything to prevent the inevitable.

But her efforts were in vain. 

Loki’s animalistic snarl was enough to cause Thor to back away, steps hesitant and unsure. Thor’s eyes went wide in concern. Wanda gasped in pain as Loki’s skin heated up to a point that it burned. In a flash, Loki wrapped an arm around Wanda’s waist. He leaped toward the fallen case still holding Ultron’s body, and disappeared into a bluish purple portal.

Much like the one that carried the Avengers to Beleriand, this gateway appeared out of nowhere, swallowing Loki and his captive before melting into the aether.

Chapter Text

“Will Tony be alright?” Clint asked, stopping Steve outside the healing room, hand on the Captain’s shoulder. 

“He’ll be fine,” Steve pursed his lips. “The shock hit him pretty hard so he’s a little out of it. But then again, aren’t we all?”

“Now I know how you felt coming out of the ice,” Clint chuckled humorlessly. Steve smiled wryly. Clapping the archer on the shoulder, the Captain left him with Bruce who had refused to leave his friend’s side. As Steve descended the elegant staircase, marveling at the handiwork of the Elves, he heard distant commotion coming from the courtyard. Picking up the pace, Steve hurried the rest of the way, pausing only to slip his shield from where it hung on his back to a battle ready position.

Steve burst into the tree-lined canopy. 

Thor landed in the dust, flowers and bushes bending against the onslaught of the wind accompanying his landing. He pushed past the confused and frightened Elves, going so far as to physically shove Celegorm out of the way as he rushed to Steve. 

“Thor? What is it? Where’s Wanda?” Steve spoke in a steady, calm voice, knowing the last thing the Avengers needed was their leader’s panic. Fear’s icy claw wrapped invisibly around Steve’s chest, sending a spike of adrenaline fueled dread into him.

Thor grasped Steve’s forearm, his grip unusually tight, blue eyes wide with barely restrained panic.

“Loki. He’s here. Only it isn’t Loki, is it? Something Dark is in these lands, Captain. It took Wanda. It took Ultron. Whatever it is…whatever Loki’s in, I-I don’t know—” Thor trailed off, his ragged breathing eased by Steve’s heavy hand coming to his shoulder. 

Maedhros rushed forward, joining the two Avengers. He held his hand up to stop his fellow Elves from firing on Thor. Thor’s flight had clearly unnerved them to a point they felt it was necessary to draw their weapons. Thor paid them no mind, turning to Maedhros with a desperate expression in his clear eyes. 

“What is that thing? It was…but it wasn’t…my brother.”

“What you saw was the Black Enemy’s strongest servant, Sauron,” Maedhros spoke gravely. “He is the Lord of Werewolves, right hand to Morgoth, who’s lair is the Isle of Werewolves. I had hoped that none of you would encounter him as he is a master of lies and deception. Who you saw, Thor, was not your brother. Sauron takes many forms and when seducing his victims, often takes the shape of the ones you love most,” 

Maedhros paused for a second, his expression going blank. Steve didn’t need to inquire– he knew on a deeper level than most that the Elven King had had some form of encounter with the sorcerer. Perhaps that was the reason for his missing limb and scars stretching the length of his elegant face. 

“Is it trickery? A play of the mind?” Thor needed, no, craved reassurance that his brother was not responsible for Wanda’s kidnapping. Even Steve, with his limited encounters with the God of Mischief, didn’t believe Loki to be capable of such levels of depravity. 

“Sauron knows you are here, which stands to reason that Morgoth will hunt you down with all the forces of Angband at his disposal. You are not safe here, I fear. Follow me. We must take council and decide on a path forward before that wretched creature returns.”

.
.
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Steve, Thor, and Maedhros sat around a high table, discussing in low voices their plan of action. Maedhros briefed the others on Sauron’s level of strength and will. 

“He is beyond anything in this world. Second only to the Dark Lord Himself, few can resist his gaze,” Maedhros met his companion’s gazes before his voice dropped. “Very few.” 

“He cannot be anything worse than Loki. I have dealt with many a trickster in my day– I was raised with one. If he is nothing more than a sorcerer, then this may not be as difficult as I imagined.” Thor insisted. Despite the panic brought on from earlier, The Prince of Asgard’s expression remained proud, his hands flexing with purpose.

“Do you intend to face him?” Maedhros asked, barley containing a scoff. 

Steve watched in silence, unsure of his own position. 

“I have my hammer. The God of Thunder does not bow to mere sorcerers,” Thor seemed indignant, his old arrogance creeping in.

“Sauron is no mere sorcerer. I fear you underestimate his power,” 

“Maybe. If so, then he is no match for the Son of Odin,”

“You are treading on dangerous waters, mellon nin,” Maedhros responded, holding his hand, palm out, as a warning. “I have been down this path. Do not underestimate the Enemy’s strength. There is too much at stake,”

“I do not ask you to send any of your men, Your Highness. I will go alone,”
“You can’t be serious, Thor,” Steve finally interjected. The talk of magic, wizards, and far off lands with overlords was too much for the super soldier to understand. Seated in a room with two kings, both equally powerful and influential, Steve felt in the presence of giants.

Still, when the Captain raised his voice, the royals turned to look at him with a strange admiration that sent shivers down his spine.

Perhaps he did have a voice here, even if Thor chose to completely ignore his advice. 

“You can’t be serious,” Steve repeated.

“I have never been more serious, Captain. I thank the gods no technology exists here capable of rebooting Ultron. We would be, if I may use Miguard’s language, ‘thoroughly screwed.’ But that does not negate the fact we have a friend and teammate possibly in life threatening danger. If the young Maximoff needs us, then it is my task to rescue her. I do not ask you to join me in this quest,”

Steve angled his chair towards his friend, his shield digging into his left shoulder. He knew it was a useless endeavor to sway Thor when the Prince had his heart set on something. The slight panic he felt at imagining Wanda’s situation didn’t help him either in making rational decisions. Thor narrowed his gaze, determined. Steve sighed inwardly. His only option was to send the Prince off with a word or two of more than likely, unheeded advice.

“If it gets to be too much then by all means, abandon the mission,” Steve laid his hand on Thor’s shoulder. “We do not need two lives in jeopardy. The only thing I can say is that—” 

Steve broke off as Tony slammed open the doors to their private chamber. 

Maedhros’ hand went instantly for his sword but the Avengers didn’t notice. They took note of Tony’s lack of a bandage around his head, the ugly wound still fresh for everyone to see. Tony’s hands gripped the side of the door so hard his knuckles showed white. His eyebrows raised slightly at the sight of Maedhros, a look of impressed awe flashing briefly. 

“Making plans without me are you, Point Break?”

“I have no time for your jokes, Stark.” 

With a swish of his red cape, Thor stood from the table, thanked Maedhros with a hearty Asgardian salute, and stalked from the room. Tony called after him, asking in a panicked voice what was going on but Thor had already vanished.

“I will be back by tomorrow eve, if not sooner!” His booming voice echoed throughout the halls of the Elven King. 

“Thor is reckless. Like my father,” Maedhros mused to himself. 

He watched as Steve hurried over to Tony where the two conversed softly together. Tony started with surprise. 

“Loki? Here? That son of a—” Tony’s speech devolved into unknown words and phrases of which Maedhros assumed to be oaths in his own tongue. Steve leaned against the other door, taking no heed of the graceful swipes of ornate carvings his shield currently marred. Allowing his head to rest on the door, Steve closed his eyes as Tony continued to ramble with indignation. 

Maedhros had long since tuned the pair out. He sat in silence, undoing a clasp of his armor. The red fabric fell away on his right forearm to reveal scarred and burned flesh.

He had been so helpless.

So vulnerable.

So unlike the High King he was today.

Would that be Thor’s fate?

Maedhros could not comprehend why he cared for the strange visitor so much. Were they too similar? Did Maedhros see himself in that wild, arrogant, and reckless fool? Would it be decades before he heard of the grisly death that would befall the golden haired warrior? Would Thor perish in Sauron’s caverns, his latch ditch attempts at saving his teammate ending in tragedy? Maedhros shivered at the thought of Thor or Wanda sharing his own fate. 

“If he does not return within the fortnight, I will send a party after him.” Maedhros announced to no one but himself.

The thought of wasting his soldiers on a futile rescue mission for a stranger he met that morning didn’t sit well with him.

And yet, the idea of leaving Thor and Wanda to die unsettled him even more.

Chapter Text

Wanda woke to the sound of screams.

Lifting her head up from its cramped position, she took in the horrid sight. Wanda’s wrists ached from their restraints, cold iron chains. She lay surrounded on every side by hot metal furnaces. Buckets of red hot lava poured into molds, shaping and designing every jagged weapon imaginable. The clang of hammers hitting metal— a monotonous and never ending noise, fell on her eardrums at a wrong angle. She winced at every fall of the twisted clubs striking newly formed swords. 

The bellowing of thick, black smoke sent tears trickling down her face from where it invaded her vision. No matter how hard Wanda blinked, smoke still crept into her eyes, blinding her. Everywhere she looked, whenever she could escape from the smoke, creatures ducked in and out of the caverns. They walked bowlegged, almost on their hands and knees. Snarling animalistic growls tore from their throats, their speech so garbled it barely resembled civilized communication. Egged on by stronger, more hearty beings with whips at their belts, the lowly servants continued to slave at the iron. 

The misery of the creatures was the last thing on Wanda’s mind, however.

Her instincts screamed at her to escape— to flee. Every second spent in this nightmarish hellhole was a second her sanity began to slip. Already her will weakened, breaking underneath the oppressive cloud that seeped into every crevice of this hellish prison. Wanda’s chains dug into her wrists, so tight they cut off the circulation to her arms. Her jacket was torn, offering little protection from the sparks that floated mercilessly through the room. Already many lighted upon her skin, searing it with heat. She fought the urge to wriggle and scream every time a spark landed on her exposed flesh. 

Wanda’s attention shifted away from her own misery as she noticed a commotion at the far end of the massive expanse.

A fight had broken out between several of the small misshapen creatures. They squabbled and fought, their high pitched voices bouncing off the walls and into Wanda’s ears. She winced at the penetrating intensity of the unnatural noise, wondering if it was possible for them to utter intelligent language. The ground shook beneath the slaves’ feet. Wanda felt the vibrations rattle her chains as something emerged from the deeper darker parts of the pit. Wanda barely held back a scream. The creatures themselves scattered, terror written on their deformed faces as a huge lumbering beast, far greater than any on earth, swung a massive sword, knocking servants left and right. Wanda heard the sounds of metal hitting flesh, the squelch of creatures ripped open. She closed her eyes against the ruthless violence.

A thought came to her. 

They were distracted, weren’t they?

No one took notice of Wanda carefully using her chaos magic to pop the metal from her wrists. The clang was nothing in comparison to the commotion as the lumbering monster snarled in a language that made the girl’s head throb. It took little effort on her part to free herself from the chains and she was well versed in ducking through shadows. Arming herself with a small dagger she swiped off a nearby bench while its occupant was distracted, Wanda crept through the dungeon. Terrified at what might happen if she were discovered, Wanda made sure to keep to the darkness. All around her, the black hovered like a permanent cloud, broken occasionally by the fires of the deep. In retrospect, the darkness was her saving grace as she crept along in absolute silence. 

The doorway shone like a lighthouse amidst a turbulent ocean. Wanda, with her back against the wall, began to shuffle towards the looming columns. Two gangly creatures, eerily similar to the likeness of Elves, stood in between her and freedom.

Wanda took a deep breath, steadying herself.

I’ve killed before. I can do it again.

The thought didn’t bother her as much as it should have, especially when it was necessary for survival. With little thought, Wanda plunged her dagger into the nearest the second it turned its back towards her. Its companion shouted a warning cry but was cut off as Wanda wrapped the tendrils of her chaos magic around its throat, lifting it into the air. She brought it down to the earth with a snap of its wretched neck, strangely feeling nothing at the sight of the twisted bodies beneath her. 

Hurrying out of the dungeon, Wanda chose a random direction and bolted for her life. Down the greenish hue of the fortress’ lower dwellings she ran, not bothering to collect the knife from her fallen victim. With her powers acting as lights, she tried to avoid looking at the bones littering the walls. Whatever lived here was far from benevolent.

The taste of death was in her mouth, the floor littered with an uncomfortable layer of sludge. Wanda slipped, the black sediment staining her shoes. A wolf’s distant howl caused the skin on the back of her neck to prickle. Wanda blinked, skidding to a halt and grasping the edges of the moist stone, her chest heaving.

For a second, she could have sworn she spotted one of Hydra’s agents– Sitwell—if she remembered correctly. The bald head and glasses appeared at the edge of her vision. Only when she jerked her head toward it violently, did it dissolve into mist. She caught her breath, igniting the her chaos magic around her like a protective shield. As if her meager enhancement could protect her in such a place. 

A terrified sob threatened to claw from her throat. Wanda was panicking, the shock of the situation finally sinking in. The fluttering of her heart was bad enough but when her fingers brushed the side of the wall and she felt the hard surface of exposed bone, it was too much. Wanda doubled over, emptying the contents of her stomach onto the putrid floor. The awful splattering sounds her vomit made on the molded stones prompted her to wrench herself away. Stumbling blindly through the labyrinth, Wanda feared for her life in the worst way possible. A sob escaped her throat, a ragged and desperate plea for anyone— anything familiar to come to her aid. Even Sitwell seemed a saving grace in these dungeons. 

Turning down a tight bend that forked off unexpectedly from the tunnel, Wanda crouched in an enclosed space. It was barely able to hold her small frame but she took refuge with a grateful heart, tucking her knees to her chest. 

“Pietro? Where are you?” She sobbed in Sokovian. 

Why did I ever leave his side?

“Wanda?” 

Her head shot up, the her skull colliding with the back wall. Wanda hissed in pain, rubbing the tender area. Her hand came away with bits of sludge clinging to her skin. She wiped it down her dress, no longer caring if she made contact with the strange substance. 

“Wanda?” 

The call came again. This time in Sokovian. 

“Pietro?” 

Her shout sounded desperate and beyond hope. A feeble cry amidst the blackest night. Wanda clamped a hand over her mouth for fear of the creatures hearing her. Once again the call came, overriding all sense of judgment as Wanda took off towards the voice. 

If Loki was here then how improbable would it be that her brother was here as well?

The sight of pale hair was all Wanda needed to begin sprinting after Pietro. Calling out his name in her native tongue, Wanda paid no mind to where she ran. She could be running in an open meadow, a distant field for all she cared. Her brother was the end goal. All that mattered was for her to end up in his arms, safe at last. 

Wanda scarcely noticed the floor gradually turning from rotting sewage to smooth tile. Her boots slammed against the ground, echoes which resounded across the fortress. All the while, she kept her gaze fixed forever on the fleeting sight of Pietro, turning and twisting, ever in the shadows. With his speed enhancement, he should have outrun her before she even took off, but every time he dipped out of sight, he returned. Always calling her name. 

Wanda skidded to a stop, almost tumbling into a raised column as she neared the end of her race. 

Pietro was standing there, unmoving. His back was to her, his shoulders at an awkward angle. It was an unnatural position but the eerie situation escaped Wanda’s scrutiny as her eagerness to reunite with her brother trumped all rationale. 

“Pietro?”

No response.

Wanda pushed through the pain in her side. She almost tripped over her feet, she was so eager to reach her brother. She laid a hand on his shoulder, ready to berate him about fleeing from her when she had been trapped in such darkness. 

Her touch caused Pietro to freeze instantly, as if he had been shot.

It all happened without warning. 

One minute Wanda was standing, frightened but relieved at finding her brother in the same predicament as herself and the next she was lying prone on the ground with a distorted creature resembling a wolf leaning over her. Her reaction came not as a scream but as an instant explosion of her powers. The wolf had been standing over her with one paw pressed on her torso, pinning her to the marble floor. It snarled inches from her face, slobber dripping out of the terrible creature’s mouth and coating Wanda’s tattered rags. 

In an instant, Wanda threw the wolf across the room. Wanda’s terror came in a flash of red flame, exploding out of her hands as she hurled her attacker away from her. The wolf’s bones cracked with the force of the impact, a yelp of pain escaping its muzzle. Wanda whirled around, eyes alight with red, all thought vanishing from her rational mind. Her vision filled with the same color coiling and twisting from her hands. Red hovered at the edges of her sight as tunnel vision invaded her mind.

The man pretending to be Pietro— he was a liar. A fraud. What had he done to Wanda’s real brother?

Was Pietro trapped in one of his sick, twisted cells, forced to watch the horrific mockery of living beings? Wanda’s fear for own safety as well as her brother’s sent a bolt of red magic directly towards the imposter. Thunder rumbled behind her, an ominous sign of the Sorcerer’s guards rushing to his aid. Sure enough, a guard barely entered the cavern when a scream erupted from the girl’s throat. She whirled around, hurling her chaos magic toward the creature with all her might, knocking it to the ground where it lay, stunned.

“Impressive,” A soft voice, smooth as a snake’s, breathed down her neck, although the man still stood several feet away. 

Wanda turned her rage onto the imposter, marching toward him with purpose. She stopped, all fear leaving her as she stepped further and further into the role of the Witch. Her terror had turned into anger, leaving behind the shell of Wanda and birthing forth the Scarlet Witch. 
Despite being a full head and shoulders shorter than the sorcerer, Wanda gripped him by a spell, the red cloud twisting around him.

He forced her back, throwing her to the ground with a mere wave of his hand. She tumbled to the smooth marble floor, her hands bearing the brunt of her fall. With terror replacing anger once again, Wanda watched the Sorcerer begin to pace.

His steps were broad, easily covering two of hers in one stride. He cocked his head, listening, before nodding in satisfaction and resuming his pacing. 

More rumbles in the deep.

The screams of eager animals, ready for a kill, assaulted Wanda’s ears. With a bound, another huge wolf leaped into the chamber, circling Wanda while curling its lip. Behind it, the clamor of approaching feet, uneven and skittering, grew ever closer. Wanda forced herself to her feet, her ribs aching with the effort it took to claw herself upright. She shook the hair out of her face, prepared to fight for her life as creatures swarmed into the room. 

The Sorcerer barked a single command. A single command uttered in such a foul language, void of any soft spoken letter. The creatures fell back, cowering at the order from their master, too afraid to venture forward despite their bloodlust. They leered at Wanda, teeth dripping with unnamed substances and she could see in their eyes that they longed for the command to attack.

Yet none of them disobeyed their leader.

None of them dared. 

With his army surrounding his prisoner, the Sorcerer ascended his throne. Stepping over the wolf carcass like it was a log in his path, he settled himself on the darkened throne. Wanda’s nerves finally calmed enough for her to raise her quivering head and take in the sight of the Dark Lord on his Dark Throne. He was tall, taller than Thor who surpassed six feet with ease. He sat there, clad in armor that shifted and molded to his every move with prominent spikes protruding from his shoulder blades. Wanda was unable to make out his facial features save for sickly white hair lying limp on his shoulders and sunken eyes gave him the appearance of death. A crown embedded with a red Eye rested on his forehead, matching the symbol adorning his chest and every one of his followers’. 

While the other beasts shivered and averted their eyes, Wanda watched the Sorcerer with fire still alight in her spirit. She twirled her fingers at her side, red magic glowing in the shadowy room, an ominous warning to anything that dared step too close. 

“Impressive, young one. Thou hast the gift of the Valar within thee. Tell the great Lord Sauron, how doth your name escape me?”

“Go to hell!” Wanda’s tone was sinister, matching Sauron’s in voice and mood.

It was no wonder the wolf circling her flattened its ears at her veiled threat, its claws skittering on the smooth floor as it backed away towards its Master. Sauron held out a gloved hand, stroking the beast though his touch was anything but fond. 

“If thou be not a Maia then pray tell me, what be thy heritage?”

Wanda refused to drop her defensive stance, even as Sauron pressured her to speak. She stayed silent at his inquiries, not offering him the decency of an answer.  

“Thou must answer me, woman.” 

He had dropped all sense of amiable nature, his yellow eyes narrowing in anger. A quick snap of his fingers and the wolf leaped off the raised throne, landing with a force that Wanda felt in her feet. It crept towards her, the same yellow glint deep within its inhuman gaze. 

A predator. 

Hunting its prey. 

Wanda took a chance—a chance she knew would either end in disaster or freedom. As the wolf leaped, teeth bared in preparation, she threw her chaos magic towards the ground. The impact lifted her into the air, causing her to soar over the animal while it snarled and howled, claws scraping against the marble. Hovering above the crowd who drew their bows in response, ready to let fly an army of arrows should Sauron command it, Wanda gathered her chaos magic in her hands. Certain she was out of range of the wolf’s incessant attempts snapping, her eyes began to glow with red fire. Tilting her head to the side, with all the force remaining in her exhausted body, Wanda fired a barrage of chaos magic toward the Dark Throne. 

She had no chance to see if she had hit her target. Out of nowhere a shrieking mass of rubbery wings and needle-like teeth slammed into her. Wanda was knocked off balance, forgetting in the chaos her suspension in the air. She crashed to the ground, her ribs letting out a sickening crack while the creature— whatever it was, landed atop of her, its sinewy arms wrapped around Wanda’s throat. Wanda squirmed in vain, trying with increasingly desperate struggles to dislodge the bat-like monster. It sank its teeth in her shoulder, a warning bite should Wanda attempt another escape. 

The pain erupted so suddenly, Wanda had no time to react. She lay there, pinned beneath the bat demon as it grasped her wrists with its human hands, hands reinforced with long claw-like nails. When it secured Wanda to the ground, leering towards her face and giving the terrified girl a smile full of teeth, it turned to its Master. 

“What shall we do with this one, my Lord?” It hissed. 

The voice rang surprisingly feminine which somehow unsettled Wanda further. The elegant yet twisted being coughed up the black language like she was cursed with permanent sickness, a sickness bending and twisting her graceful nature to one of horror. 

“Take her to the Master. You will return her, ready to serve, by the next full moon or I will throw your corpse to Draugluin.”

The creature seemed unfazed by the threat snarled from blackened teeth. She almost shrugged as she caught a handful of Wanda’s hair with her lengthy fingernails and dragged the girl after her. Wanda dared not attempt another escape as Sauron’s Eye watched her. It took all her strength of will to put one foot in front of the other as the Eye never wavered from her.

Wanda could feel the Eye’s penetrating gaze on her back, boring through her clothes and reaching to her very core. The ranks of Sauron’s servants barely registered in Wanda’s mind. The foul beasts cowered back while the vampire-bat marched her hostage through the divisions like a ship sailing the choppy seas. As she was pulled through the gateway into an extensive hall, winding and reaching out of sight in both directions, Wanda sighed in relief. 

“Frightened, child?”

Wanda knew the woman was far from friendly. Her cackle of glee at seeing the girl trembling from head to toe, face bruised and streaked with tears she didn’t know she shed, should have awoken sympathy in even the darkest of creatures.

But Sauron’s servant, a fallen Maia just as himself, had given herself over completely to Morgoth’s will. Void of any form of empathy, kindness, and qualities reserved for the Valar, the woman reveled in Wanda’s misery. If Wanda searched for a modicum of sympathy in this foul castle, full of every form of living abomination known to Man, she would have to continue searching. 

They passed into the courtyard, chains swinging from the terraces that lined the open area. In better times, a king’s courtyard should be decorated in flowers, with green trees reaching to the skies, but no living thing dared raise its head here. The same dirt and grime which covered the halls indoors, clung to every rock and stone. A metal cage with spikes pointing inwards housed an unfortunate creature. Elf or man, Wanda could not tell. She tried to drown out the incessant cries of agony from the prisoner, focusing on her method of escape. 

A sharp pair of nails dug into her shoulder, ripping through the layers of her leather jacket and tearing into her skin. Wanda yelped in surprise, turning on the vampire-bat and firing her chaos magic out of self defense. The blow bounced off her opponent’s shoulder harmlessly. Taking the red flames in her hand, the vampire-bat watched them writhe and flicker for a moment before turning them towards Wanda. The blast hit Wanda square in the chest, knocking the wind from her lungs. 

Clutching a hand to her injured chest, Wanda doubled over in pain. Never before had her power injured her directly. Wanda’s abilities were strong. She knew they would grow stronger as she came into her own, but she had no idea of the amount of power she held. Up until a few moments ago, Wanda’s greatest achievements had been stopping a train from mauling over pedestrians and even then, she did so with considerable effort. Her abilities had never been put to their full test. Now, face to face with someone who turned her powers against her, Wanda felt the slightest prickle of fear.

Perhaps her chaos magic could not save her. 

“You have power, young one,” The vampire-bat circled Wanda, slitted gaze flicking her up and down.

“You are no Elf. A Daughter of Melian, perhaps? Yet you bear not her face.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wanda tried in vain to keep the tremor out of her voice. 

As the vampire-bat circled nearer, Wanda prepared another round of the red flame, this one aimed swift and true.

It never landed.

The woman spoke an ancient tongue, a language so old, it passed beyond the borders of time. Wanda knees nearly buckled. No matter how hard her consciousness screamed at her, she froze, rooted to the ground. The garbled words resembled that which Sauron spoke but these were musical, if one could call it music. It grated and screeched in Wanda’s ears. Captivating and spell-binding, the music also carried a wave of disorder. Of chaos. Listening too long threatened to engrain the music in her very core. 

So caught up in the enchantment, Wanda was oblivious to the fact that tendrils were wrapping around her. Her eyes glazed over, a flicker of yellow appearing in their green depths. The vampire-bat dragged her along, Wanda unseeing and oblivious to the fate bestowed her.

For all she knew, Wanda could be heading toward the slaughter or blissful freedom and her reaction would remain the same: complete ignorance. All of a sudden the ground beneath her disappeared. Her legs passed through air and she fell.

Down. 

Down. 

Down into the depths. 

Into the pit. 

The walls of the pit closed in at the top yet opened wide towards the bottom. The sides were slick with all manner of vile artifacts from tortures long ago. Rocky ledges jutted out at perilous angles, each pass between them a dangerous maneuver. Wanda screamed as she fell, the chanting dissipating into the darkened air. All the while, the vampire-bat stood at the mouth of the pit, triumphant, watching her captive. 

Wanda had enough adrenaline in her body to throw out her powers in a last desperate attempt to prevent plummeting to the sandy floor. Her chaos magic caught her, although weaker than normal, settling her on her knees instead of depositing her broken body on the prison rocks below. Wanda threw her tangled hair out of her face, looking up in terror as daylight filtered into almost complete blackness. 

The vampire-bat sealed the pit closed, laughing mockingly to herself. The sound echoed off the caverns, spitting Wanda’s head in two. The caverns caught the horrible, high pitched giggle, magnifying and expanding on it so that it grew a hundredfold. Wanda dared not call out for the vampire-bat. There was no echo of pity here in the dark hole. Settling herself deep in a corner where the bones of the dead seemed less prominent and where the chains didn’t hold remnants of the deceased, Wanda kept herself from madness by lighting a little flame of hope. 

Twirling the magic around her hands, Wanda soon let the fire flicker out. She did not like the way it reflected off the metal garb of an Elf’s lifeless corpse. Shaking at the thought of what the Elf had gone through, Wanda resolved to not expose herself with more light. Holding a hand out despite the gruesome sight, Wanda rested her palm against the plate of armor still hanging off his body. The armor retained its shimmer, shining like an emerald in a pile of rubbish. 

Who was he? What happened to him?

Her heart momentarily ached with sorrow as she knelt by the corpse, knees aching from the cold stone.

Her reprieve did not last long.

Wanda’s head shot up. Skittering claws scraped against stone. Unseen creatures deformed by unthinkable tortures scrambled vainly in the darkness. Wanda pressed herself back against the rock, not daring to light her red flame. Her nails dug into her arm, leaving crescent moon shaped gouges. For a moment, her eyes flickered, a sudden uncontrollable release of chaos magic.

What’s out there? What’s in the dark, just beyond these rocks?

A clammy hand brushed her arm. She screamed.